The morning sun had barely crested the horizon when they began breaking camp. Gale crouched near the remnants of the fire, carefully brushing away its last traces. He murmured a simple cantrip, extinguishing the embers entirely before scattering the ashes. Astarion, meanwhile, busied himself with more meticulous tasks: burying the spoke holes left by their tent stakes and smoothing over the disturbed earth. He was annoyingly good at making it seem as though no one had camped there at all—a skill Sena admired.

  Gale had already prepared a simple breakfast, warm bread wrapped in cloth for the road. Sena packed up her things in silence, her gaze flicking occasionally to the medallion that rested on a flat rock nearby. Its faint red glow pointed steadily to the northwest, a constant reminder of their destination—and the uncertainty that awaited them.

  Gale and Sena had spent much of the previous night poring over the blood-soaked scrolls, their arcane symbols refusing to yield their secrets. The effort had left her tired, but not so much as the weight of what they were chasing. Astarion, however, was in no mood for patience.

  “All it does is show an arrow?” Astarion asked, gesturing at the medallion with an exaggerated flick of his wrist. “How very helpful. Shall we just march until we collapse, hoping it decides to blink at us when we’re close?”

  Sena sighed, tucking her dagger into its sheath as she adjusted the strap of her pack. She glanced at Astarion, his usual sharpness laced with a harsher edge today. The tension in his shoulders, the restless way his fingers twitched—it was all too familiar. He hadn’t fed properly in weeks, and while he rarely admitted it aloud, she knew animal blood wasn’t enough. Hunger always made him crankier than usual.

  “We don’t exactly have a better lead, Astarion,” she said evenly. “The medallion is working. We just… need to figure out how far we have to go.”

  “Wonderful,” Astarion drawled, his tone as sharp as his fangs. “Wandering aimlessly through the wilderness, with no clue how many leagues lie ahead. How thrilling.”

  Gale shot him a sideways glance. “It’s not aimless. The arrow points. It may not be precise, but it’s more than we had before. Besides, the magic seems tied to distance—it’s likely that it’ll get stronger the closer we get.”

  “Oh, likely, you say. What an absolute comfort.” Astarion slung his pack over his shoulder with an air of exaggerated disdain. “I do hope we stumble upon a city soon. The forest doesn’t suit me—far too dull, far too… quiet.”

  Sena caught the subtle undertone beneath his dramatics, the complaint cloaked in his usual flair. They’d been off the beaten path for weeks now, far from travelers or enemies—those rare few who didn’t disgust him—who might have satisfied his needs. “We’ll figure it out, Astarion,” she said quietly. “If it comes to it, we’ll find someone—or something—soon enough.”

  Astarion huffed, muttering something about finding someone sooner rather than later, but his tone was less biting now. He shifted his weight, his gaze drifting briefly to the medallion before looking away.

  As they walked, the medallion’s faint glow pulsed steadily, always pointing northwest. The air was crisp, filled with the rustle of leaves and the occasional trill of distant birds, but still, the forest felt endless.

  Astarion was the first to break the silence, his voice cutting through the quiet with an exaggerated groan. “Honestly, how much further must we trudge through this wretched wilderness? I’m fairly certain my boots weren’t made for this sort of abuse.”

  “I thought those were your practical boots?” Sena asked, relieved that his mood had lifted enough for a bit of humor.

  “They are,” Astarion replied with a theatrical sigh. “Which makes this all the more tragic. I could be reclining in luxury, perhaps with a goblet of fine wine, but instead, I’m out here… slogging through mud.”

  Gale chuckled, glancing over his shoulder. “Fine wine and reclining in chairs. Is that what passes for culture among Baldur’s Gate’s more nocturnal residents?”

  Astarion rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. Culture died in Baldur’s Gate long before I did. But I do recall a time when the Gate still had a touch of sophistication.” He tapped his chin. “Have you ever been to the Velvet Veil?”

  Gale tilted his head, a flicker of recognition crossing his features. “That lounge in the Upper City? I didn’t notice it when we were in Baldur’s Gate last—not that I was exactly sightseeing with the whole Netherbrain doom looming overhead. Is it still there?”

  “Still there?” Astarion said with mock indignation. “It’s a staple! Though I doubt it’s quite as charming as it was a century ago. The pianist they used to have—ah, he was a true artist.”

  “A century ago?” Sena interjected, smirking faintly. “You really are ancient.”

  Astarion raised a brow, his grin sharpening. “And you, my dear, are practically a newborn. What’s the grandest entertainment you’ve known in your short time alive? A tavern brawl? Perhaps a riveting game of guess-the-goat’s-age at a village fair? I’m sorry to inform you, my dear, but most of the truly sophisticated places don’t allow teenagers.”

  “I’m twenty,” Sena shot back, her tone half-indignant.

  Astarion gasped dramatically, clutching his chest as though mortally wounded. “Twenty? Oh, you poor thing.“

  Sena scowled, playfully pushing him away. “I’m not that young!”

  “Oh, but you are,” Astarion said, unfazed by the shove. “Barely a fledgling in the grand tapestry of life. Truly, how do you manage?”

  Before Sena could retort, Gale chuckled, his voice breaking through the banter. “Oh, the Velvet Veil did have its moments,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips as he glanced between them. “Though I can’t imagine they’d let someone as sprightly as Sena past the door. A place like that needs a bit of… gravitas. ”

  Sena rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the small laugh that escaped her.

  Gale continued, his tone warming with nostalgia. “Still, there’s nothing quite like the first time you experience its charm. Even Waterdeep couldn’t compete with the mulled wine they served—spiced with frost cherries and star anise. I’ve never tasted its equal.”

  “Oh, that was divine,” Astarion agreed, his tone unusually sincere. “Though, I always preferred their blood orange sangria. Subtle, complex… utterly delightful.”

  Sena glanced between the two, amusement dancing in her eyes. “So, wait—you both frequented the same place, but centuries apart?”

  “Not as improbable as you’d think,” Gale said, smiling. “Baldur’s Gate has a way of preserving its traditions… some of them, at least.”

  Astarion gave a casual shrug. “Even in the most tumultuous of times, there are some pleasures too essential to let go.”

  “Like blood orange sangria?” Sena teased.

  “Precisely.” Astarion smirked, though there was a glimmer of genuine warmth in his expression. “Ah, to think of all the fine things we’ve left behind for… this.”

  Gale quirked an eyebrow. “And by ‘this,’ I assume you mean our noble quest to thwart dark forces and uncover long-buried truths?”

  “No, I mean the mud,” Astarion deadpanned, stepping gingerly over a puddle. “It’s vile.”

  Sena laughed, shaking her head. “At least we’re not wandering aimlessly.”

  “Debatable,” Astarion muttered, earning another chuckle from Gale.

  The banter eased the tension as they continued forward, the medallion’s glow leading the way. Sena listened as the two men traded stories—Gale recounting a particularly disastrous experiment in Waterdeep involving a misplaced glyph and a very angry wolf familiar, while Astarion regaled them with tales of Upper City galas and the pretentious nobility he’d once mingled with.

  “And then there was Lord What’s-His-Face,” Astarion said, waving a hand dismissively. “The man could barely string a sentence together without referencing his coin purse, yet he fancied himself a patron of the arts. Ghastly.”

  “Ah, yes,” Gale said, nodding. “The type who commissions a portrait of themselves slaying a dragon they’ve never seen.”

  Astarion snorted. “Exactly. Though, to his credit, he did have an impressive wine cellar.”

  “You seem to remember every wine cellar you’ve ever visited,” Sena said with a wry grin.

  “Well, when you’ve lived as long as I have, the fine details are what keep life interesting,” Astarion replied, smirking. “Speaking of interesting, how much longer are we following this… enchanted trinket?”

  Gale glanced at the medallion, its glow steady and faint. “It should let us know when we’re close.”

  “Should,” Astarion echoed, rolling his eyes. “Right.”

  By late afternoon, the dense forest began to thin, revealing glimpses of pale sunlight filtering through the canopy. The trio came to an abrupt halt as they stumbled upon what had once been a bustling campsite—but was now a grim and desolate scene.

  The fire pit at the center of the clearing was cold and choked with gray ash, its stones darkened with soot. Around it lay the tattered remains of tents, their fabric shredded and sagging. Wooden crates and barrels sat toppled, their contents spilled across the ground. Rotting food lay amidst broken utensils, the sickly-sweet stench of decay mingling with the earthy forest air. Bloodstains, dark and rust-colored with age, marked the dirt in irregular splatters, but no bodies remained. A disconcerting emptiness hung over the scene, as though whatever had transpired had swallowed the people whole, leaving only the evidence of violence behind.

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  Sena moved cautiously into the clearing, her boots crunching on dried leaves and splintered wood. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the overturned belongings and the stains on the ground. She knelt near the fire pit, her fingers brushing the darkened soil. “Whatever happened here… it wasn’t quick.”

  Astarion stood over her. “A fight, clearly. Bandits, beasts… or something worse. The lack of bodies is troubling.” He took a few steps forward, crouching near a dried smear of blood. He sniffed the air, his frown deepening. “Too old to follow,” he muttered, clicking his tongue in annoyance. “What a waste.”

  Sena straightened, casting a glance over her shoulder. “You think they were dragged off? Or ran for their lives?”

  “Dragged, perhaps,” Astarion replied, rising gracefully. “Or devoured.”

  Gale, meanwhile, had already gravitated toward the remnants of a tent, his hands sifting carefully through the chaos of scattered belongings. He always searched for written clues first—journals, letters, even scraps of parchment could hold secrets. As he turned over a collapsed tent pole, a half-buried piece of parchment caught his eye. He retrieved it with care, brushing off the dirt and smoothing its creased surface. His brow furrowed as he studied the faded script.

  “What does it say?” Sena asked as she came closer to him.

  Gale’s expression darkened as he glanced up at her. “Not much, but enough. It mentions preparations for Sarrathae’s return.’”

  The weight of the name settled over the group.

  “They’ve been here,” she murmured, her voice thick with restrained emotion. She scanned the clearing again, her gaze lingering on the bloodstains. “The Sinclairs. They’re not far.”

  Astarion tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “If this was their doing, they’ve moved on. The question is… were they the hunters, or the hunted?”

  The fire pit remained silent, its cold ash offering no answers.

  Before they could dwell further on the note, a faint rustling in the underbrush drew their attention. Sena’s hand instinctively went to her dagger, but before she could unsheathed it, a small figure emerged from the foliage.

  It was a tiny mushroom, no taller than a child’s knee. Its round, spongy body was a pale greenish-white, faintly illuminated by a soft bioluminescent glow. Two dark spots near the bottom of its cap—what they assumed were its eyes—tilted curiously toward them, unblinking and unsettlingly still.

  “…What in the Nine Hells is that?” Astarion asked, his voice edged with disdain as he recoiled slightly.

  “It’s a myconid sprout,” Gale said, crouching to examine it more closely. His eyes gleamed with recognition. “Just like the ones we encountered in the Underdark. Although I was under the impression myconids couldn’t survive on the surface. At least, not for long.” He paused, studying its faint glow. “Perhaps the young ones are different…”

  The sprout emitted a soft, gurgling noise and waddled forward, bumping clumsily into Astarion’s boot. It tilted its cap upward as though studying him.

  “Oh, no,” Astarion said flatly, stepping back with an exaggerated grimace. “Absolutely not. I don’t do children. Fungi or otherwise.”

  Gale chuckled, his lips twitching in amusement. “I don’t know, it’s kind of adorable.”

  “It probably excretes poison,” Astarion muttered, eyeing the sprout warily as it waddled after him again.

  Sena crouched down, her tense expression softening as she observed the small creature. “Hey, little guy,” she said gently. “Are you lost?”

  The sprout made another gurgling noise, shifting slightly in place. It turned its cap between the three of them, as though trying to decide who to trust.

  “Poor thing must have wandered away from its colony,” Gale mused, reaching out cautiously. His fingers brushed lightly against the sprout’s cap, and it shivered faintly under his touch. “There’s probably an Underdark passage nearby.”

  Sena tilted her head. “It couldn’t have wandered far. Besides,” she added, a small smile tugging at her lips, “it’d be nice to see the myconids again.”

  “They were indeed fascinating. A sentient fungal network, their entire existence built on interconnected communication.” Gale said thoughtfully, standing upright. “And that Sovereign we met in the Underdark had a rather impressive intellect. Almost regal.”

  “Regal?” Astarion scoffed. “They were practical, I’ll grant you that, but let’s not start romanticizing mold.”

  The sprout let out another soft squeak, seemingly pleased by the attention, and waddled closer to Astarion again, sitting by his foot.

  Astarion sighed dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. “Of course. It’s decided I’m its favorite. Why wouldn’t it? Clearly, I have an inexplicable charm that even fungal creatures find irresistible.”

  Gale smirked knowingly. “Admit it, Astarion. You liked the myconids when we met them. Their calm efficiency, their no-nonsense approach to survival—it speaks to you.”

  Astarion sniffed, adjusting the collar of his coat. “I’ll admit they had… a certain appeal. Far more civilized than most creatures we’ve encountered. And at least they don’t prattle on endlessly.” He glanced at the sprout, who gurgled up at him again with what might have been adoration. “This one, however, is testing the limits of my tolerance.”

  Sena laughed, standing and brushing her hands on her pants. “You’ll be fine, Astarion. Just think of it as a tiny, glowing fan.”

  Astarion rolled his eyes but made no real effort to distance himself from the sprout as it gurgled happily near his heel. “More like a moldy duckling,” he muttered, though the faint flicker of amusement in his crimson eyes betrayed his reluctant fondness.

  “We’ll need to find that passage,” Gale said, straightening up. “It’s likely nearby. And who knows? The myconids may even know something useful. They’re a surprisingly insightful species—perhaps they’ve come across something related to the Sinclairs or even blood magic.”

  Astarion sighed. “Are we seriously taking a detour to babysit a walking mushroom?”

  “It shouldn’t take long. We’ll return him to the myconids, and be on our way.” Sena tilted her head toward the sprout, who let out another soft gurgle. “And just look at it,” she said, crouching slightly as it squeaked and tilted its spongy cap toward her. “How can you say no to that?”

  “Think of it as… fostering interspecies cooperation.” Gale interjected with a smile.

  Astarion huffed, clearly unconvinced, but then paused as something seemed to click in his mind. He straightened, his expression shifting to one of intrigue. “Hang on… the Underdark. Drow. Yes, of course.”

  Sena looked up. “What?”

  Astarion smirked slightly, though his tone was more thoughtful than usual. “The myconids are one thing, but the Underdark… it’s home to many unsavory characters, some of whom dabble in the kind of magic we’re investigating. Blood magic isn’t exactly unheard of among certain Drow circles. I may even know someone who could help.”

  Gale raised an eyebrow. “And you’re only mentioning this now?”

  “Well, excuse me for not immediately suggesting we descend into the most dangerous place imaginable,” Astarion said, huffing. “But if we’re already headed that way for this little fungus friend of ours…” He gestured to the sprout, who chirped happily at him. “We might as well make the most of the trip.”

  Sena exchanged a glance with Gale, her curiosity piqued. “You think they’d actually tell us anything?”

  “Depends on how persuasive we are,” Astarion replied, a confident smile spreading across his lips. “And how well you two follow my lead.”

  “If the myconids or the drow can help us understand more about this magic,” Gale said, nodding, “it’s a detour we can’t afford to ignore.”

  The sprout squeaked again, as if in agreement, its tiny glow casting faint shadows on the ground.

  “Well,” Sena said, adjusting her pack, “looks like we’re heading to the Underdark.”

  Astarion sighed as he glanced at the little myconid hugging his foot. “This is going to be delightful.”

  The trio began searching the area where the sprout had first appeared. Gale, with a touch of whimsy, quickly dubbed it “Mossfoot.” Sena, finding the name a bit too formal, shortened it to “Mossy,” which earned a smile from Gale and a dramatically exaggerated eye-roll from Astarion.

  “Wonderful. First names, then nicknames. Shall we draft it into the party next?” Astarion said, stepping carefully as the sprout continued to trail him closely, its tiny glow bobbing at his heels like an overly enthusiastic pet. “Fine, then. I’ll call you Moldy. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Moldy?” His tone was dripping with mock enthusiasm, but the little myconid gave a happy squeak, as if delighted by the attention.

  “Seems you’ve made a friend,” Sena teased, watching as the sprout circled Astarion’s boots.

  “Hardly,” he replied with a dramatic sigh. Astarion almost stumbled as he sidestepped to avoid it, throwing up his hands in frustration. “And it wants to die, clearly! This thing has a death wish!” he declared, exasperated, as the sprout waddled closer again, undeterred.

  Gale chuckled softly. “It’s alright to admit you’re warming up to Mossfoot—or Moldy, as you insist. Even a vampire needs a friend now and then.”

  “I have friends,” Astarion said indignantly, gesturing between Gale and Sena. “Though how I got saddled with you two is a mystery.”

  “Luck, obviously,” Sena said, her voice light as they moved deeper into the forest.

  The group spent some time searching for where the little myconid had come from, but Mossfoot proved to be little help. Sena crouched in front of it at one point, trying her best to coax it into showing them the way. “Can you take us back to where you came from? Where’s your home, Mossy?” she asked softly, gesturing around the woods.

  The sprout tilted its rounded cap, emitting a faint gurgling noise, and then proceeded to waddle in a small circle before once again fixing its glowing gaze on Astarion and following him closely.

  “Well, that was helpful,” Astarion said dryly, glaring down at the sprout. “I told you it’s useless.”

  “Clearly, it’s decided you’re its parent,” Gale quipped. “Who knew you’d make such a nurturing figure?”

  “Spare me.”

  As they searched, Sena’s sharp eyes caught a dark stain on the ground near the base of a large, gnarled tree. She knelt, brushing aside the dried leaves and dirt to reveal a patch of earth discolored by old, dried blood. The sight made her pause, her brow furrowing as she studied it. It was faint, like the blood they’d seen at the abandoned campsite.

  Her gaze shifted, following the blood trail to the tree itself. Among the thick roots, partially obscured by tangled vines, she noticed a small hole nestled in the earth. It was unassuming at first glance, but something about it wasn’t quite right. “Over here,” she called quietly, brushing more dirt away for a closer look.

  Gale and Astarion approached, their heightened senses quickly picking up what she had noticed. A faint, shimmering aura surrounded the roots of the tree, visible only to those attuned to magic. Gale’s brow furrowed as he knelt beside her, brushing his fingers over the bark. “There’s definitely magic here. A ward of some kind.”

  Astarion’s crimson eyes narrowed as he leaned closer. “An enchantment, perhaps. To keep the curious away.”

  Sena straightened, her fingers tracing over the rough bark until they found a raised knot in the wood. The texture felt different—almost alive. When she pressed her palm against it, the air shifted around them. The shimmer grew brighter, rippling outward like water, and with a low groan, the roots of the tree began to move.

  The small hole at the base expanded, the roots twisting and pulling back to form an opening large enough for a person to pass through. A faint purple glow emanated from within, casting eerie shadows across the forest floor. The group exchanged tense glances, the sound of their breathing mingling with the faint hum of magic that now filled the air.

  Gale peered into the opening, his staff casting a faint light to illuminate the inside. The passage seemed to descend straight down, seemingly bottomless—the glow intensifying the farther it went. “It’s a tunnel,” he said, his voice hushed. “Leading to the Underdark, I’d wager.”

  Sena stared into the depths. “Looks like we’ve found our way in.”

  Vines began to creep upward from the walls of the tunnel, forming natural handholds as if inviting them to descend. Mossfoot—or Moldy, depending on who you asked—gave another cheerful squeak, waddling toward the entrance and looking back at the trio expectantly.

  “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?” Astarion said with a dramatic flourish, motioning toward the descent.

  The trio exchanged one last glance before Sena led the way, gripping the vines and beginning the climb down. The purple glow intensified as they descended into the depths, Mossfoot jumping onto Astarion’s shoulder with a cheerful squeak as the roots closed behind them.