I palm my forehead as we walk along the trail, south toward camp.

"Tymora's tits," I mutter.

Lae'zel rolls her eyes. "Praying to the breasts of Tymora will not get us a cure. We must focus on making our way to the patrol."

"A shame. Seems like a plausibly effective prayer to me," I say with a faint self-satisfied smile. "Let's discuss our options when we get to camp." The ache in my head presses behind my eyes. I'm in no mood to talk, but alas.

I can smell food cooking as we draw near. Gale is sitting on a stool with his feet kicked up, nose in a book.

"You're back!" He snaps the book shut and jogs over. "We have a visitor." He gestures toward the river.

A wraith drifts along the shore. His footsteps crunch against the pebbles. He's muttering into an ancient tome.

"What is it?" I ask. "Have you spoken to it yet?"

"Yes, and he's come with quite a generous offer." He leans into me and his voice lowers to an ominous whisper. "Resurrection. Though I'm beyond skeptical." He shifts where he stands. "Resurrection is not a simple cantrip, and suddenly we have a skeleton in our camp offering it freely. He could be a thrall straight from the pits of Thay. I'd advise a little caution."

"Agreed."

"He didn't divulge much else to me. He seemed particularly anxious to speak to you, though."

"Me?" I study the skeleton haunting the shore. Despite what he is, he seems innocuous.

"Be careful," Gale says, "but please let us know what you find out."

I approach the thing dressed in tattered purple robes that drape from his wasted body. His bones are encased in withered, greying skin. His skull is adorned with bands of gold, aged and tarnished. I hear a voice that feels oddly comforting as I draw closer. "How much doth a soul weigh?"

"I hear you have come to our camp to help?"

He turns to me, stoic and measured, "In a sense, yes."

I feel an air of ancient magic, something strongly familiar. As if he were kin. Tendrils of death probe me, but it feels inevitable and comforting.

"I have come as an arbiter of thine destiny, and offer terms of resurrection, if thou needest such services."

A glimmer of hope, given our plight. Perhaps the tits of Tymora are an effective prayer after all. "You are here to bring us back to ourselves if the tadpole takes us?"

"No."

The tits remain ambivalent.

He closes the book. "I will not interfere with what is predestined. Instead, I offer intervention in matters of an unforeseen demise."

"Unforeseen?" My shoulders tense and my lip twitches. "Are you telling me Death can make mistakes? A blasphemous assumption, grandfather."

A smile creeps across his face. "No. However, people are capable of subverting their own destinies."

"Can't you simply tell us our destiny so we can follow the right path?"

"No."

I throw my hand in the air. The ache pinches behind my eyes. "The balance of Ao. Our lives are strung along as we fumble in the dark and receive nothing in return. The answers hang right above the line of sight while we starve for purpose."

"Do you feel like you've been abandoned?"

My heart grows cold and I fall still. "Who are you? Why do you feel so familiar?"

"I am merely a scribe offering my humble services. You may call me Withers," he says with a measured tone, though there is slight amusement in his expression.

I take a breath and my shoulders fall, my bones suddenly feeling exceptionally weary. "Apologies for my outburst. What you offer is generous. Welcome, and thank you." I turn, wanting nothing more than dinner and my bedroll.

"So?" Gale says. "What did he want?"

I take off my coat and lay it on the ground, settling by the fire. "It's as he said. He offers resurrection."

Cabbage, carrots, and potatoes simmer over the flames. The soft bubbling sound fills the air with the comforting promise of a meal.

"Mm." Gale nods thoughtfully, before giving the soup a stir. "What are the strings attached? It seems awfully convenient for it to be given freely."

"The death must not be predestined. However, determining a destined death from not will be impossible for us to determine. If we die, we are at his mercy." I glance at Gale. "Don't die."

He scoffs. "You don't have to tell me twice. That would be catastrophic."

Astarion is sitting on a stool near the fire with his legs crossed. He's dressed in a pompous ruffled shirt and casual slacks. He's clutching his knee and kicking his foot. "That's all well and good for you, but I conveniently lack a heartbeat. I wonder if..." He pauses, staring into the flames. "Well. I doubt anything like that would work on me."

"Let's not find out," I say as Gale pours a ladle of soup into a bowl and hands it to me. "Thank you for cooking for us once again, Gale."

"My pleasure. It's a shame we don't have more meat." He hands out bowls to the others.

"Yes," I mutter. "A shame." I eat a spoonful. It's bland, but it will serve.

Lae'zel sits across from me in plain clothes, ankles crossed as she polishes the shin plating of her armor.

"So, Lae'zel. What do you know of the prism?"

"I know it is an ancient relic of my people. Whatever power it holds comes from the might of the Githyanki. No doubt a tool to fight against the ghaik invaders."

Shadowheart comes up to the fire and sits next to me. "What are you two talking about?"

"The prism," I say.

She shifts uncomfortably. "Ah. I see." Before glancing over at Lae'zel. "And? Do you have any information that can enlighten us on it?"

"I know it must be important to my people. Such relics are powerful tools, and with the prism's ability to protect the infected, I must return it to Queen Vlaakith."

Shadowheart laughs. "And risk having us all turn? I knew you were foolish, but I didn't think you were that dense."

Lae'zel spits. "When the Zaith'isk cleanses us, we will no longer be in danger. That much should have been obvious."

"I have my own obligations, Lae'zel. Important obligations that I must carry out." Her eyes narrow. "Obligations I will not be relinquishing."

The static between them is palpable and I can't help but watch it fester.

Shadowheart sighs and glances at me before addressing the camp. "Which brings me to another point. Since it seems we are destined to travel together, I want to make something clear." She straightens and assumes a proud poise. "I worship Shar. Mistress of the Night." A black light blinks on the back of her hand and she winces.

A sharp laugh rises from Astarion. "Of course you are! Your regalia doesn't exactly lend itself to subtlety."

"My what?" She glances down at her armor. "Oh just... be quiet Astarion."

He titters behind his hand, looking terribly pleased with himself.

"We'll get you a new set of armor," I say. "You can keep your cleric's garb hidden as we make our way."

Gale's brow is pinched. "Shar is not exactly in good standing with Mystra."

"Well, I hope my worship doesn't cause strife between us. We should be able to find mutual peace given our shared condition."

Gale rolls his eyes. A gentle yet inadvertent snort escapes him. "Whatever quarrels Mystra has are the least of my concerns."

"How so?"

"She has been less than favorable to me lately. She answers when I evoke the Weave but..." He trails off before waving his hand dismissively.

Astarion purses his lips. "Well, we've found ourselves at the mercy of a dark cleric. What are we supposed to do if we can't find a cure and it's time for you to return it to your cloister? Just... become thralls? I'm sorry, darling, but that's not going to happen."

I settle back in my seat. "Astarion makes a good point. Besides, we don't even know what it is." I glance at Shadowheart. "Fetch it for us."

She hesitates. "N-no... I-"

"Shadowheart," I say flatly.

"I don't see the use in getting it."

"Then it shouldn't matter either way. The prism."

She looks between us, then stands and strides off, quickly returning with it clutched in her palms.

I hold out my hand. "May I?"

Her eyes are wary as she places it in my palm. "You can try. It doesn't like everyone."

There is a noticeable heat emanating from it. "What do you mean?"

"It seems to be conscious. Like it chooses who can touch it. Why it lets me handle it is a mystery, but I'm grateful it's remained with me thus far."

I catch a hint of sulfur as I turn it in my hand. "Is this infernal? I don't recognize these runes."

"What makes you say that?"

I hold it up to her. "The smell of it, the weight of it. The iron plates were likely forged in one of the Nine Hells."

She takes it back from me, scanning it. "Benefits of being a tiefling, no doubt."

I cannot keep the pride from my smile. "Our instincts are sharp when it comes to the Hells."

A melodic voice rings behind us. "Excuse me?"

We turn, and I get to my feet. "Alfira! You've decided to come."

"It was generous of you to offer. Thank you. I think I could use some time away from the caravan."

"Of course, take a seat by the fire. Our meal is meager, but I believe we have some soup left if you're hungry."

"We do," Gale says cheerfully. He spoons a portion into a bowl and offers it to her.

She sits and takes it. "Well. I didn't expect to be treated with such decadence," she says with a soft laugh.

"Do you have a tent? I'll be happy to stake it out while you get settled."

"Don't bother. I'd rather sleep beneath the stars tonight." She sips the soup modestly and her shoulders fall. "I love cabbage. I know that sounds silly, but..." She moves the vegetables around with her spoon. "...it's nice to have a proper meal."

I gather her pack and tuck it into the camp chest. The headache suddenly clenches my mind and I stagger, pressing my palms against my eyes. I grunt, my tail swaying to keep me on my feet. I can barely open my eyes.

"Tymora's..." I can't get the next word out but manage to chuckle. "Gods..."

I drag my fingers through my hair, returning to the fire. "I'll be turning in early. Enjoy your evening."

Alfira appears crestfallen. "You can't stay up? Just for a little bit?"

My smile is feeble. "We can catch up tomorrow. I'm actually not feeling well tonight."

"You're sick?" Shadowheart motions to stand. "Do you need anything from me?"

I wave her off. "No, thank you. Some rest should be more than enough. I'll speak to you all tomorrow."

I find a spot to sleep, hearing them chatting with Alfira. The quiet darkness begins to set me at ease, but with the quiet rises a single word.

Blood.

The thought fills me with peace as I am lulled to sleep. My soul falls into a darkened realm. I take a step and feel something slide underfoot. It is the fresh body of a dead man, piled on top of more bodies. As the landscape comes into view I am standing amid a vast ocean of blood. The sky swallows the horizon as the dark sun hangs low. I crouch down and watch the viscous blood lap against the face of a woman.

I close my eyes, and my nose is filled with the scent of iron and gore.

Everything is silent.

The silence is triumphant.

I wake with a start. Standing. The night air brushes past me.

My hands are tight and aching. I hold them up, turning them over, trying to make sense of what I am seeing.

They are covered in blood.

I focus on the image behind them. A body on the ground.

Alfira.

I grow cold. The chill rushes down my back. I look around camp. Everything is silent.

Did I kill them all?

No.

My focus sharpens and I can hear them breathing. My teeth begin to hurt from my clenched jaw. The weight of my body batters my knees as they hit the ground. My grip on my scalp is too tight. My skin stretches and aches.

Stop it.

My palm strikes my temple.

I can't breathe. I can't breathe in. There's not enough air. I fight my body for a single breath.

"Why." I whisper. "Why am I frightened?"

...I'm losing myself before I've had the chance to be found.

Withers.

I stumble over to him, gibbering under my breath, trying not to rouse the others. "Bring her back, Withers. A mistake. This was a mistake. Whatever the tithe, just bring her back."

Withers stares at me, unmoved by my plea. "I know of thine urges. Thy desires for her have become her undoing."

I take a sharp breath in, and I lower my voice further, leaning into him. "You know of my bloodlust? And you just stood around and watched me kill her? Why in the hells didn't you stop me?"

This walking carcass has the audacity to continue existing in my presence, calm and stalwart. "In matters such as this, I cannot intervene."

"Are you telling me this was fucking destiny? What in the hells does this have to do with anything, outside of causing problems for me?"

He does not speak, but gestures toward her body.

I hold my stare a moment more before approaching her body. I see it almost immediately. Crude, but very clear to me. The symbol of six daggers encircles her, pointing at her from every angle.

My dagger lies next to her, covered in dirt and blood. I slowly pick it up. It's cold.

She is a ritual sacrifice. It feels overwhelmingly familiar, and things begin to fall into place. The whispers. My power that rises from below. My comfort with the dead.

"Bhaal." My voice barely registers. I am a Paladin of Bhaal.

A strange levity overtakes me. I was not losing myself but finding the truth of what I am. Something far darker than I could have imagined. This was always my purpose. My duty. To serve Lord Bhaal.

This must be contained.

And so, I begin:

• Scoop the blood and flecks of flesh into a camp bucket, toss detritus into the river.
• Collect a fishnet and several meters of rope.
• Gather her body, tucking the tail under my arm so it doesn't drag. Be mindful not to tip her gore onto the ground.
• Dust away the symbol with my foot, leave no trace.
• Carry the body down the riverbank to find a proper disposal site.

My legs burn, and my shoulders ache as I carry her down the shore of the Chionthar. The silent walk has my mind racing.

This was not random. It was devotional. But it happened outside of my control. Why? If there was a purpose, then there must be rules.

I need to find out what they are before I slaughter every last person in camp.

...or they kill me.

I can't have them find out.

The shore bends outward into a flat pad of sand, disrupting the shoreline. An adequate place to stop.

I lay her out on the sand and carefully cut off her clothes before scoring the joints with my blade. I break her limbs into manageable pieces, neatly piling everything onto the fishnet. Once finished, I sit cross-legged with her head in my lap. I look at her face, broken and torn, and I gently stroke her blood-matted hair.

Why would Lord Bhaal demand her as a sacrifice? I don't understand.

Maybe it's not for me to understand, but I feel a wrenching in my chest all the same. There was no sense in killing her. If I had known it was demanded of me, I would have gladly chosen someone else.

Arka, perhaps. Or Danis? The only use he provides is tending to a wife with a half-decent head on her shoulders.

That's more than I can say for Alfira.

I break out into laughter, clutching her head.

A terrible joke.

With a heavy sigh, I begin to shave her head and place her hair in a pile on top of her clothes. Once done, her head is pulverized between two rocks.

Her horns remain and I place them with the rest of her body, along with a large stone. I lash the profane parcel together with the rope and drag it into the river. I drop her at a satisfactory depth, and the stone pins her to the riverbed.

I remove the bard's bells from her tunic before starting a fire and throwing her hair and clothes into the flames. The hair ignites in a flourish. Crackling and curling, floating high into the air before landing in the sand. Nothing but ash and the pungent smell of burnt keratin remain.

I toss the bells one by one into the depths of the river.

As I make the motion to toss the last one, I hesitate. It gives a soft ringing noise as I roll it between my fingers. Every day I rise is a day I've robbed myself of her song. I wedge my dagger between the slits of the bell, prying it open to shake out the pellet so it no longer rings. I bend it back into place and tuck it into my pocket.

The air is cool. The river flows cleanly without a thought to the body sunken into the silt. Frogs warble their songs along the shore. A creature moves through the forest, disturbing leaves and twigs in the distance.

I close my eyes. My shoulders relax and my headache is gone. I'm quelled, but exhausted. Still, I'm grateful for the moment of peace before the voices flood me once again.

Lord Bhaal. My God.

...My master.

I turn and quietly return to camp.