The clearing was quiet save for the rustle of leaves in the evening breeze. The trio fell into familiar routines as they set up camp. Gale knelt beside a gnarled log, arranging firewood they had gathered earlier into a neat pile. He muttered an incantation under his breath, and with a subtle flick of his wrist, the wood caught fire. Flames crackled to life, painting the surrounding forest with a flickering orange glow.

  Astarion was nearby, silently examining their surroundings as if checking for hidden dangers. His usual smirk was absent, his demeanor strangely subdued. After a moment, he turned toward Sena, who knelt a few paces away, distractedly fumbling with the ties of her tent. He approached quietly, no teasing quip on his lips, and began wordlessly helping her secure the stakes into the ground.

  Sena didn’t acknowledge him at first, her hands moving on their own as she unrolled the fabric. Her dark eyes stayed unfocused, distant, her thoughts caught somewhere between the present and the ruins they had left behind. The discovery of the chest, the letter, scrolls, and the medallion that now pulsed faintly in her pack had been more than what she was hoping to find. The fortress had been real. That much she now knew—the evidence was undeniable.

  The words on the letter swirled through her head, her mind racing to grasp every implication, every possibility that unfolded with each line.

  He’s alive—and gathering them again. His followers. She tightened the rope in her hands, not noticing how her knuckles whitened under the strain. He’s planning something.

  Astarion straightened beside her, finishing the task she had been too distracted to complete. He gave her a brief glance, but he said nothing. His silence unnerved her more than his usual barbed humor, but she didn’t have the energy to question it. She gave him a small nod, and he returned it with the faintest incline of his head before moving back toward his own tent.

  Gale had coaxed the fire into a steady blaze, the flames crackling warmly as he set about preparing their evening meal. Despite the scarcity of supplies on the road, he had an uncanny ability to turn scraps into something comforting. Tonight, he was making a hearty stew, the savory aroma already cutting through the lingering tension in the air.

  He pulled dried mushrooms from a small pouch, their earthy scent mingling with the faintly citrusy tang of dried eldergrass. A handful of sliced thalassian root—its pale flesh prized for its subtle spice—followed into the bubbling pot.

  The stew, modest yet enticing, promised warmth and respite after the day they’d had. Astarion, sitting nearby, raised an eyebrow as Gale tossed in a pinch of hearth pepper—a rare seasoning that added just the faintest whisper of heat.

  “You know,” Astarion drawled, his tone lighter than the mood warranted, “for someone so immersed in arcane pursuits, you do have a flair for the culinary.”

  Gale barely glanced up, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Magic and cooking aren’t so different,” he said softly, his voice carrying a gentleness. “The right balance of elements, the right amount of care—it can make all the difference.”

  Though Astarion didn’t reply, there was a flicker of appreciation in his expression.

  Sena, meanwhile, sat quietly, her gaze flickering between the fire and the dark woods beyond. She was grateful for Gale’s cooking—always had been. But tonight, her mind continued to race. The medallion is the key. It has to be. The scrolls… maybe they’ll tell me how it works. The arcane symbols she had glimpsed on the parchment were unfamiliar, their twisting shapes seeming to shift in the firelight. She needed to decipher them, and quickly. If he was rebuilding his circle, there was no time to waste.

  By the time the tents were pitched and the stew was simmering over the fire, the trio had settled into a loose triangle around the flames. Sena knelt on the mossy ground with her pack beside her. Astarion leaned against a tree across from her, his crimson eyes flicking toward her in the firelight. Gale stirred the pot absently, his gaze drifting to Sena every so often, concern evident despite his attempt to hide it.

  The routine of setting up camp had done little to break the tension lingering from the ruins.

  For a moment, Sena’s gaze lingered on the flames, the orange and gold licking upward as if trying to draw the words from her. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “Before all this—before the nautiloid, the Absolute, the Netherbrain—I was searching for something. Someone.”

  Astarion tilted his head. “Someone,” he echoed. “From your past?”

  Sena nodded slowly, her eyes fixed in front of her. “I know I’ve been unfair to both of you,” she began, exhaling slowly. “At first, I wasn’t even sure if I could find them. I didn’t want to drag you into my mess when I wasn’t sure if it would lead anywhere. And well, I’m not exactly good at talking about my past.” Her words trailed off, her shoulders tensing as if the admission had cost her more than she wanted to show.

  Gale looked up from where he was stirring. “Sena,” he said gently, “we all have our secrets and pieces of ourselves that took time to share. My Netherese orb, Astarion’s vampirism… though, to be fair, it doesn’t take a scholar to deduce what he is just by looking at him,” he added with a playful wink in Astarion’s direction.

  The vampire raised an eyebrow but said nothing, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  Gale continued, “The point is, you don’t have to tell us anything you’re not comfortable with. But you’re in excellent company. You know you can trust us.”

  Sena nodded and gave a grateful smile, though her fingers fidgeted, brushing over the fabric of her pack as if searching for the right words. “You both know I grew up in Baldur’s Gate,” she began, “but the truth is… I didn’t have a family.” She hesitated, her throat tightening before she pushed herself to continue. “My parents… I don’t even know if they wanted me. All I know is, they weren’t there. And the place I ended up wasn’t a home—it was just… where I was kept.”

  Gale and Astarion exchanged brief glances. They had suspected something like this; Sena’s reticence about her past was hard to miss. Whenever they shared pieces of their own histories, she had always deflected, offering little more than vague comments about the city she once called home.

  “There’s a family in Baldur’s Gate,” Sena continued, her voice growing sharper as her words gained momentum. “The Sinclairs. Old money, powerful connections.”

  “The House of Sinclair?” Gale said, leaning forward slightly. “I’ve heard of them, even in Waterdeep. Their reputation precedes them—powerful, cunning, infamous for their influence. Their name appears in more than a few history books.”

  Sena nodded. “That’s where I grew up. With them, in the Sinclair manor, right in the heart of the city.” She drew in a shaky breath. “They… bought me. I was too young to even remember it happening. They kept me in their home, clothed and fed me, sure, but it wasn’t a life. It was a cage. I wasn’t their ward—I was their property.”

  Astarion’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, their property?”

  Her tone darkened, her gaze dropping to the flames. “That kind of status… you don’t just get it through inheritance. Under the guise of serving Tymora, the goddess of luck, the Sinclairs worshipped something else entirely.”

  Astarion pressed further, “Who?”

  Sena exhaled sharply, her hands curling into fists against her knees. Finally, she looked up to meet their gaze. “Sarrathae.”

  At the mention of the name, Gale’s stirring hand froze mid-air, his eyes snapping to Sena in wide disbelief. “Sarrathae?”

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “Who?” Astarion repeated, his gaze shifting between them.

  “The cruel crimson goddess of blood oaths,” Gale explained, his expression grim. “She’s barely mentioned in arcane texts anymore. I thought her worship had been eradicated centuries ago.”

  Sena shook her head. “Not by the Sinclairs. Apparently, in the early days, their ancestor made a pact with her—an exchange. Sarrathae blessed their bloodline, but they didn’t just gain influence; they became untouchable. The Sinclairs, they’re… bloodmages.”

  The words hung in the air like a dark cloud.

  Astarion’s crimson eyes widened, and his gaze flicked to Gale, who seemed equally thrown.

  “Blood magic,” Gale said at last, his voice heavy as he broke the silence. “It’s one of the oldest and most forbidden forms of magic. Even in the days of Netheril, few dared to wield it. Those who did often met gruesome ends. To control blood is to control life itself.”

  “And death,” Astarion added. His voice was colder than usual, though his eyes glinted with something deeper—recognition, perhaps. “It’s not so different from the things Cazador craved.”

  Gale turned back to Sena, “But what did that have to do with you? Were you…” He stopped, unable to finish the thought, the possibilities too grim to voice.

  Sena’s voice was steady as she answered. “Their pact was simple. Offerings to Sarrathae in exchange for power. But what Sarrathae demanded… were sacrifices. She wanted pure ones—maidens, untouched and untainted. Each death strengthened their magic, solidified their control over Baldur’s Gate and beyond.”

  The firelight cast flickering shadows across Gale’s face. “Sacrifices of the innocent,” he said, his voice hard. “That kind of magic… it’s not just dangerous. It’s corrupt to its core.”

  “It doesn’t just destroy others,” Astarion said. “It devours the wielder from the inside. But that’s what makes it so seductive, isn’t it? The kind of power people would kill—or die—for.”

  Sena nodded grimly. “At first, they abducted women for their rituals. But as Baldur’s Gate grew more civilized, they couldn’t risk the scrutiny. So they changed tactics. They started buying orphans—girls who had no one to miss them. Like me. They raised us in secret, isolated, until we were of age. Old enough to meet Sarrathae’s requirements.”

  Astarion looked at her with a chilling clarity. “They bought you,” he said, his voice devoid of question. “Kept you like cattle until they could lead you to slaughter.”

  Sena was silent for a long moment, her fists clenching against her knees as if bracing herself. She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the screams that still echoed in her mind. When she spoke, her voice was low, and shaky. “Our sixteenth birthday was a death sentence. One by one, they pulled us to the altar… and offered us to their goddess.”

  The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the fire seemed to dim, its crackle a distant whisper.

  “I was supposed to be one of them,” she said quietly. “A sacrifice. Aric Sinclair—the head of the family and archmage—was the one wielded the dagger. But when it come to be my turn, something went wrong,” Sena continued. “I don’t know what it was—the magic, the steps of the ritual, or something else. When Aric drove the blade into me…” She stopped, her hand tightening instinctively over her chest. “The magic… exploded. The room was chaos, and I blacked out.”

  Sena’s fingers brushed against the scar beneath her shirt, the pain of that night flaring as vividly as if it had happened moments ago. “When I woke up, the room was covered in blood. So much blood. The mages, the priests—even Aric—they were on the ground. I didn’t stop to think. I grabbed the dagger and ran.”

  Astarion’s crimson eyes flicked to her chest, the place she always kept tightly wrapped beneath her rogue attire. The bandages, the guarded way she carried herself, the way her hand instinctively rested there—it all made sense now. She wasn’t just hiding a wound. She was hiding a scar born of unimaginable pain, a mark that bound her to the memory of that night.

  A flicker of anger crossed his sharp features, a rare crack in his carefully composed mask. He knew what it was to bear scars, to carry the weight of another’s cruelty carved into your body. His back, hidden beneath layers of fine fabric and flippant charm, bore the evidence of centuries of Cazador’s torment.

  But Sena was different. She was still so young, barely twenty, a mortal human with a life that should’ve been ahead of her, not behind her. And yet, here she was, carrying wounds far heavier than most. He clenched his jaw, anger rising—not at her, but at the twisted circumstances that had placed such a burden on someone so unprepared, so undeserving of it.

  She held up the blade now, its ruby glinting faintly in the firelight as though responding to her words. “This is it—the Dagger of Sarrathae. Blessed by the goddess herself, a tool of sacrifice. It’s what they used to kill my sisters. What he used on me.”

  Gale leaned forward, his face ashen, the weight of Sena’s story sinking in. “And Aric?” he asked softly, his voice careful. “Is he dead?”

  “I hoped he was,” Sena admitted, her voice brittle. “After that night, I didn’t know what had happened to him or the others. I thought maybe the ritual had… ended them. But I was wrong. They’ve been searching for this blade. Searching for me.”

  Her fingers traced the edge of the dagger, the ruby catching the firelight as though pulsing in response to her words.

  “Before the nautiloid, I’d heard stirrings. Whispers in Baldur’s Gate. They were leaving the city—moving quietly, carefully. I didn’t know where, but I knew it wasn’t random.”

  Astarion’s eyes narrowed, his voice low. “People like that, power like that—they never really disappear. It lingers in the dark, waiting for the right moment to rise again. And when it does, it’s always worse.”

  “And they’re trying to use me as a piece on their board,” Sena added, her voice bitter. “But they don’t realize that I’m not running anymore.“ Sena’s grip tightened on the hilt. “Now, I’m ready. I’ve been training, waiting for the day I find him again and end this. End him.”

  She held up the scrolls and medallion, the firelight catching the blood-red veins etched into the artifact. “These… they’re a clue. The medallion has to be a key. Each of their mages had one. I saw them, glowing during rituals. It’s connected to their magic, to their power. If I can figure out how it works, I know it’ll lead us to them.”

  Gale’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “The medallion,” he murmured. “A guide for their followers. A link back to Aric.”

  Sena nodded. “It’s the closest I’ve gotten to him in years.”

  The fire crackled, its light flickering across the three of them. Gale leaned back slightly, his expression a mixture of concern and resolve. Astarion’s gaze never left Sena.

  “And you’re ready for this?” Astarion asked quietly. “To face him again?”

  Her voice lowered, trembling with an anger that had long simmered beneath the surface. “I’m ready. I’ve been ready.”

  Her lips pressed into a thin line as the memories threatened to surface. “The Sinclairs don’t stop. I’ve spent years hearing whispers, catching fragments, rumors of movement in the shadows. And now, finding the chest—it’s proof. They’re still going. They’re still taking. Still killing.”

  Gale’s brow furrowed, his voice softer now. “Sena…”

  She exhaled sharply, shaking her head as if to clear the memories. “Do you know how many sisters I lost to them? To all of this?” Her voice cracked. “Their faces—” She stopped herself, her fingers tightening around the medallion. “I thought running would keep me safe. That forgetting might help. But forgetting doesn’t stop them. Forgetting doesn’t bring back the sisters who screamed for help that never came. It doesn’t end the cycle.”

  She turned toward the fire, the glow reflecting in her dark eyes. “I’m going to find him. Find all of them. And I’m going to kill them.”

  Gale exchanged a glance with Astarion, the unspoken conversation between them evident in their expressions. Sena’s resolve was absolute, but so was their own.

  Finally, Gale leaned forward. “Well, it’s a good thing you won’t be doing it alone.”

  “No,” Sena said sharply. “From here, this is my battle. It’s dangerous. Blood magic isn’t something—”

  “And what exactly do you think we’ve been dealing with since we met you?” Astarion cut in. “Mind flayers, cultists, Netherbrain… Shall I list every death trap we’ve walked into?”

  “That’s different,” Sena argued, “this is personal. You don’t understand—”

  Gale cut in next, but his voice was gentle. “Sena, we don’t need to understand everything. What we do know is that you’ve carried this burden alone for far too long. Whether you want to admit it or not, we care about you. You’re our friend. And friends don’t let each other fight alone.”

  The words caught Sena off guard, her lips parting slightly as she tried to respond. She glanced at Astarion, expecting his usual wry commentary, but his expression was earnest. “Did you really think we’d let you march into a fortress full of bloodmages on your own? That’s not how this works.”

  Sena’s throat tightened, and she looked down at her hands, the dagger’s ruby glinting faintly in the firelight. “I’ve never… told anyone about this. About my past. I thought…” She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “You don’t have to do it alone anymore,” Gale said softly. “That’s what we’re here for.”

  Astarion’s eyes sparkled with a familiar sharpness. “You’re not about to get rid of us now, darling—not when things are finally getting interesting.”

  For a moment, Sena was silent. A rare warmth bloomed in her chest, unexpected and overwhelming.

  Gale, perceptive as always, noticed the extra shine in her eyes. He smiled gently and took the opportunity to shift the mood. “Well,” he said lightly, gesturing toward the pot, “we can talk more later. For now, let’s dig in. The stew is ready.”

  Sena allowed herself to smile briefly, thankful for his kindness. The trio gathered around the fire, sharing the meal as the warmth of the stew filled the quiet spaces left by their conversation.

  As Sena stirred her portion absently, she realized something she hadn’t allowed herself to before: she wasn’t alone. For years, the burden of her past had felt insurmountable, something she thought she’d have to carry to the end. But now, she had allies—friends—standing beside her, willing to share the weight.

  And for the first time, that thought didn’t feel like a burden.

  It felt like hope.