Let's keep this going!
Fin's POV
The first thing that hit me wasn't the pain.
It was the smell.
Blood. Charred fur. Rotting meat. That thick, metallic tang was clinging to my throat like a gag. I blinked slowly, my eyes crusted with blood—some mine, most not—and squinted up at the dark sky.
My entire body ached like I'd been thrown through a mountain. Every limb protested as I tried to move, but I forced myself upright with a sharp, broken breath. The cold stung, but it wasn't sharp enough to cover the deeper ache crawling through my ribs, my legs—hell, even breathing felt like a punishment.
The snow around me was painted in streaks of black and red. Patches of frost still hissed and steamed where corrupted blood had touched them. My cloak was shredded, the bracer on my arm cracked and scorched, its black metal still smoking faintly. I looked like hell.
I felt worse.
Then I remembered. The fight. The Ravagers. The dire wolf.
My eyes snapped to the far end of the clearing.
The dire wolf's corpse lay half-buried in a jagged trench, its mangled skull split wide open. A sickening crevice in the centre still leaked darkened ichor. That's where I'd hit it. Full speed. Sword first. I'd turned myself into a fucking bullet.
And it worked.
Sort of.
I looked down at my arms, blackened bruises. Torn muscles twitching under torn skin were hairline fractures that hadn't even started healing.
But I was still alive.
Somehow.
I opened my inventory to the health potion I'd rolled previously. It spawned in my palm, with all my energy, and I managed to place it in my mouth. I gulped it down, the pain slightly decreasing.
I forced myself to stand, wobbling like a newborn deer. My boots sank into the slushy snow as I limped forward, every step echoing in the hollow quiet. No birds. No wind. Just the creaking of half-frozen trees and the sick squelch of blood-soaked earth.
That's when I saw Drave.
At first, I didn't even recognise him.
He was face-down, arms twisted underneath him, a sword stabbed uselessly into the dirt beside his outstretched hand.
Dead.
Clean cut across the chest. Burnt at the edges.
That wasn't the dire wolf.
I turned.
Lira.
She wasn't far.
Her body was slumped against a broken tree trunk, an arrow still loosely held in her grip, though it hadn't been fired. Her neck was twisted at a brutal angle, eyes wide open and bloodshot.
No claw marks.
No bite.
Just… impact.
Like something had hit her too fast, too hard.
I stood there in the silence, watching their bodies, the truth folding in slow, ugly waves.
I'd been everywhere during that fight.
Everywhere.
Soru. Endurance. Speed beyond anything this tiny body could handle.
They were trying to betray me. Use me.
As far as I'm concerned, they deserved what they got.
I'd moved faster than I'd ever moved in either of my lives. And I hadn't exactly aimed.
I clenched my jaw, bile rising in my throat. I looked down at my hands.
Still cracked and red from the force of every strike.
Had I done it?
Had I been the one to kill them?
I didn't know.
I wasn't sure I cared, honestly.
The wind picked up slightly, dragging the smell of scorched fur and copper through the trees again. The dire wolf's body twitched slightly as another gust caught the open crevice in its skull. Whatever was possessing it — that fucked-up soul magic — it was gone now. Faded.
Dead.
The snow fell again. Soft. Quiet.
Like the world was pretending none of this had ever happened.
I stood in the middle of it, surrounded by corpses, surrounded by silence.
Alone.
And for once, the System didn't say a damn thing. No pings. No achievements.
Just me.
Like a flood, the pain finally hit.
Everything fucking hurt.
Like… holy shit.
My arms, my ribs, my legs — hell, even my eyelids felt sore. I was lying on cold dirt, rocks digging into my back, my clothes stiff with dried blood and something else I didn't want to think about.
I tried to move.
Bad idea.
Pain flared up like I'd been lit on fire from the inside out. My muscles seized, my body locking up like it was trying to reject itself. I bit down hard on my tongue just to stop myself from screaming.
Okay. Cool. So I'm not dead.
Just barely alive.
I rolled onto my side with the grace of a dying walrus, coughing up a mixture of spit and blood. My hands trembled as I pushed myself up, bracing on a nearby tree. The bark scraped my palms raw, but I didn't care. I needed to move. I needed to… I don't even know.
Get back home?
Collapse dramatically into a coma?
Survive?
All of the above?
I blinked at the moon filtering through the canopy above. It was dark. Maybe early morning. I didn't know how long I'd been out. The clearing where the fight happened was gone. Just an empty patch of forest now, quiet and undisturbed, like the world had already moved on.
I wonder if I can still accept the rewards from this?
Of course, it requires me to gett moving.
I staggered forward, one step at a time, my boots crunching through dried leaves and broken twigs. The golden bracelet on my arm was cracked along the edge, still holding shape, still warm. In my other arm, the sword form was gone; I'd returned it to the bracer form.
Too tired.
Too numb.
I was in full-on survivor mode now.
I didn't care where I was. I just needed water. Food. A place to not die.
I checked my PP total out of habit.
[Current PP: 3042]
Nice, I guess.
At least I got something positive out of this.
Right. Killed wolves. A total party wipe. Got points for the effort.
The System didn't give a shit about trauma, I guess.
I trudged forward, deeper into the trees. I didn't even have a destination. My legs just moved because my brain told them to. Step. Breathe. Repeat. A weird part of me wondered if this was how those "gritty survival games" felt. Except in those games, you usually had a map.
I didn't.
I began to stagger away. I paused a moment.
I'd better bring something back in case they don't believe me.
...
Helga's POV
The house still creaked the same way it had fifteen years ago. That surprised me more than anything.
I stood at the old weapons rack, fingers tracing the worn grooves in the wood. Half the gear was gone—either looted or rusted to shit—but the bones of it remained.
Like me, really.
Behind me, Reina was snoring somewhere upstairs. Probably curled up on a couch with a wine bottle in one hand and my stolen silverware in the other. I let her be. She'd earned it, in her way.
I was already dressed.
Leather reinforced with chain, old but well-maintained. Black bracers I'd reforged with local smiths and modified with pressure-release buckles—quick access. My boots still had the steel in the toes, though the left one squeaked now. Didn't matter. They'd be red before the day ended anyway.
My sword hung at my hip. Not the big one. Not the one I'd used back when they called me the Hand of Fire. No, this one was newer. Simpler. Meant for work, not war. Still sharp enough to cleave a man in two. Or worse.
And tucked into the folds of my cloak, in a hidden sheath I'd carved myself?
The book.
The ritual circles. The theory behind soul entrapment—refined, modernised, even made fashionable by these idiot nobles playing with magic like it was a party trick.
It wasn't over. Not even close.
The cult hadn't died when I ran.
It had scattered.
Broken into pieces.
Adapted.
Like a parasite, it clung to those desperate for power.
And now it was crawling back to the surface again. Through the noble youth.
I stepped outside into the crisp air, my cloak flaring behind me in the breeze. A few townsfolk were milling about down the hill, none of them paying me much mind. Just a tired woman walking toward the gates.
I didn't need attention.
I needed blood. And answers.
And gods help anyone who stood between me and either.
...
Fin's POV
The walk back to the village wasn't epic.
It was depressing.
My clothes were soaked in blood. My limbs moved like wet sandbags. And every time I blinked, I kept seeing that thing's mouth closing around Grom's neck. Hearing it. Feeling the pressure of every broken bone in my own body.
Fun times.
The villagers weren't expecting me.
Especially not alone.
I limped into the square like some weird medieval horror movie extra. Vinley — the village chief — rushed over, stopped dead, and just… stared.
"Where's the rest of your party?" he asked, voice hopeful and already knowing.
I didn't answer right away. Just stood there, crusted in dry blood and half a limp away from collapsing.
"They're dead," I finally muttered. "Got the job done, though."
You could hear a pin drop.
Someone screamed.
Probably not helpful timing, but I casually held up the Dire Wolf's claw — still stained with ichor and warm to the touch — and dropped it on the ground with a wet thud.
"Monster's dead," I said, rubbing my shoulder. "You're welcome."
Then I passed out for two seconds. Just a quick power nap. Nothing serious.
Next thing I knew, I was sitting inside the village tavern, wrapped in someone's too-warm blanket, while Vinley handed me a small pouch of coins with shaking hands.
"This was… for the whole party," he said, like he expected me to return half of it out of guilt.
I looked at him.
Didn't say a word.
He handed it over without another breath.
I used most of it immediately.
Went to the closest merchant, grabbed the only health potion they had — the bottle was dusty, the label was peeling, and the shopkeeper assured me it was "probably still good."
It tasted like someone had mixed gasoline, rubbing alcohol, and regret.
Downed the whole thing in one go.
Instant headache.
Coughing fit.
My throat burned.
Mouth tasted like Henny, if Henny had been filtered through a corpse's sock.
"Yep," I wheezed. "Healing."
I staggered out of the shop, the pain almost entirely subsided, and I dragged myself back to the house Helga had rented.
I collapsed face-first onto the bed.
Didn't even take my boots off.
Didn't even take the bracelet off my arm.
Just lie there. Face in the pillow. Eyes wide open.
I wasn't even tired anymore.
Just… numb.
So I closed my eyes.
Helga's POV
I stepped through the doorway just as the sun rose atop the rooftops of Yartar, dyeing the sky in dull streaks of orange and violet.
The house smelled like dust, old wood. Comfortable. It didn't look like anyone had touched a thing since I left that evening. The shoes by the door were still crooked. My old travel cloak hung limp on the wall hook. A bowl of half-eaten stew on the table—cold and congealed.
I crept toward the bedroom and pushed the door open with the edge of my knuckle.
There he was.
Sprawled across the mattress face-first like a drunk sailor, boots still on, one arm dangling off the side of the bed. His little cloak bunched up around his waist, his golden bracer still wrapped tightly around his forearm, catching the last rays of the sunset.
I blinked.
His face was smudged, dark streaks under his eyes, lips parted slightly like he'd just passed out mid-sentence. He didn't stir.
I stepped closer, heart hitching in my chest for reasons I couldn't quite name.
Gods, he was a mess. There were tiny scratches on his neck, barely visible bruising on his temple. He looked like he'd fought a goddamn boar.
I reached out slowly—fingers hovering just above his hair—and hesitated.
Then I let my hand drop, lightly brushing a bit of dried blood from his cheek.
He didn't move.
Still breathing. Still here.
"...Idiot," I muttered softly.
But I smiled.
Whatever chaos he'd gotten into, whatever scrapes or scuffles, he'd made it home in one piece. That's all I cared about.
I pulled the blanket over him, gently, careful not to wake him, then stepped back, watching him for a beat longer.
Just a boy.
Still somehow mine.
I exhaled and turned toward the door.
There was still work to be done.
...
The Hand Hall was always one of the nicer places in Yartar, tucked away behind the eastern market. The occasional brawls. The creak of old wood, the clink of mugs, and the hum of voices trying not to remember their days.
It suited Reina.
It suited me too.
We sat at the back, in a booth carved from some ancient oak that had probably seen more blood and spilled ale than the average battlefield. The firelight flickered off her cheek as she took a long pull from her tankard, then slammed it down with a satisfied grunt.
"Gods, I missed this," she sighed, leaning back, arms sprawled over the booth like she owned the place.
"You missed the drink or the company?" I asked, sipping mine more slowly. My drink was sharp, something smoky and local. It burned a little on the way down. I liked that.
Reina smirked. "Both. But mostly the drink. No offence."
"None taken."
We sat in silence for a beat. Comfortable. The kind you earn after years of shared scars and unsaid shit.
Then she leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning the room out of habit before lowering her voice.
"Anyway, figured I'd pass on some chatter I heard."
I glanced up from my drink. "That so?"
"Mmh." She twisted the tankard a bit between her fingers. "A few adventurers went out east. Some small-time party from the city Adventurers' guild. Supposed to handle a wolf problem near a little hamlet. Can't remember the name—didn't matter."
"And?"
Reina snorted. "Wiped. Every single one of 'em gone with only a single survivor"
I raised a brow. "To wolves?"
"That's what I said. Fucking wolves. I mean, a pack of 'em can get messy, but a full party? Trained fighters?" She shook her head and took another swig. "Must've been amateurs. Probably froze up the second they saw teeth."
I let out a short laugh through my nose. "Maybe they were just city kids who thought hunting monsters meant posing dramatically on rooftops."
"Exactly!" she barked. "You get it."
We both chuckled, clinking our mugs lightly.
"Back in my day, a pack of wolves was warm-up," I said. "Shit, I've seen farm girls take one down with a shovel and a bad attitude."
"Right?" Reina grinned. "I mean—unless there was some other factor. But the reports I've heard so far are clean. No survivors. No sign of magic. No obvious corruption."
I frowned a little at that, but didn't press.
Just wolves? No survivors? That didn't sit quite right. Something gnawed at the back of my mind, but I drowned it in another sip of beer. Whatever happened out there, it wasn't our problem.
Reina's eyes glinted slightly. "Anyway, bunch of morons. Let it be a lesson to the next batch of idiots who think they can fast-track to heroism without eating dirt first."
"Cheers to that."
We drank.
And I didn't say anything about the flicker of concern that had tugged at my gut the moment she mentioned the wolves.
Because my son was safe at home.
Right?
Reina's expression shifted the moment our mugs clinked. That easy smirk faded into something tighter. A subtle tension in the jaw. Her fingers drummed against the rim of her tankard, slow… rhythmic.
I knew that beat.
She was easing into something ugly.
"Alright," I muttered, setting my mug down. "Spit it out. I can feel the shift."
She didn't look at me. Not right away. Just stared into the fire beside us.
"Have you ever heard of Elmer Academy?"
I raised an eyebrow. "You mean the magic school with the stuck-up nobles and that absurdly long name? Elmer Academy for the Magically Gifted?"
"Yeah. That one," she said, voice low. "They're not just training fireball-happy teens and conjurers with superiority complexes."
I leaned in.
Reina continued. "Word is, there's been a quiet resurgence in some of the older texts. Stuff that should've been destroyed. Banned. You know—that kind of magic."
My stomach twisted.
"You mean soul magic," I said flatly.
She gave a single, sharp nod. "They're not calling it that, of course. They're using euphemisms. 'Essence transfer,' 'arcane resonance amplification,' 'binding through convergence'—fancy ways to dress up the same rotten corpse."
I clenched my jaw, every muscle in my body turning stiff. "You sure?"
"Positive," Reina said. "It started subtly. A few missing books from the city's public arcane archives. Then a professor vanished. No investigation. Covered up cleanly. And just last week, two kids got caught trying to bind a squirrel's soul into a ruby."
I blinked. "...A squirrel?"
She shrugged. "Yartar nobles aren't known for their brains."
"Still," I muttered. "That kind of spellwork doesn't just pop up in a syllabus. Someone had to plant it."
"They did," she said. "There's a location. A run-down old bathhouse near the aqueduct ruins. Locals think it's haunted or cursed, so no one's touched it for years. But I've had people spotting hooded figures going in and out after dark. Not students. Adults. Trained. Cautious. That kind of movement doesn't happen without coordination."
I exhaled slowly.
"Cult?"
"Remnants," Reina confirmed. "Scattered, like you said. But not dead. Not passive. They're embedding themselves in institutions. Feeding the curious. The ambitious. The reckless."
"Elmer Academy's the root?" I asked.
She hesitated. "I don't know if it started there, but it's the biggest crack in the dam right now. Most of the chatter points back to them. It's where the trails converge. Students are being recruited. Professors whispering strange shit behind closed doors. The kind of place your average idiot cultist would kill to get a foot into."
I didn't respond.
Not at first.
I just stared into the fire, my hand curling around my drink.
Because something in the pit of my gut began to twist. Not dread. Not fear.
Certainty.
Reina watched me. "Helga?"
I stood slowly. Tossed a few coins on the table.
"You've got friends in the aqueduct guards?"
She nodded.
"Then I need a way into that bathhouse. Quietly. Without alarms. Without drawing the academy's attention—yet."
Reina rose too, her smirk returning like armour sliding back into place. "Thought you might say that."
We moved for the door, my boots clicking across the stone floor.
And behind us, the tavern went on as normal.
Laughter. Firelight. Warmth.
As if the world hadn't just tilted slightly closer to the abyss.
The air down by the aqueducts always smelled like mildew and rat piss.
I wasn't surprised it'd become a den for cloaked cultist pricks and black-market spellrunners. It was the kind of place you sent people when you wanted them to disappear — and they usually did, under the bricks, between the cracks, or at the bottom of the canal with stones tied to their ankles.
The streets were quiet this time of night. Too quiet. Even the usual drunkards and midnight peddlers were scarce. Lamps flickered weakly, casting our long shadows on crumbling stone as Reina and I walked side by side, boots clicking in sync. My cloak was wrapped tight, hand resting lazily on my sword hilt — but I was more alert than I let on.
"So," I said, voice low, "you sure about this contact of yours? Last one you vouched for ended up snorting pixie dust and trying to marry a troll."
Reina didn't even blink. "That troll was very persuasive. And Harker's still got that limp."
I let out a dry chuckle. "Got a funny idea of loyalty, you know that?"
"Please," she scoffed. "I've only dragged you into ten death traps. Eleven, tops."
The tension started to ease a little as we slipped deeper into the old quarter. Brick turned to stone, smooth streets gave way to cobbled slush. I could feel the magic in the air here, not the showy kind either. This was old, bone-deep shit. The sort of residue that clung to your skin and made your teeth itch.
We passed a collapsed statue, moss-grown and forgotten. Reina kicked a rock into the gutter and glanced sideways at me.
"You alright?"
I glanced at her, brow raised.
She shrugged. "You've been quieter than usual. Brooding like a pissed-off widow."
I snorted. "I'm not brooding. I'm planning."
"Oh, that's much healthier," she deadpanned. "You're brooding with a goal."
A beat passed.
Then I sighed, rolling my shoulder. "I've just been thinking. About Fin. About the book. About what we're walking into here."
Reina's expression shifted slightly — the playfulness slipped for just a breath. "It's not just scraps and fanatics anymore, is it?"
"No," I said. "It's coordinated. It's spreading. And I think… I think it's using the academy."
"Elmer?"
I nodded.
She grimaced. "Yeah. That tracks. I've heard things — rumours mostly. Certain instructors are looking the other way. Students passing around 'extra-credit grimoires'. One of them disappeared last week. No one's talking."
"And the bathhouse?"
She pointed ahead, toward a crooked arch half-swallowed by ivy. "That's where we're headed. My contact said it used to be some noble's pet project before it went under. Now it's locked up most days, but sometimes… people go in."
"And don't come out?"
"Pretty much."
We fell into silence for a bit, the sound of distant water dripping through the aqueducts echoing faintly in the dark.
Then Reina gave me a look.
"You know, you've changed."
"Oh?"
"Yeah," she smirked. "You're a mom now. You've got that whole protective murder-bear thing going."
I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help the twitch of a smile. "Keep talking and I'll show you the murder part."
Reina bumped her shoulder into mine. "C'mon, you know I'd babysit the brat. He's a riot. Honestly, the way you hype him up, I kinda want to meet him now."
I let out a low chuckle. "You might be the only one."
"Bet he's got your sass."
"Unfortunately."
We approached the arch, the crumbling bathhouse visible just beyond — half sunken into the earth, its tiled roof bowed under years of neglect. A faint, sour smell wafted from within — mildew, stale magic, and something darker underneath.
Reina paused at the entrance. Her voice dropped low again. "You sure you want to do this tonight?"
I glanced at the moon peeking out from behind the clouds. My hand tightened on my sword hilt.
"I don't want to wait long enough for them to hurt someone else."
She nodded once.
"Alright," she said. "But remember — you promised not to start swinging until we know who we're dealing with."
I gave her a flat look.
She gave me a toothy grin.
"…ish."
Moments later...
The bathhouse stank of mildew and perfume, two smells that had no business being in the same room together. The walls were cracked tile, the ceilings low and damp. This place had been abandoned for a reason — whatever enchantments once kept it pristine had long since faded.
Astele — or Nine-Fingers, as she preferred in the field — moved ahead like a shadow, her slight frame navigating the broken floorboards and loose stones without a sound. The girl was all nerves and tension, but I had to admit she had the makings of something dangerous. Her dark cloak hid most of her form, save for a single plait of black hair and the glint of steel at her hip.
Reina and I followed close behind, moving like ghosts.
We weren't exactly new to this.
The steam room led to an old maintenance tunnel. From there, Nine-Fingers tapped a crumbling brick on the far wall twice, then once again.
A click.
Then a grind.
The stone gave way to a hidden stairwell.
"…you sure about this?" I muttered under my breath as we descended.
Nine-Fingers nodded without looking back. "They've been gathering here for weeks. Low traffic. Most think the bathhouse is condemned."
"And these people are tied to the cult?" Reina asked.
"They're not exactly handing out membership cards," she said with a shrug. "But I heard the phrase 'soul convergence' three times in one sitting. That's not normal back-alley trash talk."
At the base of the stairwell was a narrow stone corridor — poorly lit, rough-hewn, probably ancient. Candlelight flickered ahead. Voices. Five, maybe six.
We pressed ourselves flat against the wall just before the archway. A round chamber opened up beyond — vaulted ceiling, old sewer runes still etched into the floor. The stench of damp earth and magic was thick here.
Four cloaked figures stood around a makeshift table piled with old tomes and parchment. Another leaned against the far wall, arms crossed.
I recognised the tone in their voices immediately — fanatics trying not to sound like fanatics. Cold. Careful.
"…we retrieve the artifact, first and foremost," one of them was saying.
A second voice cut in. "Without it, the soul-forge project won't move forward. We've wasted enough time already."
"And what of the child?" a third asked.
My blood turned to ice.
Child.
Another replied, lower this time. "He's still alive. We've confirmed sightings in the outer villages. The artifact is already bound to him."
"Then retrieve both."
I saw Reina's jaw tighten beside me. Nine-Fingers didn't even blink — she was too busy cataloguing every word like a ravenous librarian.
My grip tightened on the hilt of my sword.
One of them spoke again.
"Fin an-"
I didn't let him finish.
Time snapped.
My boot hit the stone like thunder, sword in hand, fire in my blood.
The first cultist didn't even get to scream. I crushed his throat with the pommel of my blade, pivoted mid-step, and slammed him against the wall with my shoulder before burying the blade in his chest. A twist. A pull. He was dead weight before he hit the ground.
Behind me, Reina moved like wind through the corridor—sword sliding free in a whisper. She ducked under a wild swing from another cultist, letting his momentum carry him forward before slashing a crimson smile across the back of his knee. He collapsed. She finished him with a precise stab to the heart. No excess. No noise.
"Quiet," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.
Across the room, Astele burst from the shadows like a dagger with legs.
The youngest of us—but gods, she looked like and experienced a pro.
Two cultists turned to meet her, but they were too slow. The first got a dagger in the throat before he could open his mouth. She rolled low, dragging a second blade across the calf of the other, rising behind him like smoke and planting the second dagger beneath his ribs in one smooth, practised motion.
The kid didn't even blink.
One left.
He turned to run, robes flaring behind him in panic.
I could've stopped him.
I didn't.
I watched him bolt into the tunnel like a rat fleeing fire.
Reina's eyes flicked toward me. "You're letting him go?"
I nodded once, already striding to the one I'd left bleeding at my feet. "Let him carry the story. I want them scared."
She didn't argue.
The cultist groaned, blood bubbling up between his lips. I dropped to a knee beside him, blade pressed to his collarbone.
"Who's your current leader? What are you planning!?"
He coughed blood, smiling weakly but crazily. "The vessel lives... The master will rise again…"
I pressed harder.
He gasped, eyes wide, mouth shaking.
"They said the boy was supposed to die in the ritual. That his soul would feed the chain."
My stomach twisted, rage flaring like a second heart.
"What chain?"
"Katana..." he wheezed, eyes rolling back. "It was meant to be...a haven. Not a weapon. Not a choice…"
His breath left him in a shudder.
Gone.
I stood, wiping the blood from my blade. The room smelled like iron, like pain. Around us, the last embers of a spell fizzled out in the air.
Astele wiped her daggers clean on a cultist's cloak and looked at me.
"You're the boy's mother, aren't you?"
I didn't answer.
She didn't need me to.
Reina sheathed her blade, walking past the corpses without flinching. "This wasn't just a base. This was a listening post."
"Testing him," I said softly. "Letting him run with the weapon. Seeing what it would do."
Astele looked between us, then to the altar. "What now?"
I stepped toward the blackened circle carved into the floor.
"We burn this place," I said. "And then we hunt the rest of the vermin."
End of Chapter.
Wanted to focus on Helga and a little more, next chapter is gonna be all Fin, so don't worry. If you're someone who knows the lore of BG3, then I hope you can pick up on some of the little easter eggs I've placed.
Cya Later!
Word Count: 4887