The camp was quiet now, the fire reduced to faint embers casting a dim orange glow across the clearing. Astarion had long since retired to his tent, his usual sharpness dulled by a quiet weariness. Sena had noticed the signs—he’d probably need to hunt soon. She’d always been able to tell, though he rarely admitted it aloud. The forest was still, save for the distant hoot of an owl and the faint whisper of leaves in the cool night breeze.

  Sena sat cross-legged near the dying fire, a piece of parchment spread across her lap. In her hand, she held a glass-tipped quill, courtesy of Gale, its delicate point hovering uncertainly above the parchment. Her eyes flicked toward the scrolls and the medallion laid out neatly on a flat stone nearby, barely visible in the dim light. She let out a small sigh and pressed the tip down, the first words emerging in careful strokes.

  Shadowheart

  I hope this letter reaches you safely. The roads outside the city are quieter than they were in the days after the Netherbrain fell, but you and I both know how this world works. Dangers have a way of hiding in plain sight. I trust you’ve been well—knowing you, you’re probably halfway through rebuilding Baldur’s Gate with that iron will of yours.

  I thought of you today, as I often do. It’s strange, isn’t it? How people like us—so used to looking back on our lives with fear and regret—find ourselves carving out new paths. I’ve found mine. Or maybe it’s found me. Either way, I’m following it.

  We came across something today. Something connected to my past. I don’t know where it will lead, but it’s the closest I’ve come to answers. Wish me luck. I think I’ll need it.

  Take care of yourself.

  Yours,

  Sena

  She set the quill aside and stared at the letter, her fingers brushing the edges of the parchment. The words felt too formal, too distant, but they were all she could manage. Writing wasn’t her strength, and expressing herself so openly still felt foreign. Still, she tucked the folded parchment into a small pouch, deciding she would send it if and when the chance arose.

  She hadn’t fully realized the depth of her bond with Shadowheart until after the battle against the Absolute. Perhaps it was the shared scars, the quiet resilience they both carried. Or maybe it was the way Shadowheart reminded her of the sisters she had lost—the ones who had shared her childhood captivity in the Sinclairs’ manor. They had been her family once, and losing them had left a wound that never truly healed.

  Shadowheart filled that void in a way Sena hadn’t expected. Strong, unyielding, and yet capable of the deepest kindness, Shadowheart had come so far from the person she had been when they first met. Sena still remembered the moments when the truth of her companion’s life unraveled before them—the revelations about Shar and her decision to embrace her true self. Watching Shadowheart’s journey had felt like a mirror in some ways, reflecting Sena’s own struggles to reclaim her identity.

  Sena thought back to Baldur’s Gate—the chaos, the tension of their final days in the city. When Shadowheart had spoken of plans to stay behind, it had been a bittersweet goodbye, although Sena couldn’t begrudge her the peace she had fought so hard to find. Shadowheart deserved that and more.

  And yet, Sena missed her. Writing this letter wasn’t just a way to stay connected—it was a reminder of the bond they shared, a connection Sena didn’t want to lose. Shadowheart would understand what she was facing now, more than anyone else. She always did.

  The faint rustle of leaves brought Sena back to the present.

  “Couldn’t sleep either?” Gale asked.

  Sena hesitated, then shook her head with a small smile. “No. I was finishing a letter… to Shadowheart.”

  Gale lowered himself to sit beside her. “You miss her, don’t you?”

  Her smile faltered, and she turned her gaze back to the fire. “I miss all of them. Shadowheart, Lae’zel, Wyll, Karlach… Going from traveling with everyone every day to this—” she stopped herself abruptly. “I mean, not that this is bad. Just… different.”

  Gale raised an amused eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, I see. Sitting in a dark forest with only me and Astarion for company doesn’t quite compare to the golden camaraderie of our former fellowship? Should I be offended?”

  Sena gave a soft laugh, grateful for his teasing tone. “That’s not what I meant,” she said quickly. “You’ve been…” She paused, searching for the right words. “You’ve been everything I needed. Both of you. But I guess I didn’t realize how much I leaned on all of them until they were gone.”

  Gale studied her quietly for a moment. He reached out, his hand brushing hers lightly. “The strength you miss? It’s with you, Sena. While Wyll and Karlach are fighting in the Hells, and Lae’zel is with her people, they’re still with us. And we’re here, facing this together. You carry pieces of them in everything you do.” His thumb slowly brushed over her knuckles. “You’ve done more than lean on others, Sena. You’ve been the one holding us up, more than you realize.”

  For a moment, she couldn’t think of what to say, feeling her ears grow warm. “Thanks, Gale. That… means a lot.”

  Her gaze drifted toward the scrolls and medallion in front of her. She sighed, gesturing toward them with a tilt of her head. “It’s still tough trying to figure this all out. I wonder if any of them would’ve come across this—” she tapped one of the scrolls lightly, “—and known what it means.”

  Gale’s eyes followed hers, and he let out a low hum of thought. “Well, lucky for you,” he said, clearing his throat. “You’ve got the best wizard on this side of Faer?n here to help you.” He paused, his voice brightening with a touch of humor. “What I don’t know, I’ll learn. What do you say we tackle it together?”

  Sena couldn’t help but chuckle softly at his confidence, the weight on her shoulders lifting just a little. “Alright,” she said, her tone lighter.

  Gale leaned forward, picking up one of the scrolls. The parchment was stained a deep red, surely written in blood. Its twisting, arcane symbols seemed to writhe faintly under the firelight. His brow furrowed as he examined it closely for a long while. “These symbols—they’re layered. I can recognize parts, but it’s written to hide their meaning from anyone not meant to understand.”

  He glanced at the medallion, its blood-red gemstone catching the faint glow of the fire. “And this… they could be connected. The veins, the pulse—it’s alive, in its own way.”

  Sena’s gaze flicked to the medallion. “I don’t like how much sense that makes.”

  Gale nodded grimly, setting the scroll back down. “Blood magic always leaves its mark. This isn’t just a piece of the puzzle; it’s a part of their power. It reminds me of the things we encountered in Baldur’s Gate—Orin and Bhaal, the way they reveled in sacrifice. This… Sarrathae, this crimson goddess of theirs, she’s no different. Blood magic feeds on the purest and most vulnerable, amplifying its corruption and its power in equal measure.”

  He picked up the medallion, holding it carefully between his fingers, his brow furrowing as the faint veins beneath its surface pulsed with a faint, sluggish rhythm. “If this is a key,” he said after a moment, “the magic within it is dormant.”

  Sena leaned closer. “What do you mean?“

  Gale tilted the medallion slightly, his eyes narrowing as he examined the blood-red gemstone. “Blood magic. It’s always about the blood,” he murmured, almost to himself.

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

  After a pause, he glanced at Sena, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. “It may need… blood to activate. Perhaps from a connection to the bloodline it was meant for—or,” his gaze lifted to meet hers, “maybe even the one that defied it.”

  Sena’s jaw tightened as she mulled over his words. After a moment, she nodded slowly and drew the dagger from her belt. The blade caught the firelight, the ruby in its hilt glinting faintly, almost as if it anticipated what was to come.

  She pressed the blade to her finger, the sharp sting barely registering as a small bead of blood welled up.

  Gale’s hand shot out instinctively, “Sena, wait—”

  But before he could finish, the droplet of blood fell onto the gemstone at the medallion’s center.

  The effect was immediate, violent. The veins etched into the medallion flared to life, glowing a deep crimson as though alive, pulsing in time with an otherworldly heartbeat. The red gemstone flashed, its light spilling outward in pulses of energy that snaked through the clearing. A low hum emanated from the medallion, building in intensity until it became a whisper, threading through the air like smoke.

  “Sena…”

  Her name.

  The voice was faint at first, a dark, melodic whisper. Sena stiffened as the light coiled upward and pulled her vision away, the clearing dissolving into blackness. The hum grew louder, deeper, until it consumed her entirely.

  And then she was there.

  The cold stone altar pressed against her back, its icy surface biting into her skin. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths, each one catching in her throat as the rhythmic chant swelled around her. The chamber was suffocating, the air thick with the tang of blood and the smoke of flickering torches. Shadows warped and stretched across the walls, twisted forms that seemed to mock her helplessness. She struggled, but the bindings at her wrists and ankles held firm, leaving her exposed beneath the dagger glinting above her.

  And then it struck.

  The blade plunged into her chest, and for a moment, there was no sound, no air, nothing but the piercing agony that tore through her. Her body convulsed as fire bloomed beneath her skin, a strange, burning warmth spreading outward from the wound.

  Then, everything shattered.

  Dark tendrils erupted from the wound, alive and writhing, their inky forms coiling and thrashing in all directions. They poured outward in violent waves, their presence snuffing out the torches and plunging the room into chaos. The chants faltered, breaking into startled cries and gasps as the tendrils consumed the light, the walls, the very air itself.

  The warmth inside her grew fiercer, burning through her veins like molten fire, twisting and churning as if alive. It was overwhelming, suffocating, as the world around her dissolved into pure, suffocating darkness.

  The scene shifted, the memory warping into something else entirely.

  She was no longer a helpless girl pinned to the altar. She was standing in a vast, dimly lit hall, its stone walls slick with crimson streaks, illuminated by the faint glow of runes etched into the floor. Hooded figures moved silently, their forms obscured in shadows. And at the center of it all, seated on a high-backed chair, was Aric Sinclair.

  He looked older—far older than four years should have made him. His dark hair streaked heavily with silver, his skin almost gray, and the energy that had once radiated from him seemed diminished, leaving a shadow of the figure she had fled from. It was as if the years had pressed harder on him than they should have, or perhaps something deeper had sapped him of his vitality. But his eyes… his eyes burned with the same cold, calculating fire she remembered. His hands rested on the armrests of his chair, one gripping a medallion that glowed faintly, its veins pulsating in unison with the one she held.

  “Sena…” The voice came again, stronger now, dark and melodic. Feminine. “Come home.”

  Sena’s breath hitched as the vision snapped away, leaving her body trembling and cold. She dropped to her knees, her hands clutching the medallion as if it were the only thing anchoring her to reality. Her chest heaved, the phantom pain from the blade still lingering like a dull throb. Gale’s voice broke through the haze, but it sounded distant, muffled, like hearing words underwater. She blinked rapidly, forcing herself to focus as his hands steadied her shoulders.

  “Sena, Sena!” Gale’s voice was sharp with concern as he held her. “Are you alright? What happened? You were—”

  “Aric,” she gasped out, her voice raw and hoarse. “I saw him.”

  Her breaths shallow and uneven, her fingers trembling against the medallion, which now pulsed faintly in her hand. It felt alive, as if it carried the echoes of her vision.

  Gale’s brow furrowed deeply. “You saw him? Where?”

  “In a fortress,” she managed, her breath still uneven. “I don’t know where exactly, but it was him. He’s alive.” Her voice faltered, trembling with simmering fury.

  Gale’s gaze shifted to the medallion, now pulsing with a faint, steady light. Its veins had shifted, forming the shape of an arrow that pointed firmly in one direction.

  Gale’s gaze locked onto the medallion, its faint crimson glow now pulsing with purpose. “Remarkable,” he murmured, his brow furrowing as he turned it in his hand.

  Sena exhaled sharply, “The arrow,” her chest rising and falling as she stared down at the medallion. “It’ll lead me straight to them.”

  “To Aric,” Gale said softly.

  Sena nodded, swallowing. “To all of them. The Sinclair mages, their fortress.” She looked up at him then, and for the briefest moment, the determination in her gaze wavered, revealing the fear beneath it. “This isn’t just a direction, Gale. It’s a summons.”

  Gale’s expression darkened as he processed her words, his usual calm replaced by quiet concern. He could see the subtle tremor in her hands, the way her breath came unevenly, and the sheen of cold sweat glistening on her brow. Despite her effort to maintain composure, the vision had shaken her to her core.

  He raised a hand, magic sparking faintly at his fingertips. In a flash of soft light, a neatly folded handkerchief appeared in his palm. Gale stepped closer and knelt beside her.

  The handkerchief cool against her skin as he gently pressed it to her forehead. The magic woven into the fabric carried a soothing energy, easing the heat of her skin and calming her ragged breaths.

  “You don’t have to keep it all inside, you know,” Gale said softly. “Not with me.”

  Her dark eyes met his as he brushed the handkerchief lightly against her temple, dabbing away the cold sweat. She wanted to protest, to insist she was fine, but the tenderness in his actions left her unguarded. “I’m alright,” she murmured, though her voice lacked its usual conviction.

  Gale gave her a small, knowing smile. “You’re formidable, Sena, but even the strongest need a moment to breathe.” He let the handkerchief linger for a moment before pulling it back, folding it with the same care as he’d conjured it. “You’ve been through enough tonight to warrant a pause.”

  Sena’s lips parted, but no words came. The firelight played softly across his handsome features. It was such a simple gesture—yet one that made her chest tighten, as if the weight she carried was finally being shared, even for just a moment.

  “Thank you,” she said finally.

  Gale inclined his head slightly, his gaze never leaving hers. “You don’t need to thank me,” he replied.

  The fire crackled softly beside them, its warmth a stark contrast to the chill that still lingered in Sena’s chest. The medallion lay between them, its faint glow now steady, the arrow etched into its surface pointing unwaveringly toward the unknown.

  Sena broke the silence first, her voice hesitant. “You know, I used to hate magic.”

  Gale raised an eyebrow, the comment catching him off guard. “Hate magic?”

  She nodded, glancing away as she spoke. “The things the Sinclairs did with it… they made it monstrous. Twisted. It’s hard to see something as anything but evil when it’s used to hurt you.”

  “That’s understandable,” he said softly.

  “But then I met you,” Sena continued, looking at him again. “You showed me something different. The way you weave spells, it’s… amazing.”

  She smiled a little, thinking back to their travels. “Like back when those goblins had us surrounded near their camp, and it felt like there was no way out… you conjured that Fireball in mid-air, held it there like you were conducting some grand performance, and then—boom. You cleared the entire bridge, but not a single flame touched any of us.”

  Gale’s lips quirked into a smile too, touched but modest. “Well, magic is as much about restraint as it is about power. A misplaced Fireball can make one a pariah quite quickly, I assure you.”

  Sena chuckled softly, her dark eyes flicking to his. “But that’s just it. You don’t use magic to show off or overpower. You use it to create balance—to make the impossible possible. It’s like watching an artist at work. It’s like music or painting—something creative and alive.”

  Gale’s eyes widened slightly, her words clearly unexpected. His cheeks a little pinker than usual. “That’s quite the compliment, coming from someone like you. I never imagined my magic could feel like a symphony to anyone but me.”

  As he met her eyes, the air between them charged with a quiet intimacy.

  “Well,” he said, his voice gentler now, “if I’ve managed to show you even a glimpse of its potential, then I consider that a success.”

  Sena smiled faintly, though her eyes lingered on him a moment longer. “You have.”

  The fire crackled softly, and Sena felt a warmth in her chest that wasn’t from the flames.

  Gale cleared his throat, gesturing toward the scrolls spread out between them. “Shall we? The medallion’s given us a direction, but these scrolls might shed light on what we’re truly walking into.”

  Sena nodded. Together, they leaned closer to the firelight, their voices low as they discussed the arcane symbols and twisted script. The medallion rested between them, its faint crimson glow casting shifting shadows on the parchment, its pulse steady and unrelenting.