The door of what had to be Vordakai's throne room slammed shut behind Guelder and her companions. They were ready for everything, weapons sharpened, armour straightened (Valerie wearing Tiger Lord leathers looted from a corpse back in the Sepulchre), spells prepared, buffs applied. Still, what they saw in the wide, circular chamber took them by surprise.

  Instead of a tall, bony figure dressed in ancient robes and jewels, commanding an army of undead, they saw a single man lounging on the oversized throne, wearing his signature black outfit with an ancient-looking cloak trailing after him, his hair collected into a topknot. Baron Maegar Varn, Lord of Varnhold and Dunsward (and the Tors of Levenies, for some reason never listed in his titles). Unfazed by the noise of the heavy door, he looked up in awe at the cyclops-sized walls towering oppressively above him, then down at a dagger lying on his lap, then straight ahead, at the newcomers. Their presence didn't seem to register with him, perhaps because he apparently had trouble forcing his two eyes to cooperate with each other.

  Guelder repressed the urge to run to him, or even to call out. The team halted in the doorway, watching, trying to make sense of the scene.

  Frowning, the baron looked at his hands, turning them this way and that, showing up one finger, then two, then one again. Confused, he shook his head. It was then that Guelder spotted the thick jade bracelet he was wearing around his wrist. Was that the piece of jewelry he'd wanted her to show the Storyteller?

  Unhappy with the results of his self-examination, the baron snatched the dagger up from his lap, fitted its point to the inner corner of his left eye, and with a determined thrust, he drove it in. Guelder stifled a gasp, her claws sinking into her arms in anguish. Somewhere behind her, Linzi was retching into a handkerchief. Pangur let out a low, rumbling growl at the smell of blood.

  The dislodged eyeball fell into the palm of the baron's hand, and he playfully tossed it up in the air. The raven, perching upon the backrest of the throne, motionless like some decorative element, took flight and caught the treat mid-air, then settled down again and threw its head back to swallow. The baron waved his hand at the bird and sent it rummaging in a pile of bones and moth-eaten fabric lying about on the flagstones. It fished out a glowing red orb, barely fitting into its beak, carried it to the baron and dropped it onto his lap. Guelder watched in silent horror as her friend and ally started to push, thrust, squeeze the mysterious object into the bloody hole gaping in his face. Finally, done with his preparations, he rose to greet his guests, his left cheek drenched in blood trickling down into his beard from around the orb seamlessly fitted into place. Guelder steeled herself and walked forward to meet him.

  "You came," he said, awkwardly, as though just learning to speak.

  "Of course I came," said Guelder softly. A bowstring creaked behind her. She raised a hand to stop Hazel, hoping they would obey, just this once, until she pieced together what was going on here. "I was told you were in trouble, and I fought my way through hordes of undead to find you."

  She closed the distance between them, taking in her surroundings: the ancient throne standing on a dais, the raven idling on top of its backrest, the glass vial placed on its armrest, with some strange, nervous fog swirling inside, the decaying heap of larger-than-human bones and threadbare textile, oozing the smell of crypts.

  They stood face to face now, as close as possible. Guelder's own distraught eyes stared back at her from the orb's polished surface. Then other images came, some of them plausible and realistic, others weird and outlandish. Three underfed vagrants huddled together under a blanket. Tiger Lords roaming the Dunsward countryside. The Nightvale garrison keeping watch in Varnhold Town. Darlac and Tristian getting into a heated exchange somewhere in the corridors the team had passed through earlier. What was that orb? What was it showing to her? Real, ongoing events? The future? Things that could have happened? Her own fears and worries, hopes and dreams? More importantly, what was it doing to Maegar? And why was Vordakai not showing himself?

  Something was very, very wrong. Still, Guelder pretended it wasn't.

  She pulled Maegar into an embrace. There was no warmth flowing between them, no interplay of emotions, no harmony, no tension, nothing but a disconcerting aura of all-consuming evil emanating from the artifact. So the ultimate test followed. Guelder's fingertips flared up with healing energy, which she channelled into the man's body.

  She faintly felt him cringe in her arms, which supported her horrifying suspicion – as did the sharp pain jolting through her body from two spots in her back before he pushed her away. Of course. What else did I expect? She recalled the pair of cold iron daggers Maegar had showed Darlac in the Womb of Lamashtu, in an attempt to anchor her mind back to reality. They had some silly names... it was right on the tip of her tongue...

  Funny what a person's brain could dig up to distract itself from dying.

  Except she wasn't dying. All those powerful and expensive spells of protection she and Harrim had extended to all members of the team were doing their job. The two daggers in her back were but a passing inconvenience that stoked her seething fury into flames.

  "You bastard!" she exploded. "You took his body!"

  Running on pure anger, she channelled the next dose of healing energy into herself, sealing the wounds and stopping the bleeding. What she needed now was a Wild Shape large enough to not be bothered by the blades embedded in her body, impressive enough to counter fear with fear, deadly enough to bring her burning wrath to fruition. Something better than a bear. It was there in her, carved into her flesh by beaks and claws, experienced to the fullest extent possible. It was just that she'd never been sufficiently furious to call it forth – until now.

  "Take out the bird!" she shouted with the last flicker of her elven consciousness. Her next shout was something between a screech and a roar, and her furry, feathery bulk prepared for a destructive pounce.

  The rest was something of a blur, a struggle between frenzy and self-control, to beat the usurper out of the body without harming it irreversibly. And it was a challenge indeed. Guelder was just as unfamiliar with the new shape as Vordakai was with a human body, but alas, he was quite a quick learner for his age. He found a moment to cast Enlarge Person on himself, which allowed him to return to his old proportions, and from that moment, he could rely on his new body's muscle memory for dodges and evasions. Worse, whenever an attack connected, he had a way of responding with a touch that sapped her stamina and resolve, even through the warding spells she wore. Still, her fury kept her going relentlessly. At some point, an unknown benefactor (that had to be Hazel) ventured close and got her rid of the daggers, and the positive energy rippling out of Harrim closed the wounds again. It also helped keep her foe's body alive, while chipping away at the soul inside it. The raven was already down, its crop pierced by a handful of arrows. Guelder could win this fight.

  But did she want to?

  What was she even doing, attacking the man she'd gone through so much to see again? The only person who mattered, whose name filled her entire consciousness, pulsing through her veins, throbbing in her head? Maegar. Maegar. Maegar. She'd come here to be by his side. To protect him. To serve him. To give her entire being over to him. To be his faithful pet owlbear, or leopard, or elf, or whatever he wanted her to be. Was this love? Or just the normal way of things?

  With a backhanded paw slap, she swept Harrim out of the way and turned on the others, realising with regret that she'd been fighting the wrong enemy all along.

  A bucketful of invisible water splashed on her, cold and sobering, taking away all her buffs and wards, even her Wild Shape. She wasn't an owlbear anymore, just an elf shivering in her own smooth skin, staring at Linzi's outstretched hand. But Guelder's loyalty could not be dispelled so easily. She knew exactly who she was fighting for. Maybe a spear thrust to the heart would teach that chit of a girl to respect her betters.

  The massive doors were shaking and creaking, as if a thousand decaying hands were scratching at it with broken nails. Reinforcements were coming.

  And then a portal bloomed in the air, and Tristian stepped out of it, his gait unusually firm and confident. The fight subsided for a moment, and every functional eye in the room turned towards him. Even Maegar's name pounding through Guelder's whole existence fell quiet. She took a deep, relieved breath from the malodorous air and shook herself, as if waking from a nightmare. Had she just been shamefully, humiliatingly Vordakai'd? How in the brambles had Darlac managed to resist that, and how come she couldn't do the same?

  By the time Guelder regained her focus, Tristian was chanting some sacred litany in a language she didn't understand, boring his gaze into the baron's eyes, natural and artificial alike. His words brought his foe to his knees, and an invisible force ripped the artifact out of its seat in another shower of blood. Tristian snatched it up and held it gingerly between his fingers, as though it were burning his hand.

  "Thorns and bloody brambles, Tristian," muttered Guelder in awe. "I should have believed you. Please forgive me." Then a sudden alarm squeezed her stomach. "Just... put that down, will you?"

  Tristian stared at the artifact with a wistful face.

  "My last chance," he mused. "This piece of otherworldly evil is my last chance for salvation. And indeed, it is. She has no idea how right she was about it... I was so blind. A servant of Sarenrae, so clueless about where his salvation lies and where it doesn't... Isn't it ironic? Do I not deserve every drop of what is to come?"

  "Tristian, what in the nine hells are you talking about? Put that artifact down. Now. It is messing with your mind."

  Tristian turned his hand upside down. The orb remained stuck to his palm, defying the law of gravity.

  "I can't. I'm not allowed to let go of it, or to hand it over to anyone but her. But... I think I can still destroy it."

  "Then do!" shouted Guelder. "Do it before the lich recovers!"

  "So be it. I'm glad we agree on this point, after all. Even if I must pay a terrible price."

  Guelder clenched her fists, frustrated.

  "Tristian, for crying out loud, could you please be a little less cryptic? I want to help!Why are you making it hard? Are we not on the same side?"

  The cleric shook his head. The move was barely visible even for the keenest elven eyes, but it was there. He started to whisper a prayer to Sarenrae, covering his eyes with one hand, clutching the artifact in the other. There was a flash of blinding light, a scream of pain, and the red orb exploded into countless little shards, scattering on the flagstones.

  "It is done," announced Tristian, panting heavily after his ordeal. "Would you believe it? I did my fucking duty, after all. Now it's time to face the consequences."

  "Tristian, are you –"

  "Take care."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  He turned and walked into the portal with wobbling steps, holding out a hand to feel where he was going, and pressing his other hand on his eyes. The shimmering hole snapped close after him, leaving behind an utterly befuddled baroness.

  She'd never heard Tristian swear before.

  "What have you done?" growled Vordakai, still on his knees, bent over, staring at Guelder through a single eye, as he was meant to. "Such power, such opportunities... all wasted. Why?"

  "The world is better off without that thing," said Guelder. "As it is without you. What did you do to the souls of the people of Varnhold?"

  Her foe let out a chuckle of contempt.

  "Why do you care? You can have their land all to yourself."

  "I do not want their land," snapped the baroness. "I want their souls. Where are they?"

  The baron's face twisted into an ugly smirk Guelder had never seen on its living version. He thought he had her.

  "Well, let's see... Some of them I consumed for knowledge. Some I tossed to the soul eaters for sustenance. Some I befriended. Taught them tricks. Made them beg. As to the rest... Pledge yourself to my service, and I'll tell you."

  "Pfft. Too late to bargain, Vordakai. Without your artifact, you are nothing but a useless relic of the past. I shall send you where you belong. First your body, then your soul. Harrim, if you please?"

  The dwarf walked up to the pile of bones and fabric, his boots flaring alive with dark, destructive energy. It only took one determined stomp to turn it all into acrid-smelling dust.

  At a gesture from Guelder, Hazel opened the Bag of Holding and gently removed Amiri's body from it, trusting that Vordakai was too low on power to try and reanimate her. Alongside the corpse, a wisp of dark smoke slipped out and looked around uncertainly.

  "Your summoner moved into another body to avoid the reckoning," said the baroness with a smirk of her own. "I trust your predator's instincts are sharp enough to sniff him out regardless. Suit yourself."

  The baron's face turned pale under the crust of drying blood.

  "Urku gubbamesh," he muttered in horrified astonishment. For a moment, only Linzi's scribbling was heard, as she jotted down the first and last Ancient Cyclopean obscenity she would ever have a chance to learn. Then the fiend started its swirling dance to build up the dome for its one-on-one revenge.

  The team waited with bated breath, weapons at the ready, in case the summoner would prevail over the summoned. But once the dome was down, the baron's body lay lifeless on the floor, and the fiend looked badly battered but definitely well-fed – if not completely content. It turned towards Guelder, wiggling its index finger in a warning gesture. Her heart went out to the unknown soul it had picked up that gesture from.

  "You shall not cheat me of my due," it hissed.

  Guelder heaved a weary sigh. And here I was thinking it was finally over.

  "I would never do such a thing," she said. "You got Vordakai's soul, as per our agreement. A ripe, juicy, nutritious soul, I reckon. What else do I owe you?"

  "I need to eat the entire thing. You said it yourself."

  That had Guelder thinking. They'd killed the raven and destroyed the artifact. Apparently, neither of those had been the phylactery. What was it, then? Did she have to trace back her steps and scry the entire dungeon with Detect Magic to find it?

  Or, just this once, should she rely on someone else's sense of smell?

  "Find it."

  The soul eater made a beeline to the shimmering vial on the throne's armrest and circled it a few times.

  "Here. Mine."

  "Stop wriggling until I check it out, will you?" said the baroness. "You will get your due. Not more, not less. Exactly what we agreed upon. This I swear."

  Guelder examined the vial from close up. The thing she'd thought was some kind of vapour was alive. It had the warmth and emotion missing from that embrace, reminding her of a night in Varnhold Keep, not long ago and still so far away. It responded to her closeness.

  And it was in distress.

  A dark substance was leaking from the glass of the vial, seeping inside, mixing into the golden shimmer. The wisp resisted, fought back as it could, but it had no way out, nowhere to hide or flee, and also nowhere to push the dark mist out. The baroness shuddered as the realisation hit her. This vial was the arcane version of an egg, with a quickly developing, unholy embryo inside, curled up around the yolk, ready to devour it to fuel his growth. Except the "yolk" was a tormented human soul fighting for its existence.

  Frantic, Guelder looked at the soul eater.

  "Open the vial," she said. "Quickly. The golden part is mine, the dark is yours. If you confuse them, I will flay you alive, regardless if you have skin or not."

  The spindly fingers fiddled with the stopper, all in vain, then smashed the vial against the ground in frustration. It bounced a few times, unharmed, and halted at Guelder's feet. The dark leak intensified.

  Guelder snatched it up and threw it to Pangur. He could sever the vertebrae of a cyclops with the strength of his bite. Surely he could deal with a vial? She would heal his glass cuts or broken teeth afterwards.

  Pangur chomped on the vial a few times, then spat it out with a meow of apology.

  The dark substance filled the outer part of the vial entirely, pressing the wisp inward. There was no telling how long it would take for it to prevail, but things did not look good.

  Guelder's panicked eyes met Harrim's resigned gaze and immediately brightened up. However weird it felt to look to a preacher of doom for hope and salvation, that was not the strangest thing that happened today. There was still a chance.

  "I thought you'd never ask me, Your Grace," grumbled the dwarf. He walked to the vial rolling in a circle on the floor, as if pushed around by the forces fighting inside, and gave it a good stomp, twisting the sole of his boot on the shards for good measure.

  While the fiend threw itself after the dark wisp trying to escape its grasp, Guelder knelt down beside the shattered glass and scooped up the small piece of light into her hands. She felt emotions on her skin. Relief. Gratitude. Fear. Exhaustion.

  Long ago, she'd held a little leopard cub by the scruff of his neck between her jaws, hellbent on keeping him alive against all odds. That cub was now nuzzling her shoulder. Perhaps she didn't have to let go of this soul, either.

  "You are free," she whispered. "If you hear Pharasma's call, the path is clear. But if you do not, see if your body welcomes you back."

  For a moment, the wisp dawdled on her open palm, getting its bearings, then it homed in on the body waiting for its rightful owner. Guelder laid her hand on the corpse's heart and pushed a little surge of healing energy into it, just enough to make the soul's return a little easier. In a flash, the wisp exploited its chance and took a dive.

  Guelder had to be quick to retreat. The body, repossessed by its original owner, got to its feet and bellowed in its own voice:

  "Take that, you fucking ancient asshole!"

  He ripped the bracelet off his wrist and smashed it against the ground. It shattered to pieces, mingling with the shards of the artifact.

  Yes, this time it was him, without any doubt. Guelder embraced him, not bothered in the least by the fact that he was too confused to return it. The warmth was unmistakably there.

  "Welcome back, Your Grace," she whispered, fighting back her tears. Alas, she couldn't allow herself more time to indulge in the joy of reunion. If Maegar's soul could simply re-enter his body, perhaps there was hope for his people, too.

  There was still one corridor left unexplored, opening from the other side of the chamber.

  "Now sit down and stay put before you collapse," she said. "Familiarise yourself with your body. It has seen better days, but it works, and it is yours alone. Harrim will heal you up a bit. I have to go now. There is one final task I must take care of."

  Catching a last glimpse of the satisfied soul eater winking out of existence on the mortal plane, Guelder took off running along the last corridor, with Pangur in tow. Without even bothering to stop, she focused on the Wild Shape most suited to the task ahead. By the time she reached the ancient door, left ajar just a bit, she was a cat.

  Stay here, big buddy, and cover me, just in case.

  Her head could fit through the gap without issue, and the rest of her body could easily follow. What she saw inside was a wonderful playground. Tables and shelves, their height presenting a nice obstacle course for her nimble little body, chock-full of intriguing glass vials, with the already familiar, shimmering soul material swirling inside, some of them stoppered, others furnished with a tap.

  Guelder prepared for the pounce, wiggling her backside to achieve just the right trajectory, and sprang up to the table. There was barely enough place for her paws, but balancing on edges and ledges was part of the fun. She gave a dainty poke to the outermost vial, making it shift a little closer to its demise. One more playful, tentative little push with her cushioned paw, then a last one. The vial plunged from the table and shattered on the ground with a satisfying crash. Its inhabitant lingered above the shards for a moment, then sped away through the crack of the door in search of its body.

  Good. No need for Harrim's help this time.

  Guelder gave herself over to one of the top five pleasures of cat life, pushing glassware over the edge and watching the souls of Varnhold reclaim their freedom, one by one. She made a mental note to drop the shapeshift immediately after freeing the last soul, though. The last thing she needed was glass shards in her paws.