The late afternoon sun, a molten gold orb sinking towards the horizon, cast long, dancing shadows across our camp. I leaned against a moss-covered boulder, its surface cool and damp beneath my touch, a faint smile playing on my lips. The impromptu magic lesson had concluded, and the others were milling about, slowly returning to themselves. The air was thick with the heady scent of wildflowers and damp earth, a symphony of natural perfumes that only the Feywild could offer.

  It was moments like these, surrounded by the raw, untamed beauty of this realm, that I felt most at peace.

  One could even say that I was… happy.

  To witness the spark of understanding ignite in my new friends’ eyes, to touch their very minds, to guide them towards enhancing and realizing their potential… it gave me a deep sense of fulfillment unlike anything else I’ve done so far.

  My gaze swept over my new students.

  Alfira, her face flushed with exhilaration, was beaming, her eyes sparkling with both power and newfound wonder. Her growth, in particular, was a beautiful thing to behold. It was clear she had a rare talent for shaping energy, a talent that went far beyond the norm. I couldn’t tell if it was a quirk of her heritage—her apparent Mephistopheles tiefling lineage—or simply an exceptional natural gift. In the initial “skill download” I'd received, common teaching methodologies for every school of magic available in Skyrim were included -- giving me a solid idea of what was considered a "normal" rate of growth by the standards of Tamriel’s mage academy students…

  I could say, with confidence, that Alfira had surpassed that baseline by at two orders of magnitude. Alfira was truly something , and I was genuinely looking forward to seeing her progress — and (despite Karlach’s teasing) this was decisively because Alfira’s body tended to have… “interesting” reactions to magicka manipulation.

  And then there was Karlach. Her usual boisterous energy and the incredible happiness she felt at finally getting rid of the Infernal Engine were now tempered with a strange pensiveness. Her brow was furrowed, and her gaze kept flicking towards her hands, to where she could still feel the thrumming of Magicka beneath her skin. There was a new hunger in her eyes, a yearning that went beyond mere curiosity. I suspected that the raw, untamed power of Magicka resonated with something deep within her, something primal and untamed. While she wasn't anywhere close to Alfira's level of talent, she still had an uncannily powerful affinity for flame — hardly surprising, given her particular history. She would surely become a Destruction magic powerhouse in the future... provided, of course, that I was there to help her master the basics. The thought of Karlach incinerating her enemies using giant tornadoes of fire magic, wielding those destructive forces with the same unbridled enthusiasm she brought to everything else... made me smile.

  Gale, surprisingly, was the most subdued of the group. The normally loquacious mage was unusually quiet, his brow furrowed in concentration. He ran a hand through his meticulously styled hair, a flicker of frustration in his eyes. His initial attempts at manipulating Magicka had proven… adequate.

  Perhaps , even… by Tamriel’s standards.

  But, for someone of his prodigious talent, for someone used to being labeled a once-in-a-thousand-year genius, for a former Chosen of Mystra, it was clear that he expected… of himself. Gale was, after all, a master of the Weave and a former Archmage in his own right. The thought of this new form of magic, so intuitive and visceral for both Alfira and Karlach, eluding the likes of … must have been vexing to say the least.

  I made a mental note to offer him some additional guidance later; Gale’s pride was clearly wounded, but his potential was undeniable. I’m sure he would get the process eventually... and besides, it was very possible that a certain cursed orb was somehow interfering with his Magicka manipulation abilities. I made a mental note to think of some solutions to that particular problem; after all, we wouldn’t want the poor man blowing up on us.

  Shadowheart and Astarion had both politely declined my offers to teach them.

  Shadowheart, with a carefully neutral expression, had cited her devotion to Shar, stating that her faith provided her with all the magic she needed. But, I sensed a deeper unease there, a wariness of delving into a power that lay outside the purview of her goddess. Currently, Shar was the only thing that gave Shadowheart’s life and it was also the only thing she knew.

  Back in my “Ordinary Earthling” days -- which already felt so very distant -- I remembered reading a short story by Albert Camus called "The Guest." It's about a man who is forced to decide the fate of an Arab prisoner: either escorting him to a distant prison, thus delivering him to certain death, or giving him a chance to flee and join a nomad tribe out in the desert. The choice is left in the prisoner’s hands. The prisoner, terrified of the unknown, ultimately chooses to go to the prison – where he would almost certainly be executed.

  That story's point, as I understood it, was that most people — especially when isolated and left without well-meaning social support — will tend to choose what they over the , even when that

  is their best chance for improving their situation… and, even when staying with what they

  is likely to .

  Shar's church took advantage of that particular psychological vulnerability to the extreme: by systematically manipulating the memories of her worshipers, Shar ensures that she was the thing they “know,” the sole anchor in their lives, and the only source of meaning and identity… accordingly, those firmly within Shar’s grasp would almost never be able to leave their circumstances of their own accord.

  It is an absolutely brilliant, if disgusting and diabolical, strategy.

  Astarion had simply stated that he had no aptitude or interest in my magic, though his pale face and the way his gaze flickered over me betrayed a more complex reaction. I suspected that his “disinterest” stemmed from a deep-seated fear of losing what little control he still had over himself, of becoming even more vulnerable than he already was. Our current situation probably wasn’t helping — and I wasn’t sure how I could possibly reassure him.

  My thoughts drifted to the future, to the world beyond this immediate crisis. Magicka was the birthright of every living being, a limitless source of power that was not dependent upon the whims of the divine. The possibilities… were endless.

  Once this business with the Elder Brain was concluded, once the world was safe (or as safe as I could make it), I resolved to establish a place of learning. A sect, a school, an academy… a sanctuary where anyone, regardless of their background or beliefs, could come to learn the ways of Magicka. I — and, eventually, my students — would teach the newcomers to tap into the power within, to shape their destinies with their own two hands. I imagined a place filled with eager students, their faces alight with the same wonder I had seen in Alfira's eyes today. A place where the ancient secrets of the universe were not hoarded by a select few, but shared freely with all who sought them.

  It was an ambitious dream, perhaps, but one that felt… right.

  “Yes,” I thought to myself, “once we get Gale healed and up to speed, I’m sure he would be to help me build something lasting. And, if my knowledge of magic were combined with the knowledge of modern science… well… those Netherese floating towers Gale admired so much will seem quaint in comparison to what we could build together.”

  My daydreams about impenetrable Underdark Strongholds, Inter-dimensional Outposts, and Orbital Habitats were interrupted by a soft voice.

  "Harald?"

  I turned to see Sylvie standing a few feet away, her brow furrowed with a delicate sadness. The fading light of the Feywild sunset painted her features in soft hues, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheekbone and the slight tremble of her lips. Her usual vibrant energy was subdued, replaced by a vulnerability that tugged at my heart. At six foot one, she was unusually tall for most Fae, but now, slumping as she was, she seemed far smaller and more fragile in her apparent depression.

  "Sylvie," I said gently, stepping towards her. "What is it, sweetheart?"

  She took a hesitant step closer, her gaze fixed on the ground.

  "I… I heard that the winning contestants would be leaving soon," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rustling of the leaves.

  I nodded, my heart aching at the sight of her distress.

  "It's… complicated," I said, choosing my words carefully. "There are things I need to do, responsibilities I can't ignore."

  Her tear-filled eyes flickered up to meet mine; they were filled with a mixture of sadness and… a hint of desperation.

  "But… but what about me?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "I… don't really fit in here anymore. Not like before. The other Fae… they look at me differently. They either ignore me, are envious, or… even of me! They… they don’t understand!"

  I reached out, taking her hand in mine. Her skin was smooth and soft, like silk crossed with pure moonlight.

  "Sylvie," I said, my voice firm but gentle, “you're not alone. And you’ll always have a place with me, for as long as you want it.”

  Her eyes widened, and a single tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down her cheek. “Really?” she whispered, her voice filled with a fragile hope.

  “Really, really,” I confirmed, squeezing her hand reassuringly.

  “You’re more than welcome to come with me, Sylvie. Wherever I go, you can travel with me. I won’t abandon you. I promise.”

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  A radiant smile bloomed on her face, chasing away the shadows of sadness. She threw her arms around me, hugging me tightly, her body trembling with relief.

  "Oh, Harald," she murmured, her voice muffled against my shoulder. "Thank you! Thank you so much!"

  I held her close, stroking her silver hair, feeling a surge of protectiveness wash over me. She seemed so small, so vulnerable, and yet so fiercely loyal. I felt a little bad for subjecting her to that sweetroll experiment earlier, and, now that she evolved away from her pixie state, I couldn't imagine leaving her behind.

  As she pulled away, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling, she suddenly seemed to remember something.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “I almost forgot! The main event of the Revel! You and Alfira are scheduled to go last, you know. They said it was to build suspense, but, I think they just wanted to give everyone else a chance to… well, not embarrass themselves. For some reason, everyone is convinced that you will either be absolutely

  or else play something . They are even making bets on it!”

  She paused. "And they expect you to play twice -- once for yourself and once for Shadowheart, since she got disqualified and all. Lord Hyrsam said it was only fair."

  I chuckled, amused by her bluntness. "That won't be a problem at all. And what of the other performances?" I asked.

  Sylvie wrinkled her nose. "Honestly? They were… underwhelming. Most of it is just the same old kinds of songs, just done a bit differently. There are lots of flowery words and dramatic gestures, but… not much substance. Compared to what I heard from you earlier?”

  She looked deeply into my eyes.

  “You'll win, Harald. Easily. Your music… I’ve never heard

  like it before. It's like…” she paused to find the right words “like starlight given voice!”

  Her praise warmed me, but I knew better than to let it inflate my ego. The Fae were notoriously dramatic, and their opinions were often as fickle as the wind.

  "And what of Alfira?" I asked, curious. "You’ve heard her practice too, right? What did you think of her music?"

  Sylvie's expression softened.

  "Oh, Alfira is wonderful too! That 'Tale of the Tongues' of hers… it was so moving! I think she'll win the patronage of at least one of the Judges — Lady Lliira is sure to love that story!"

  I smiled, pleased for Alfira. After all, unlike my cheating Dragonborn ass, she was a artist, who deserved all the accolades she received.

  The sun had begun to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of violet and gold, when we finally made our way towards the Revel. The air crackled with anticipation, the music and laughter of the Fae a distant, alluring siren's call.

  The other contestants were waiting for us at the edge of the staging area clearing, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of the lanterns that hung from the ancient trees. As we saw them in the distance, I noticed Astarion detach himself from the core of our group, his pale face unusually serious. He gestured for me to hang back, his gaze darting nervously towards the others, as if he was afraid of being overheard.

  I exchanged a questioning look with Sylvie, who simply shrugged, her expression curious. With a silent nod, I allowed the others to continue on, while I followed Astarion to a secluded spot beneath the gnarled branches of an ancient oak.

  He stood with his back to me for a moment, his shoulders hunched, his posture radiating a palpable tension. When he finally turned to face me, his eyes were filled with a complex mixture of gratitude, suspicion, and a raw, naked fear that made my heart ache.

  "I wanted to say thank you," he said, his voice low and hoarse, "for being discreet about my… special condition. I’m not used to such consideration."

  I inclined my head, acknowledging his gratitude.

  "You're welcome, Astarion. It was the least I could do."

  He hesitated, his gaze searching mine.

  "But… why?" he asked, the question hanging in the air between us, heavy with unspoken doubts. "Why are you helping us? Helping ? The food, the shelter, the… gifted magic items? The magic …? It doesn't make any sense. of this makes any sense. We're strangers to you!"

  His words were like a knife twisting in my gut. I knew, intellectually, that his distrust was a survival mechanism, a defense against a world that had taught him to expect nothing but cruelty and betrayal. But hearing him articulate his suspicions so bluntly… it still stung.

  I took a deep breath, choosing my words carefully.

  "We're all in this together, Astarion," I said, my voice firm but gentle. "We’ve all been through the Mind Flayer abduction, after all. We are all trying to overcome the challenges we’ve found ourselves in… And I'm helping you because… well, because it's the right thing to do! Because you deserve to be helped. Because everyone deserves a chance."

  He scoffed at me, a harsh, bitter sound that sent a shiver down my spine. "The ''?" he repeated, his voice dripping with a cynicism so profound it seemed to poison the very air around us.

  He took a step closer, his pale, red eyes glittering with suspicion and , his gaze boring into mine like twin daggers. "Is that all it is? Do you expect me to believe that? A being of your… power… just so to stumble upon a group of poor lost souls and decides to play the benevolent savior out of the goodness of his heart? Come . Spare me the platitudes. There has to be more to it than that...”

  “….”

  His hissing voice, though barely a whisper, cracked with a raw intensity that sent another shiver down my spine.

  He stalked around me, his movements fluid and predatory, like a cornered animal. The fading light of the Feywild seemed to dim, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with his every step. The air crackled with a palpable tension, thick with unspoken accusations and a desperate, gnawing fear.

  "Don’t play coy with me," he continued, his voice like the rasp of dry leaves. "I've survived for centuries by being perceptive. By seeing the angles. And you, my enigmatic benefactor, have . You reek of them."

  He stopped directly in front of me, so close I could feel the faint chill radiating from his skin. "You speak like a Saint, but we both know there are no Saints present here."

  He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a bare murmur. "Gale told me everything, you know. The tadpoles," he said, the word hanging in the air between us, heavy with unspoken dread. "They should have begun turning us by now. We should be well on our way to becoming mind flayers. But I have yet to begin growing tentacles. It must be because of . What did you do? "

  His eyes widened maniacally, and, for a fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of genuine terror in their depths — he was afraid of me, I realized — afraid of what I may have done or planned to do.

  Afraid of what he had allowed himself to voice aloud.

  Afraid of the consequences of that speech.

  Yet, still, despite himself, Astarion pressed on.

  "Are we just puppets in your play?" he whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "Your new ? Fodder for some twisted experiment? Your tools? Your weapons? What is it you want from us? "

  The directness of his accusations took me aback. I had known, on some level, that Astarion was suspicious, that he would be wary of my motives. But I hadn't expected him to voice his concerns so openly. The sheer intensity of his distrust was like a physical blow, leaving me momentarily speechless.

  I realized, with a jolt of unpleasant surprise, that, from Astarion’s perspective, his fears were perfectly justified – reasonable, even. He had no benefits of hindsight, nor the knowledge of the BG3’s plot. I had openly demonstrated far too much power for it to be casually ignored. I had intervened in everyone’s lives in ways that were both obvious and dramatic. And the tadpoles… the fact that they transformed anyone yet was indeed a significant detail. From his perspective, it was a natural logical leap to assume that was somehow responsible for that protection; that I was manipulating everyone for my own inscrutable purposes. I could practically read his thoughts now:

  Yes, Astarion was justifiably terrified. I could see it in the way his hands trembled, in the way his eyes darted around, searching for an escape route that wasn't there. He was afraid of me. Afraid of my power. Afraid of what I might do to him, now that he had all but accused me of being the Devil himself. And yet, despite his fear, he stood his ground, his gaze locked on mine, demanding answers. It was… an interesting contrast — and one I had no idea how to resolve at the moment.

  "Astarion," I said, my voice low and steady, trying to convey the sincerity of my words. "I swear to you, I have no intention of harming you or anyone else. I'm going to enslave you. I'm playing any games. My purpose is to help you. All of you. That is the truth."

  He searched my face, his expression one of pure disbelief with, perhaps, just a hint of desperate hope.

  I continued before I could lose my nerve.

  “Indeed, I would be lying if I said that I didn’t know more about what's happening -- and I tell everyone in the group of my thoughts on the matter, in due time. However, for right now, know this: there are no attached to any of my help. You, or anyone else for that matter, will be quite free to leave my company after we exit this Revel – though, I wouldn't recommend particular option in your case, Astarion."

  Here, I paused, letting my words sink in. I needed him to understand the gravity of his situation, to see that my offer, while perhaps unsettling, was the best – and only – viable path forward.

  "Let's put your cards on the table, shall we?" I continued, my voice firm and unwavering. "Face it. You don't have any good options available to you, Astarion. That tadpole in your head? It risks turning you into a Mind Flayer – a dreadful fate indeed, and one that is

  likely for you should you choose to leave the group. On the other hand,

  I find a way to safely remove those things – something I fully plan on figuring out sooner rather than later – outright removal may not be desirable for you either, due to the risk of falling back under the thrall of your old Master immediately afterwards. I trust is not an appealing prospect either?"

  Astarion's face contorted in a mask of disgust and revulsion at the thought. His eyes darted around, as if he was physically recoiling from the very idea of being under his former master's complete control once more.

  I pressed the point further.

  "I want to help you, Astarion. I help you -- if you let me. But, to do that, you need to learn to show some trust. Take a leap of faith. I know it's not something you're… likely inclined to do. But, understand – this is the best I can offer you right now."

  Astarion's reaction was a complex mix of emotions. He visibly hesitated, his gaze flickering between me and the ground, his internal struggle evident. Finally, he spoke, his voice a reluctant, raspy murmur. "A leap of faith, you say? Faith in ? He gave a bitter chuckle.

  “I haven’t had the best of experiences with , Harald. All the gods in existence… I had prayed to every single one I knew of. Every. Single. One. In my own way, of course. I couldn’t go to any temples, you see — those of the undead persuasion are not exactly in such places…”

  “…But, I was nothing if not . I would whisper my pleas in the dead of night, offering the gods whatever scraps of devotion a broken slave could muster. I had begged them for help, for the release of my chains, for the release of , even… I had spent decades pleading for someone, , to notice my suffering."

  He paused, his voice cracking with a raw, visceral pain that spoke volumes about the horrors he had endured. When he continued, his words were laced with a venomous fury that made my skin crawl.

  "And where were they, I ask you? Where were the shining beacons of and divine mercy when I was being flayed alive for sport? Where were their when I was locked and chained in a coffin, buried in the cold, suffocating earth, unable to see, unable to move… for

  on end? Their silence… the silence…

  …it was deafening."

  His voice dropped to a chilling whisper, the words hanging in the air like a curse.

  "So don't talk to me about , Harald. Don't you preach to me about trust in things unseen. I tried trusting in the gods once. All it got me was centuries of agony, torment, and the gnawing certainty that I was utterly, irrevocably in this world.”

  “…But…” He paused, his gaze searching mine with a newfound intensity.

  "But I also understand that I don't have a choice right now. Not if I want to survive…”

  “...And, for what it's worth," he added, his voice softening slightly, "I’ll admit that you've done more for me in these past two days than any of those so-called gods have in two years. So, I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt…

  …For now."