Man its been a bit, but I got a longer chapter this time, so I hope it makes up for it. If you've been following me for a while, you'd know I started on Wattpad. I have a story called "Magic Meets Alien", which was a Ben 10 x My Wife is A Demon Queen crossover thing.
It kinda sucked, so I wanted to sorta reboot it.
BUT! I also have been looking at doing a Ben 10 x JJK type story, and turning it into a cursed technique sorta thing, which I thought would be really cool. I had so many ideas on it. So I'd l love to get your thoughts.
For this chapter, decided to reformat some things, I hope it looks a bit cleaner :D
Also switched back to 3rd person for this one.
Enough from me, though, enjoy!
...
A familiar buzz hit the base of Fin's skull. Not the tadpole this time, but a system ping.
[Achievement Complete: Doubt Implanted in a True Soul Minthara]
[PP Gain: 100]
[Description: Minthara can really feel the void where the Absolute's voice used to be, great job!]
[Current PP Balance: 952 -> 1052]
He didn't smile.
The interface's clean blue text hovered before him. He mentally scrolled the Jujutsu Path, which stayed locked in at 250 PP per attempt thanks to the Binding Vow. He selected Path Roll: Jujutsu Kaisen, selected a quantity of 4, and the deductions were then made.
[You have rolled...Yuji's Hand to Hand Combat Skills!]
[You have rolled... Playful Cloud (Weapon)!]
[You have rolled... Nanami's Ratio Technique!]
[You have rolled... Mask of the Shiesty Sorcerer]
[1000PP deducted]
[Remaining PP Balance: 1052 -> 52]
Fin hadn't considered these as insane rolls. Ratio was definitely helpful for negating armour, but given how over-levelled he was for the first act, it was definitely overkill. The hand-to-hand combat was also pretty great; it fit with the fighting style he was adopting thus far.
He let the interface fade and pushed to his feet. The scratches across his back pulled tight underneath his shirt, a bite mark on his shoulder throbbing, but the soreness was nothing to note.
Fin exhaled once, steadying the quiet hum beneath his skin.
"Alright," He called out, with a calm tone. "I'm heading back to the goblin camp. Gut and Ragzlin are still breathing. That ends today."
...
Alfira looked up from where she sat cross-legged near her pack, fingers already tracing the cracked wood of her lute. "I'll stay behind if that's alright. The strings are still a bit off after that last skirmish, and I've got some melodies I need to work through before they slip away completely. I can keep an eye on the camp while you're gone."
Karlach cracked her neck and gave a lazy salute with one flaming hand. "I'll hang back too. Someone's gotta make sure our new drow friend doesn't get any bright ideas about wandering off or sticking knives in backs. Plus, I can keep her company. Might even teach her a card game if she stops glaring at the trees long enough."
Astarion drifted in from the edge of the tents, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves. "Well, I'm certainly not staying here to babysit a crisis of faith. I've been cooped up in this charming woodland prison long enough. A bit of violence would do wonders for my mood."
"I go where the battle lies. Gut and Ragzlin still breathe. That is an insult. I will correct it." Lae'zel's hand was already resting on her blade.
"I don't plan on staying back just yet, and the artifact needs protecting, and I'd rather not leave it to chance while we're carving through goblins. Besides, someone has to keep you lot from bleeding out." Shadowheart scoffed.
Durge drifted closer, expression calm, almost thoughtful. "There is unfinished work in that temple. I would hate to leave it half-done." A faint smile tugged at her mouth. "And I am curious what colour the throne room will be when we're finished."
A heavier step sounded behind them.
Wyll straightened from where he'd been sharpening his blade, sliding it back into its sheath with a clean motion. His expression was set, jaw tight.
"I go as well," he said.
No flourish nor dramatic bow, just a certainty. "Ragzlin and the Priestess must answer for what they've done. For the lives they've taken." His eyes locked onto mine.
Karlach gave him an approving nod. "That's the spirit, Blade."
Wyll didn't smile. "Its simply justice."
Astarion sighed softly. "Oh, do try not to suck all the joy out of it."
And so the party set off to finish the goblin leaders.
...
The journey back to the Goblin Camp was uneventful...
The wind moved lazily through the trees as they approached the outer palisade, carrying the distant scent of smoke and roasting meat. Goblin laughter drifted across the clearing in uneven bursts. It was much more settled from the looks of it; their party had seemed to die down.
The party walked openly.
The tadpole behind Fin's eye pulsed once as a pair of goblin sentries straightened near the gate. The Absolute's mark, or rather the parasite's manipulation of it, still carried weight here. One goblin squinted at them, then lowered his spear almost immediately.
"True Souls," he muttered, nudging the other aside. "They're back."
Inside, the camp felt smaller than before. Perhaps it was perspective. Perhaps it was the knowledge that most of its leadership would not survive the night. Goblins argued over scraps near the fire pits. A bugbear barked orders at a trio attempting to stack shields into something resembling a barricade.
No one challenged them.
Lae'zel's posture sharpened, predatory and focused, eyes tracking exits, patrol patterns, structural weaknesses. Wyll's jaw tightened as he scanned the crowd. He catalogued faces, remembered bodies from the grove's battlefield. Shadowheart's fingers brushed unconsciously against the prism in her pack, reassured by its steady presence. Durge's gaze lingered on the central temple entrance, something almost anticipatory flickering behind her otherwise composed expression.
Fin could feel the bloodlust coming from her, as though it were radiant heat. Astarion leaned slightly closer to Fin as they passed a cluster of goblins gambling near the path.
"I must admit," he murmured lightly, voice pitched only for their group, "there is something delightfully obscene about walking calmly through a nest of vermin who have no idea they're already dead."
Fin did not answer. He had already begun mapping the interior in his head from what he could remember.
Priestess Gut would be first.
The orgre in front of the entrance of the inner sanctum recognised Fin and his party.
"True Souls," the ogre rumbled.
Fin inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, neither warm nor dismissive. The authority came more easily now. He did not enjoy that.
They entered.
...
"I hope you rested well", Halsin called as he appeared in the dimly lit room of the worg pens.
The druid stood, even in his elven form, he seemed to fill the room. His gaze moved across the group, then settled on Fin last.
"You returned sooner than I expected."
Fin gave a slight nod. "Jobs not finished."
Halsin's brow furrowed slightly, but he did not interrupt.
"Two leaders remain," Fin continued. "Priestess Gut and Dror Ragzlin."
The druid's expression darkened almost imperceptibly at the names.
"The priestess spreads the Absolute's poison through faith and false healing," Halsin said slowly. "And Ragzlin… he commands most of the horde. If those two fall, the camp falls."
Lae'zel shifted her stance beside Fin, fingers tightening around the hilt of her blade.
"Then we remove them," she said bluntly. "Why is this a discussion?"
Durge gave a small hum of agreement, eyes drifting toward the deeper corridors of the temple. There was something distant in her expression, as if she were already imagining the sounds that would echo through those halls.
"I must admit," she said softly, almost thoughtfully, "I am rather curious how long the screams will carry through stone."
Astarion's lips curved in faint amusement.
"Oh, good," he murmured. "I was worried I might be the only one enjoying this."
Shadowheart shot both of them a tired look.
"Must everything be treated like a festival of blood?"
Durge tilted her head slightly.
"Not everything." Her smile returned, faint and unsettling. "But this certainly qualifies."
Wyll let out a slow breath beside them, one hand resting loosely on the pommel of his sword. His expression had settled into something quiet. There was anger there, but it had cooled into more of a mild annoyance.
"Whatever method we choose," he said, "those two die today."
Halsin stepped forward slightly, heavy boots grinding faintly against the stone floor.
"If subtlety is no concern," he said, voice calm but firm, "then I will accompany you. These creatures have ravaged the forest for weeks. Ending them would bring me no regret."
He paused.
"And in battle, I am not without… advantages."
Who wouldn't like a bear in battle?
Although a full druid unleashed in the centre of a goblin stronghold would not be subtle.
Shadowheart exhaled quietly through her nose.
"Yes," she said dryly, "and the moment you walk out, every goblin in the camp will know something is wrong."
Halsin raised an eyebrow.
"Perhaps."
Shadowheart crossed her arms.
"Not perhaps. Certainly."
She gestured vaguely toward the corridor leading out toward the camp.
"We still carry the identity of True Souls. That buys us something incredibly valuable."
She tapped the side of her temple.
"Access."
Lae'zel scoffed.
"Access is meaningless if the enemy still breathes."
"It means we can reach the leaders before the camp turns into a war zone," Shadowheart replied evenly. "Kill them quietly. Let the rest of the vermin collapse into chaos afterwards."
Astarion gave a thoughtful hum.
"I must say, that does sound far less exhausting than carving through several hundred goblins simply because someone wanted to make an entrance."
His red eyes flicked briefly toward Halsin.
"No offence."
The druid did not appear particularly offended.
Durge, however, looked mildly disappointed.
"A shame," she murmured. "There is something deeply satisfying about watching panic ripple through a crowd."
Lae'zel nodded in agreement.
"Fear weakens prey."
Shadowheart pinched the bridge of her nose.
"This is not about entertainment."
"It can be," Astarion said lightly.
Fin had remained silent throughout the exchange, watching the shifting positions more than listening to the words themselves.
Each voice carried a different reasoning, all more or less selfish. Justice, violence, curiosity, efficiency.
He considered the temple layout.
Gut controlled the sanctum.
Ragzlin held the throne room.
Both were surrounded by followers.
If Halsin joined them openly, the deception would shatter instantly. The goblins knew him. The entire camp would erupt before they even reached the altar.
Fin finally spoke.
"Halsin stays."
The room stilled slightly. The druid studied him, not offended, simply curious.
"You are confident you can finish the task?"
Fin met his gaze evenly. "Yes."
Halsin held the silence for a moment longer, weighing something unseen.
Then he nodded.
"A fair assessment."
He stepped back toward the shattered cage wall, folding his arms once more.
"Then I will remain here"
Lae'zel rolled her shoulders slightly, the anticipation of violence settling into her posture.
Shadowheart gave Fin a small approving glance, subtle enough that the others likely missed it.
Astarion clapped his hands together softly.
"Well then," he said, tone almost cheerful. "Shall we go assassinate a priestess?"
Wyll adjusted the grip of his sword.
"Priestess first," he said. "Then Ragzlin."
Fin turned toward the corridor leading deeper into the temple.
The camp outside still laughed. Still drank. Still celebrated victories they no longer understood.
He began walking.
...
Skrikka had learned very early in life that the safest place in the goblin camp was wherever nobody bothered to look.
That usually meant the edges of the temple courtyard where the louder goblins shoved each other and bragged about battles they had not actually fought.
From there, she could exist without being noticed, which suited her just fine.
Most of the camp had gathered around the central courtyard, drunk on stolen ale and beers, and the cheap excitement of their recent raid on Waukeen's Rest. Someone had dragged out a cracked drum and was pounding on it with a bone. Another goblin had climbed onto a table to reenact a fight that had almost certainly happened very differently than it described. Every few moments, the crowd burst into shrill laughter or started chanting praise for the Absolute, voices rising and falling in uneven waves.
Skrikka sat alone several paces away, crouched on an overturned crate with a strip of roasted rat held between both hands.
She chewed slowly while watching the others.
Nobody invited her closer.
Nobody ever did.
Part of that came from the fact that Skrikka simply wasn't very good at being a goblin. She didn't shove others aside when food arrived, didn't howl praise whenever the priestess began their sermons, and didn't leap into fights just because someone nearby started one. The other goblins had noticed this long ago and had decided she was either strange or stupid.
She was roughly 25-30 years old; she hadn't bothered to keep track of it. All she could remember was being a part of the tribe, and never really...feeling it. Goblins were never your traditional nuclear family. Whenever a baby goblin was born, it was up to the tribe to raise it and not solely the parents, though given the lazy and undisciplined nature of goblins, it rarely resulted in anything special.
Though perhaps Skrikka was simply born both strange and stupid.
It was easier to let them think that.
The Absolute, for example.
Every time the priestess and other leaders gathered the tribe in the temple, the others would fall to their knees and begin chanting the moment the voice brushed their minds. They spoke about it afterwards with reverence, describing the presence like warm sunlight filling their skulls.
When Skrikka felt it, it was nothing like the rest of them. She had learned to bow her head anyway, pretending devotion was much safer than explaining the truth.
That she'd never had the mark of the absolute given to her, and that she instead hid it. So she stayed near the edges while the others celebrated, quietly eating and letting her thoughts wander.
They wandered, as they often did now, to the day before.
To the moment the first group of True Souls had arrived.
The gate guards had straightened immediately when they felt their presence. The word had spread across the courtyard almost instantly, passing from mouth to mouth until the entire camp turned to stare.
True Souls.
Skrikka had been carrying a bucket of murky water at the time, halfway across the courtyard. She remembered freezing mid-step when the gate opened, and the group walked in.
There had been five of them.
A horned tiefling woman with a strange infernal engine glowing faintly beneath the metal plates embedded in her chest, Skrikka could feel the heat emanating from her even from where she was. A pale cleric with guarded eyes, Skrikka could see pointy ears, so probably an elf. A human swordsman with a stone eye and who carried himself with the rigid posture, and lastly a bard whose lute bounced lightly against her hip as she walked, she seemed the most naive of them, with such a carefree smile on her face.
And at the front of them all.
Him.
Skrikka had never seen a True Soul like that before.
The only ones she'd seen pass through the camp were loud, arrogant creatures who enjoyed reminding everyone else of their position in the Absolute's hierarchy. They shoved goblins aside, demanded food and drink, and treated the entire place like their personal stage.
This one simply walked.
The camp parted around him without him ever raising his voice; he even joked and drank among them, something she'd never expected to see. He didn't look particularly annoyed by the attention either. His expression remained calm, almost carefree, as though he had already measured the entire camp and found it unimpressive.
Skrikka had stared at him far longer than she meant to.
Something about the way he carried himself had unsettled her in a way she couldn't quite explain. It wasn't fear exactly, though there was certainly something dangerous in the calmness of his movements. It was closer to fascination, the same kind of attention she might give a large predator pacing quietly through tall grass.
She had found herself watching him as the group crossed the courtyard.
Watching the way the other goblins stepped aside instinctively. Watching the way the pale cleric spoke quietly to him while the tiefling laughed at something the bard had said.
Watching until they disappeared further into the temple, but curiosity had gotten the better of her then.
Skrikka had never been particularly good at resisting curiosity.
She had set the bucket down and slipped through the crowd, keeping a careful distance as she followed them inside. Nobody noticed her; goblins moved through the temple constantly, and one more small figure in the shadows attracted little attention.
From there, she had seen far more than she probably should have.
She'd lost the man; however managed to find the rest of his party and witnessed them. She had watched the massive bear burst free from its cage, killing every goblin in them before finally transforming into an enormous elf.
Most shockingly, she'd walk Fin return with the unconscious Minthara and saw as they dragged her away from the sanctum. Every sensible part of her mind told her that she should run to one of the remaining leaders immediately and report what she had seen. Instead, she had remained hidden behind a cracked pillar, unmoving while the group slipped away through the back passages of the temple.
Even afterwards, when confusion arose after Minthara's sudden disappearance and the guards argued about what had happened, Skrikka said nothing.
She couldn't quite explain why.
Part of it was fear. Reporting the actions of True Souls could easily backfire if someone decided she was lying. Goblins had been beaten bloody for less, but another part of her hesitation had come from a quieter instinct that she couldn't quite name.
Something about the way the man had moved through the temple that night had made the entire camp feel suddenly fragile. Like dry wood waiting for a spark.
The memory faded as footsteps approached the temple entrance once again.
Skrikka looked up from her crate.
Another group of figures stepped inside.
Her ears twitched.
It was him again.
The same man from the day before, walking with the same calm that made the crowd instinctively clear a path. But the people around him were different this time.
The tiefling and the bard were gone. In their place walked a githyanki warrior, a pale male elf with red eyes, and a white female dragonborne whose expression carried an unsettling kind of quiet amusement.
The cleric and the human swordsman remained.
Skrikka's curiosity flared again.
Without really thinking about it, she slipped from the crate and began following them once more.
They moved through the camp openly, the goblins stepping aside with the same automatic deference as before. Nobody questioned them. Nobody tried to stop them. The brand of the Absolute carried far too much authority for that.
Skrikka stayed several paces behind, weaving through the tents and broken furniture until she reached the temple entrance.
Inside, the group slowed.
Their voices carried faintly down the corridor as they spoke with the great elf they had freed the night before.
Skrikka lingered near the wall, listening.
She caught fragments of their conversation.
Names. Gut. Ragzlin.
The word kill appeared more than once.
By the time the discussion ended, it was clear even to Skrikka that the group had come back to finish something they had started.
Once again, the sensible thing would have been to warn someone.
Once again, she remained silent.
Instead, slipping away from the corridor and moved toward the priestess's chamber.
If she was going to say anything, it would have to be to Priestess Gut herself.
The thought twisted uncomfortably in her stomach as she approached the door. Gut was not known for her patience, and Skrikka had never been particularly good at explaining complicated situations.
Still, if the True Souls were planning to kill her, Skrikka pushed the door open quietly.
The chamber was empty.
She stepped inside and immediately felt her confidence evaporate.
Standing here alone made the entire idea of reporting anything seem far less appealing.
After a moment of hesitation, she did what she always did when faced with something frightening.
She hid.
The small storage closet near the back of the room offered just enough space for her to squeeze inside among stacks of dusty robes and cracked incense bowls. She left the door slightly ajar so she could see into the chamber while remaining hidden in the shadows.
Fortunately, Polma, Priestess Gut's orge bodyguard, hadn't caught her.
She told herself she would step out once Priestess Gut arrived.
Instead, she waited, and as minutes passed. Skrikka heard footsteps echoing in the hallway outside, and her ears twitched.
The door opened.
Fin stepped inside.
Priestess Gut followed a moment later, her voice already dripping with oily enthusiasm.
"True Soul," she crooned, waddling toward the altar. "the Absolute provides healing for its chosen servants."
Skrikka held her breath inside the closet.
The man stood calmly in the centre of the chamber while Gut rummaged through her collection of charms and vials. She spoke continuously while she worked, praising the Absolute, praising the glory of the cult, praising the importance of serving faithfully.
Eventually, she gestured toward the altar.
"A moment," she instructed. "The blessing must be prepared properly."
For a moment, it looked like the ritual might proceed normally.
Gut lifted a vial from the altar.
Then the man moved.
He turned, and his hand rose in a motion so quick Skrikka barely registered it.
There was a sharp crack that echoed through the chamber as Priestess Gut's body went limp, her neck twisted violently to one side.
The man released her without ceremony, and her corpse collapsed onto the stone floor with a dull thud and from inside the closet, Skrikka stared through the narrow gap in stunned silence.
Polma stood no chance as before the large ogre could move, Fin had plunged his fist into the ogre's face, and a black bolt of black lightning erupted from where the impact was made, as her head was blown clean off. The blood and sinue and brain matter coated the floors and walls of the chamber.
Skrikka could only cover her mouth in shock. The strange twisting feeling in her chest returned, stronger than before, because the calm expression on the man's face had not changed at all.
Priestess Gut's body lay twisted across the stone floor, the heavy folds of her robes settling slowly as the last movement drained from them. One arm had landed palm-up beside the altar, fingers curled as if she had been reaching for something that no longer mattered. The incense still burned nearby, thin smoke drifting lazily upward as though nothing significant had happened in the room.
The man remained where he stood, before the headless body of the ogre, as he picked the dead flesh from his clothes and fingers.
For a moment, he simply looked down at the corpses, his head tilted slightly, as if confirming the obvious, mangled and deformed corpses were actually dead. There was no satisfaction in the gesture, no anger, no rush of adrenaline. It had the quiet finality of someone completing a task that had already been decided hours earlier.
Then he lifted his eyes.
And looked directly at the closet door.
Inside the cramped darkness, Skrikka froze.
Her fingers tightened against the wooden shelf beside her, the rough grain biting into her palm. She had been careful. She had not moved. She had barely allowed herself to breathe since the priestess had entered the room. Every instinct she possessed told her that the shadows were still hiding her.
But the way his gaze settled on the narrow crack between the closet doors made it very clear that hiding had never actually worked.
The silence stretched.
The man studied the door for another moment, his expression unchanged, before speaking in the same calm tone he had used with the priestess only seconds earlier.
"You can come out."
He did not raise his voice.
He did not step closer.
He simply stood there in the centre of the chamber with a large ogre's corpse cooling at his feet, as though inviting a nervous animal to decide whether it planned to run.
Skrikka's heart hammered violently against her ribs.
Every story she had ever heard about True Souls screamed through her mind at once. Most of them ended with goblins dying very unpleasant deaths for far smaller offences than spying on one in the middle of a murder.
Her first instinct was to stay perfectly still and pretend she hadn't heard him.
The man lifted one hand.
He did not reach for a weapon.
Instead, he made a small, almost absent gesture with two fingers.
A quiet beckoning motion.
"Are you leaving," he asked mildly, "or not?"
The question landed in the air with an unsettling kind of patience, as though the answer was merely a matter of convenience.
Inside the closet, Skrikka realised something strange.
She was no longer afraid of being discovered.
That moment had already passed.
He had known she was there from the beginning.
The realisation should have terrified her more than anything else.
Instead, it left her with a single, oddly simple decision.
Slowly, she pushed the closet door open.
The hinges creaked softly as the panel swung outward, revealing the cramped space she had wedged herself into among Gut's spare robes and ritual junk. Dust clung to Skrikka's shoulders as she stepped forward, blinking slightly in the dim torchlight of the chamber.
The man watched her emerge without shifting his stance.
Up close, he looked the same as he had in the courtyard the day before. Calm eyes. Steady posture. No visible tension in his shoulders, despite the dead priestess lying a few feet away.
Skrikka stepped fully out of the closet and let the door fall shut behind her.
For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.
She expected anger.
Or questions.
Or perhaps the casual violence she had seen the other goblins inflict on creatures weaker than themselves.
Instead, he simply looked at her with his own curiosity.
"You followed us yesterday," he said. "You watched us free the druid."
"…yes."
"You saw Minthara."
Skrikka hesitated for half a second.
"…yes."
"And you followed us again today."
Another small nod.
"Yes."
His gaze rested on her face for another long moment.
"You didn't tell anyone."
It wasn't a question.
Skrikka shifted her weight slightly, claws scraping faintly against the stone floor.
"…no."
The man exhaled slowly through his nose, the faintest movement breaking the stillness of his posture.
Then he glanced briefly toward the doorway leading deeper into the temple, where distant echoes of goblin laughter still filtered faintly through the corridors. For a few seconds, he simply watched her, the way someone might observe a strange animal that had wandered somewhere it probably shouldn't be. There was no visible hostility in the look, but there was a quiet attentiveness that made Skrikka feel as though every movement she made was being measured.
Because he had not moved aside.
The man tilted his head slightly.
"What's your name?"
The question caught Skrikka off guard.
True Souls did not ask goblins for their names. They shouted orders. They demanded obedience. They occasionally asked who had failed them so they could decide who to punish.
They did not ask questions like that.
"Skrikka," she answered quietly.
Her voice sounded small in the empty chamber.
The man nodded once, committing the name to memory with the same neutral expression he had worn since snapping the priestess's neck.
"Skrikka."
He stepped atop and over the large ogre's corpse. He nudged Priestes Gut's corpse aside and leaned lightly against the edge of the altar, folding his arms across his chest. The posture was casual, but the way his eyes remained on her made it clear the conversation was far from idle.
He studied her for another moment before asking the question that had clearly been sitting in the back of his mind.
"Why didn't you tell anyone?"
Skrikka shifted her weight awkwardly.
The stone floor suddenly felt much too open beneath her feet. Most goblins would have filled the silence with excuses or frantic explanations, but Skrikka had never been particularly skilled at lying.
So she didn't try.
"I'm not like the others", she said slowly.
The words felt strange coming out of her mouth.
She glanced briefly at Gut's corpse before continuing.
"When everyone was getting their brand, I had hidden from them"
The man didn't interrupt.
He simply listened.
"When the priestesses gathered everyone in the temple… I couldn't hear as the others could, but I could feel and sense a difference in their souls."
She searched for the right words.
"It felt like this force trying to pull me in"
Her fingers tapped faintly against her thigh.
"Like someone knocking on a door very far away, and I was being beckoned to open it, I let it in."
The man's gaze sharpened slightly.
"But it was still there," she added quickly. "I knew it was real. I believed it was real."
"Then why didn't you follow it like the others?" he asked.
Skrikka let out a soft breath through her nose.
"That was the problem."
Her ears twitched again.
"I tried."
She gestured vaguely toward the temple walls, toward the rest of the camp outside.
"They shouted the prayers. They dropped to their knees when the voice came. They fought each other to prove who believed harder."
A small, bitter smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"I never felt that."
The confession hung in the air between them.
"I believed the Absolute existed," she continued, her voice quieter now. "But I never felt… devoted. Not like they did. It was always just a presence. Something distant."
Her eyes drifted toward the door that led back into the camp.
"They noticed eventually."
Goblins were not kind to those who were different.
"They said I wasn't faithful enough. That I wasn't chosen properly. That something was wrong with me."
She shrugged slightly.
"So they stopped inviting me to the chants. Stopped sharing food. Started throwing things."
Another brief glance at the priestess's body.
"Gut told them I needed to prove myself more."
The man didn't ask what that had meant.
He probably already knew, or perhaps he just didn't care.
Skrikka lifted her shoulders slightly.
"So I stayed quiet. I kept pretending."
Her eyes returned to his face.
"When you came yesterday… I watched. When you freed the druid and took the drow… I thought about telling someone."
She hesitated.
"But…"
"But you didn't," he finished calmly.
Skrikka shook her head.
"No."
"Why?"
The answer came surprisingly quickly.
"Because none of you acted like True Souls."
The man's brow moved a fraction of an inch.
"How so?"
She gestured faintly toward the temple entrance.
"True Souls shout. They threaten people. They make everyone kneel so they can feel important."
Her gaze settled on him again.
"You didn't. Or at least, it didn't feel like it."
There was no accusation in the statement.
Just a quiet observation.
"You walked through the camp like you already knew how everything would end."
Silence returned to the room, and the man considered her for several seconds.
Then he glanced once more at the dead priestess lying on the floor between them.
When his eyes came back to Skrikka, the calmness in them remained the same.
But something else had joined it.
Understanding.
For a few seconds, he said nothing, simply watching her with the same measured attention he had shown the entire time. The silence in the chamber felt oddly steady rather than threatening, broken only by the soft crackle of incense burning beside the altar and the faint sounds of goblins shouting somewhere outside the temple.
Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth moved.
It was not a wide grin, nor anything resembling the cruel smiles goblins were used to seeing from their leaders. It was small, almost private.
But it was unmistakably a smile.
Skrikka blinked.
Something about seeing that expression on his face made a strange warmth spread through her chest. It was subtle, the kind of warmth that crept in quietly rather than arriving all at once, and she found herself staring before she realised she was doing it.
"You're interesting," he said.
The words landed with the same calm certainty he had used throughout the conversation.
Skrikka tilted her head slightly, confused.
"Interesting…?"
He nodded once.
"I've never heard or seen a goblin like you."
That only deepened her confusion.
She opened her mouth as if to ask what he meant, then closed it again when no words came out. Goblins were many things, but being described as interesting by someone who had just snapped a priestess's neck was not a situation she had any experience navigating.
The man straightened from where he leaned against the altar.
"Don't worry," he continued, his voice still quiet. "I'm not going to kill you."
The statement was delivered with such casual certainty that it took a moment for Skrikka's brain to catch up with it.
Relief flooded through her chest in a sudden rush.
"Oh."
It was the only sound she managed.
He glanced briefly toward the doorway leading deeper into the temple, where the rest of his companions waited somewhere beyond the corridor. The faint echoes of their movements carried through the stone.
Then he looked back at her again.
"We'll probably meet again," he said.
Skrikka blinked.
"We will?"
"Yes."
There was no hesitation in the answer.
The certainty in his tone made it sound less like a prediction and more like a simple fact he had already accepted.
He pushed away from the altar and stepped toward the door.
"Stay out of the way tonight," he added calmly, his hand grasping her chin almost tenderly. "Things are about to become very loud."
His hands felt rough on her chin, her cheeks grew flushed, and he held her; his eyes were pointed directly into hers.
He didn't look back at the corpse of Priestess Gut or Polma. He simply smirked and slowly walked away, hands in his pockets.
He didn't look back at her either.
And as Fin stepped past her toward the doorway, Skrikka's legs simply gave out.
She dropped to her knees with a soft, startled thud, thighs parting instinctively as she caught herself on her hands. The rough stone floor pressed cold against her palms and shins, but the rest of her body felt molten, and her breath came in shallow, ragged little pants.
He didn't turn fully, but she saw the line of his shoulders shift, saw the subtle tightening of muscle beneath his slightly blood-stained white haori.
Skrikka's face burned. Between her spread thighs, she could feel it now: a slick, insistent heat pooling low in her belly and seeping downward, soaking the thin scrap of cloth she wore beneath her tattered skirt. The realisation hit her like a slap and left her dizzy.
Wet.
She was wet, achingly, shamefully so, just the touch of his hands on her face and the memory of that small, private smile, from the quiet brush of his voice promising they would meet again, from the dangerous certainty with which he'd said her life was safe.
She pressed her thighs together on reflex, but the pressure only made it worse; a tiny, involuntary sound slipped out of her throat before she could choke it back. She stared at the empty doorway, lips parted and panting heavily, trying to understand how the simple shape of his retreating and the echo of that one small smile could unravel her so completely.
Behind her, Priestess Gut's body continued to cool on the altar steps.
Skrikka didn't move for a very long time after that.
...
Fin stepped out of Priestess Gut's chamber. The corridor outside was dimly lit, the torchlight wavering against rough stone walls. The rest of the party waited further down the passage where the hallway widened slightly.
They all looked up the moment he approached.
Shadowheart was the first to speak.
"Well?" she asked, arms crossed loosely over her chest piece. "Did it work?"
Fin gave a small nod as he reached them.
"She's dead."
Wyll exhaled quietly through his nose, tension leaving his shoulders as though a weight had just shifted somewhere inside his chest.
"Good," he said simply.
Shadowheart gave a brief nod of approval, the faintest hint of satisfaction touching her expression.
"Then that part of the plan worked."
The reaction from the others was… less dignified.
Astarion sighed dramatically, throwing one hand upward.
"Oh, wonderful," he said, voice dripping with theatrical disappointment. "You mean to tell me I came to this charmingly fragrant temple expecting violence and you handled the entire situation before I even had a chance to sharpen my blade on someone?"
Lae'zel's nose wrinkled slightly.
"You killed her alone?"
"Yes."
Lae'zel let out a short, annoyed huff through her nose.
"A waste."
Durge looked genuinely offended.
"That hardly seems fair," she said, tilting her head slightly as though trying to work through the injustice of the situation. "I had already begun imagining several very creative ways that encounter might unfold."
Her eyes drifted briefly toward the closed door behind Fin.
"You robbed me of a great deal of artistic expression."
Fin rubbed the back of his neck once, already feeling the energy building behind them like a pack of predators denied a hunt.
"It took about three seconds," he said.
"That makes it worse," Durge replied immediately.
Astarion nodded in agreement.
"Quite right. If it had taken you at least a minute or two, we might have had time to arrive fashionably late and pretend we contributed."
Lae'zel folded her arms.
"You should have waited."
Fin looked at her.
"She was about to drug me."
The githyanki paused.
"…fair enough."
Wyll watched the exchange with a faint crease between his brows before shaking his head slightly.
"You all sound disappointed the priestess is dead."
"I'm disappointed we weren't involved," Astarion corrected.
Durge nodded solemnly.
"An important distinction."
Shadowheart pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Can we focus for a moment?"
Fin cut off the growing chatter before it could spiral further.
"Relax." The word was quiet, but it carried enough weight to pull their attention back to him. "Ragzlin is still breathing."
That did it.
Durge's eyes lit faintly, Lae'zel straightened immediately, and Astarion's smile returned.
"Ah," the vampire said lightly. "Now that sounds promising."
Fin gestured down the corridor.
"Save the enthusiasm for Ragzlin."
Durge clasped her hands behind her back with a small, satisfied smile.
"Oh, I intend to."
Lae'zel rested a hand on the hilt of her blade.
"Then stop talking."
They moved.
The deeper halls of the temple felt quieter than the outer chambers, the thick stone muffling much of the chaos from the courtyard outside. A few goblin servants scurried out of their path as the group passed, lowering their heads immediately when they noticed the presence carried by the supposed True Souls.
None of them asked questions.
None of them even slowed the party's pace.
Fin led them toward the broad corridor that opened into the doors of the throne room, the faint sounds of laughter and heavy boots already echoing faintly from the chamber ahead.
As they approached the entrance, the noise became clearer.
Ragzlin was in good spirits.
The hobgoblin's booming voice carried easily across the stone halls, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter from the goblins gathered around him. The smell of spilled ale drifted from the room beyond.
Astarion leaned slightly toward Fin as they slowed near the doorway.
"Out of curiosity," he murmured, "are we still pretending to be dignified emissaries of the Absolute when we walk in there?"
Lae'zel snorted.
"Why would we?"
"Because it would make the moment where we stop pretending much more dramatic," Astarion replied.
Durge tilted her head thoughtfully. "I do enjoy dramatic reveals."
Shadowheart glanced toward Fin.
"What's the plan?"
Fin stepped up beside the entrance.
Dror Ragzlin sat sprawled across a crude throne, goblet in hand, surrounded by a half-circle of goblins and other creatures under his commannd listening eagerly as he recounted some exaggerated tale.
The room was loud.
Fin looked back at the group.
"We walk in," he said.
"And then?" Astarion asked.
Fin glanced toward the throne.
"Improvise"
Durge smiled slowly.
"And after that?"
Fin pushed the doors open.
"After that," he said calmly, "you can all stop whining."
...
End of Chapter
Word Count - 6745