Chapter Text
ℜ𝔬𝔩𝔞𝔫
Rolan’s feet ached. His thighs burned, hips screamed in protest and all manner of other niggles had kept him awake through the night. But the arduous journey had been worth it, when finally he saw the peaks of Baldur's Gate crest the horizon. Cal had kept their feet moving and minds distracted with stories he'd heard in inns along the way—talk of the city and its strange new leader. Rumours of dissent amongst the excitement of a coronation.
Rolan had generally been too deep in his cups at every inn they passed to contribute much to these conversations. The wine helped him relax, and chase away the gnawing fear that what awaited them in Baldur's Gate was yet more hardship.
They had made it this far, at least. Lorroakan and his fabled Ramazith’s Tower were but a half a day's walk from the winding dirt road they currently trudged. Rolan's sour mood brightened a fraction, as it often did whenever his thoughts lingered upon the wizard. Any tardiness on Rolan's account would certainly be forgiven when the man heard of his travels, the challenges he had faced. Rolan would spin tales of his own heroism—a daring battle with goblins that met their fates at the end of his thunderwave, perhaps—and Lorroakan would find no reason to turn away such a practiced and talented young wizard.
Lia’s mocking voice interrupted his reverie. “You're smiling. Are you thinking about Lorroakan again?”
“Shush, you.”
“Not too much longer, Ro,” Cal said from up ahead.
“I want to make it to the city before nightfall, I can't stand another night on the road,” Rolan grumbled.
“Better hurry up, then,” Lia replied.
Rolan adjusted the heavy pack on his back and nodded, straightening as much as his aching back would allow before striding ahead. He'd enter the city with his head held high, aglow with purpose.
Five more hours of that pace only dulled his enthusiasm slightly. It was the crowds clamouring at the entrance that extinguished the rest.
Swathes of refugees camped in the nearby village of Rivington, as well as upon and around the mouth of Wyrm’s Crossing. Considering the vast numbers, it was surprisingly orderly, in no small part due to the increased presence of Flaming Fist guards.
“They must have been here for some time,” Rolan observed.
Cal and Lia only nodded, concern etched on their faces as they took in the campers.
They were a varied bunch; humans, elves, tieflings. Some carried heavy packs like Rolan, others only had the clothes on their backs. Many clutched children close to their breast, and Rolan's heart faltered at the despair that seemed to hang like an oppressive blanket about their persons.
The siblings walked past strangers and greeted familiar faces. Some Rolan recognised from Elturel, some from their travels. All were noticeably thinner than their last encounters, and spirits just as diminished.
“We could stay here for the night,” Cal suggested. “They're giving out food.”
“No. No, we should get into the city,” Rolan mumbled, his eyes already on the checkpoint’s towering wooden ramparts up ahead. “Can't you feel the trouble brewing?”
Rolan had noticed it the moment he stepped foot in the village, when he'd drawn openly hostile looks from the locals.
“What about what we want, Rolan?” Lia said.
“Don't, Lia,” Cal sighed. “He’s right. It's probably safer in the city.”
Lia whirled on her brother, days of rough sleep only flaring her anger. “What about all these people?”
“Not this again,” Rolan hissed. “I nearly lost you once, I'll not sit around waiting for more danger to befall us. Lorroakan can protect us, Lia.”
“Fucking Lorroakan.”
Lia did not complain any further, however. It appeared even her altruism had eroded after the harrowing stay in Moonrise Towers. There was a point, Rolan thought, where one must be selfish, to save those one loved.
“Come on,” Rolan said with gentle encouragement, “we're not far now.”
They wound their way through crowds of city officials arguing with guards, refugees arguing with residents, and finally came upon the checkpoint to Wyrm’s Crossing.
Manned by guards bedecked in finery that seemed only to taunt the bedraggled refugees, and towering above them all, a monstrous metal construct. It wore the same gilded armour, a delicately designed filigree pattern winding its way around the plates as if painted by the finest artisans. If it weren't brandishing a huge mace, Rolan might've thought it a piece of art. What a waste of resources, he thought, when there was such need just beyond the city's tightly controlled gates.
“What are they?” Cal whispered.
It was neither Lia nor Rolan who answered, not that they could have anyway, but a wrinkled human bearing some resemblance to an oversized walnut. Her skin might've shown her age, but the certainty with which she barked her answer spoke of a sharp mind.
“Steel Watch. They obey that one calling himself Lord—Gortash. He's meant to be some sort of saviour of the city. Load of old—”
Her tirade was cut short by a hacking cough, and she lowered herself to sit upon the cobblestones.
Rolan frowned. The simmering dread of the journey had reasserted itself tenfold, and he looked between the old woman and the Steel Watch guard with a detached sort of pity. He was used to this treatment, of course. After Elturel, Rolan had never been welcomed anywhere. The Grove, The Last Light—all seemed to have suffered his presence rather than embrace it.
He missed home dearly.
This city was meant to be a new one, somewhere he and Cal and Lia could settle. To flourish, not merely survive. The dark shadows under Cal's eyes and the crestfallen downturn of Lia’s mouth pulled at his heart, and spurred him into action.
Rolan swallowed thickly and took a step towards the bridge where the guards stood, weapons in hand.
Lia was at his side in an instant, hand pressed firmly against his chest.
“What are you doing?” she hissed. “They'll cut you down without a second thought.”
“You don't know that, Lia. Besides, I have a personal invitation from Lorroakan. They can't simply refuse me entry or they invite the wrath of a powerful wizard who’s taxes have been keeping this Lord Gortash’s pockets lined with gold.”
He almost convinced himself with the surety of his answer. Lia gave him a sternly scrutinising look, and Rolan conjured a small smile. He'd practised this confidence before, even thought he was rather good at it by now. He threw in a gentle squeeze of her arm for good measure and Lia finally relented.
“Fine, we'll be right behind you. Try not to insult them, or sound too much of a pompous arse.”
“Lia,” Cal sighed as he took up position behind Rolan. “But seriously, Rolan, be nice.”
Rolan had no time or inclination to be insulted by her warning. He wasn't entirely blind to the way he was perceived, after all. Instead he rolled his eyes and marched towards the guards. Eyes followed from the waiting crowds. Some even hissed warnings to turn back or get in line. In the end, Rolan was only stopped by a guard stepping into his path, armour glinting menacingly in the sunlight.
“No entry.”
The man's order was delivered with the bored drawl of someone at the end of his shift, after a day full of telling travellers the same thing; ‘it isn't personal, merely orders, so could you please bugger off.’
“I have an invitation from Master Lorroakan, of Ramazith's Tower. He's expecting me. In fact, I've been quite delayed—”
“You can prove this?” the man interjected.
The metal sentry whirred and creaked menacingly behind the man. Rolan avoided looking at the thing, but was very aware of its presence. It might not have eyes, but Rolan was sure that whatever counted for sensing its surroundings was directed squarely at him. With shaking hands, he delved into his laden pack and produced an envelope that had been tucked protectively in a book of evocation magic. He'd read the letter countless times, the parchment bearing extra creases and softer corners than when it had first fallen into his hands. It told him in no uncertain terms that he was enough.
The guard took the proffered paper with brutish hands and skimmed the contents, squinting idiotically at Lorroakan’s elegant script.
“A’right, then,” he finally said, and Rolan's shoulders sagged with relief, his tail—which had been frantically swaying from side to side—grew still.
“We'll be on our way then,” Rolan announced with false confidence, just in case the terrifying metal sentry hadn't caught the conversation.
But a hand came out to stop him in his tracks. Soon he was joined by another guard, a young woman with a twitchy hand on her scabbard.
“Just you. Letter didn't mention these two,” the first guard said, pointing to where Cal and Lia were huddling behind Rolan's back.
The bottom dropped out of Rolan's stomach. “No…they're my family,” he said, voice hoarse. The clamour at his back grew, the steel monstrosity now taking an interest in Rolan's increasingly frantic motions. “We came here all the way from Elturel together. Master Lorroakan, he'll—”
“If the master of the tower sends word that he can vouch for these two then they can enter. Otherwise, get back.” The man cast a sharp look at Cal and Lia.
Rolan reluctantly followed suit, turning to meet his siblings’ eyes. They held each other gently, identical expressions of resignation directed his way.
Rolan stood dumbstruck on the bridge. He tuned out the jeers from the crowd, anger burning hot through his veins. Anger at the guards and the one who controlled them, yes, but more so reserved for himself. He had failed again. Only Cal’s steady hand grounded him enough to avoid a potentially devastating conflict. The unfairness, the utter indignity of it all—Rolan was so close to the edge of reason, his very sanity teetering on a precipice.
“We came all this way…,” he said, and to his own ear he sounded like a pathetic, helpless child.
“You have to go, Rolan,” Cal said with a surprisingly steady voice.
Next to him, Lia let her tears stream freely but remained uncharacteristically silent.
Rolan shook his head. “I can't leave you.”
“You must,” Lia spat. “Else all of this—this shit—was for nothing.”
“Do us proud,” Cal added. “We'll be okay here, with the other refugees.”
Numbness spread through Rolan's body. Every breath hurt to draw. How tempting the abyss below the bridge looked to him now. He looked up at the city, imagined walking through its gates without Cal and Lia. This moment was meant to be joyous, instead the victory tasted like ash in his mouth.
But the two people who meant most to him looked at Rolan with such hope, such pride.
“I will get Lorroakan to vouch for you, for both of you,” Rolan said. “He is a good man.”
It was a promise, and the price of failure would be more than he could bear.
Cal and Lia fell into his arms as Rolan finally wept. Amongst strangers and enemies, he felt his last ember of hope dim just a little more.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The city of Baldur's Gate bore little resemblance to his home—former home—of Elturel. Even the familiarity of the Chionthar wasn't enough to settle his nerves as he wound through the streets. Said to be a hive of lawlessness, filthy and violent, Rolan saw only oppression. Beggars on every street corner, families huddled in doorways with blank eyes and no discernible destination. Posters plastered upon doors that spewed hatred for refugees such as himself.
Rolan had had a plan. It was a simple one; get to the city, find a place to stay, fulfil his destiny. Along the way he'd lost his only family, and the city was about as welcoming as Elturel had been when they'd cast out its resident tieflings.
Humans stared at Rolan's horns with thinly veiled disgust. He remembered those stares, from old neighbours who'd settled blame upon his back. It appeared as though his fellow tieflings would find no reprieve here, either.
He had planned to inquire after a room before heading straight to Sorcerous Sundries, as he'd been instructed. Rolan had already been so delayed, even another hour of his absence felt like a slight to its master. More permanent lodgings could wait—he would seek an inn.
In a busy stone square, by an impressive fountain, a cluster full of notices and advertisements were tacked to a board. Amongst them, Rolan found a lead. Apparently Elfsong Tavern had rooms to spare, and so with a tense encounter with a nearby merchant, he acquired directions and set off.
Rolan walked quickly, determined to allow no time for intrusive thoughts to drag him down. A busy body, a busy mind, after all. He wove past more Steel Watch guards who tracked his movements without any attempt to conceal it.
If he’d expected a warm welcome at the tavern, he did not get one. At least the landlord had no problem in letting Rolan a room. Judging by the kind of clientele that gathered in the tavern (overtly criminal types, by his estimation), Elfsong Tavern would be happy to shelter anyone with the coin.
Whilst it didn’t thrill Rolan to be staying in such a place, a bed was a bed, and the arrangement only temporary. He would have to remember to sleep with one eye open.
The room itself wasn’t half bad. Sparse, but oddly homey. Clean sheets on a spacious bed, a dresser and candle waiting to be lit. Warm, dark wood walls enclosed him in a comforting embrace.
Finally alone for the first time in days, Rolan stared at the bag containing his meagre belongings upon the bed. The almost-silence was deafening. Without Cal and Lia, his arrival in Baldur's Gate felt hollow. Though he wanted to lie down and sleep off the aches and exhaustion from his long journey, such luxuries were out of the question.
Rolan had work to do yet.
So he did what he always did—mustered his strength, buried his pain, and marched onwards.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
ℌ𝔢𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔞
From her window, Hesperia could see where Ramazith's Tower pierced the thick blanket of cloud that smothered Baldur's Gate. Distant though it was, she looked toward it now as a beacon. A few short hours and she would present herself to its master and all would be right in the world—if one could successfully ignore the wrongness of the city around it.
Gone were the days she would walk the streets at night without fear. There seemed a desperation seeping from every cracked cobble now; murders in broad daylight, rumours abound of an insidious cult. Her magic protected her from most predators, but it seemed foolish to offer an easy target of a solitary young woman—so her father had impressed upon her, again and again. Hesperia had whiled away hours in this very room which now felt like a prison, but nothing would stop her from starting her apprenticeship with Lorroakan. Some normalcy would reassert itself once she’d settled into her role, surely.
Her robes lay spread upon the bed, but first she was expected downstairs.
Cornelius flew down from the top of her wardrobe, perching regally upon Hesperia's shoulder. The raven familiar had been a comfort these past few days, seeming to understand the momentousness of her preparations.
“Hello, old friend,” Hesperia sighed.
Cornelius croaked wistfully in response.
As she made her way across the landing, she leaned over the bannister to peer across the entrance hall below. All was quiet, except the gentle shuffle of feet meant to stay out of sight. Even the servants kept their distance these days; to be seen to be encouraging Hesperia’s delusions by way of mere kindness would earn them a firm rebuke or worse.
Her family home with all its impersonal grandeur would be a thing of her past soon enough. She would miss her comforts, of course; the fine silk sheets atop her bed, the finer food that graced the dinner table. But freedom would taste sweeter than any of it.
She found her father where she expected him, sequestered in his own private drawing room, a glass of wine in hand though it was barely eleven o’clock. She'd driven him to drink again, it seemed. As the heavy oak door clicked shut behind her, Hesperia swallowed deeply. She expected the silence. It was a favourite tactic used by Dallin to encourage his subordinates, suppliers and just about anyone to spill their secrets to fill the void. Nobody liked the awkward stretch of time, except Hesperia.
She waited, picking at her nails, smoothing her dress and gazing around at the myriad books. Of all the hundreds that lined the shelves, not one included even a hint of magic. Dallin collected tomes on historical trade agreements, not anything as frivolous as the Weave’s many intricacies.
Eventually, he tired of Hesperia's obstinacy and heaved a great sigh. A small man, he looked almost comical against the large wing-backed chair facing the crackling fireplace. Though his stature was short, the ridges upon his cheeks were sharp enough to cut bone, the horns atop his head branching elegantly with threads of crimson like her own.
“You are still intent on this path?” he asked.
Hesperia nodded, and her father sighed his resignation.
“I thought it a harmless indulgence until you became of age and took on your birthright in earnest. I can see I was mistaken.”
She stayed silent, hands gripped tightly in front of her to stop them from shaking. When Dallin stood, she flinched, though he only went to stand by the fire. Eyes cast downwards, into the flames. His disappointment was palpable, a heavy smog that made Hesperia's lungs labour. Long nails tapped upon the mantle, slow and rhythmic as a funeral dirge. When he spoke again, Hesperia startled once again.
“As it is, Lorroakan is a valuable asset to this city and a potential trade partner. You'll make it into his good graces and convince him of our family's usefulness.”
Of course. Dallin had built a mercantile empire that stretched far beyond Baldur's Gate, yet it all paled in comparison to his true ambitions—the city itself. To concede that a wizard was on even footing with himself was indeed a surprise, but apparently even Dallin could see a potential profit in something so beneath him.
Hesperia thought back to all her lessons on diplomacy and negotiation for a business she no longer desired. “How am I to—”
“Impress him. Seduce him, for all I care.” Dallin looked at her with enough venom to chill her blood. “If you fail to become as indispensable as I hope you might be, you can consider any claim to your inheritance forfeit.”
Hesperia frowned, ready to retort, but Dallin cut in again.
“And you will never step foot in this house again.”
“Mother would never—”
“Your mother will do as I see fit. I have arranged for your lodgings in the city whilst you study and consider your options.”
Hesperia didn't doubt his words. She saw Flora’s scars, the same as her own. Tears pricked her eyes but she didn't allow them to fall. She thought of her mother, alone in this house with him; she thought of a future where she had failed her, and failed herself. Failure was not an option for Hesperia. The best case scenario was to do as Dallin had demanded and insert herself into a position of power next to Lorroakan. She would flourish under his guidance and Dallin would be satisfied, perhaps even pleased.
One day, Hesperia would be powerful enough to protect herself, and her mother, from the villain standing across from her now.
Nobody would stand in her way.
Her father dismissed her with a wave of his hand, returning to his chair, replacing wine for something stronger. His tail cut like a dagger through the air in agitation, a darkness descending upon the room.
Hesperia fled, as quiet as a mouse. Running straight to Flora, she only let herself cry once in her mother's arms. As much as it pained her, she would not ask for Flora to defy Dallin. The last hour together was instead spent swapping stories of happier times, of wistful wonder at what awaited Hesperia.
Hesperia promised to write, and her mother clutched her hand tightly until they stood at the front door.
The street was bustling with activity, and Hesperia let herself be taken on the current. Only a small bag hung from her shoulder. The building faded from view and her mother along with it, and Hesperia pointed herself in the direction of Sorcerous Sundries. One foot in front of the other whilst her heart tore apart. Guilt, fear and excitement all vied for her attention, but in the end she adopted a stoic facade of indifference.
Her new lodgings in the lower city lay not far from the shop. The townhouse was one of Dallin’s, part of an ever-expanding property portfolio. At least Hesperia wouldn't have to pay his exorbitant rent. She might have been cast from the family home but Dallin wouldn't go so far as to have his only child live in squalor—for now.
Inside, she found plush furnishings and many of the comforts of home. It only made her feel worse, the familiarity. A comfortable lounge overlooked the street where the Steel Watch patrolled and refugees cowered. The dissonance unsettled her, and so she turned away.
Unpacking her belongings, Hesperia tried to see the positives. She'd been afforded freedom, of sorts; to live alone, to study as she wished. The strings attached were troublesome, but only if she failed.
And Hesperia had no intention of failing.
After that quick stopover, she carried on her journey with Cornelius soaring above her. She had only been walking for a few minutes when the raven dipped and glided alongside her. The telepathic bond shuddered, eliciting a spreading sense of unease.
Enemy. Follow.
Hesperia’s hands twitched in response, gathering her magic, tugging at the Weave in anticipation of danger. But there was nothing inherently dangerous about her surroundings; people walked, people lingered, merchants flogged their wares and the guards at every corner watched over it all. However, Hesperia had learned to trust her familiar’s instincts.
She kept moving, taking a roundabout route that she knew from years of living in the city. Still, Cornelius remained on high alert, until eventually after turning a corner into a cramped alleyway between two townhouses, he dove, screeching like a banshee.
Right into an old woman clutching a gnarled old walking stick.
As it turned out, the old woman was a perfectly young and able-bodied man dressed in an ill-fitting wig. Whatever additional disguises he’d been employing, magical or otherwise, fell off the moment Cornelius started pecking at his eyes.
“Ow, fuck! ‘chu doing, you flea-ridden little shit?” The man bellowed, brandishing the stick like a rapier.
The Weave's power drew tantalisingly close, fire singing her fingertips. But the stranger, who was whimpering at the onslaught of beak and claw, didn’t seem worth the energy she would expend in summoning her magic.
Leave him be, she commanded the raven, and he obeyed, albeit reluctantly.
“Ravens don't have fleas,” Hesperia sniffed. “Now, who are you and why are you following me in that gods-awful disguise?”
“You should be thanking me, making sure no ‘arm comes of you,” he replied.
Hesperia stepped forward towards the cowering man, who now seemed nothing more than a frightened boy. Beneath the wig, he had sandy blond locks tied into a tight knot at the base of his skull, olive-skinned with eyes the colour of walnuts.
“You’re here to protect me?” Hesperia asked. “Oh. You’re one of my father’s lackeys.”
The man drew up to full height—an inch below Hesperia’s horn tips—and nodded curtly. “Ordered me to keep an eye on you.”
“You can tell Dallin, that I’m quite capable of making my way across the city in broad daylight.”
Though given the tensions on the streets, her reasoning rang quite hollow.
“Please don’t tell ‘im you clocked me, miss,” the man said.
Hesperia clicked her tongue, looking to Cornelius as if he would be able to provide insight. In too much of a foul mood and on a tight schedule as she was, she had no intention of going through the bother of ratting out a man who was only trying to feed himself.
“I won’t,” she said, and the man relaxed.
“Can I walk you to wherever you’re off to anyway?”
“Are you much use in a fight?”
The man shook his head. Hesperia frowned.
“Wait. What exactly did my father ask you to do?”
“Ah—well. I was to follow you an’ report back. ‘Specially anything regarding your employer.”
Of course Dallin had no interest in her safety, he only wished to know if she was holding up her end of their bargain. Cornelius, who was hopping around the cobblestones trying to catch mice, made a sickly hacking noise, which seemed an adequate response.
“You cannot be serious. What did he expect you to do, perch upon the roof and spy on us?” Hesperia sighed.
“Well, ‘e did say—that is…’e wanted to know if you were seen together.”
That same nausea from hours ago returned, tenfold. Hesperia willed her voice not to tremble when she asked, “What’s your name?”
“Others call me Hector,” the man said.
Hesperia didn’t question the evasive nature of the answer. “I’ll not tell my father how abysmally you handled your assignment if you agree to tell him exactly what I want you to tell him.”
She felt a slight pang of guilt at how Hector squirmed uneasily at the prospect of lying to Dallin. No wonder, when he had the reputation of a hard taskmaster, one who wouldn’t hesitate to throw a penniless man on the street without a second thought. There was no profit in charity.
Eventually, Hector nodded, and Hesperia’s shoulders sagged in relief.
“Thank you,” she said.
“What should I tell ‘im now?” he asked.
“Tell him exactly what I intended to do before you accosted me—”
“I think it was your bird that accosted me—”
“—that I visited my lodgings, then went to Sorcerous Sundries, stayed inside for several hours and then came straight home. Alone.”
Hector nodded before stooping to pick up the now very dusty silver wig from the ground. He twirled the fibres in his hands and nodded, almost falling into a curtsey. Hesperia flushed with pity, averting her gaze back towards her destination.
“I should get going. Master Lorroakan will be expecting me. Thank you, Hector.”
When she looked up again, there was only a blur of sandy hair retreating back around the corner onto the main thoroughfare.
Hesperia lingered only for a moment in that dank alleyway, long enough to compose herself and sweep the interaction from her thoughts. Instead, she willed herself to focus on the magic at her fingertips, the raven at her back, the master in his tower. Anything but the man who called himself father, who would rather she whore herself for a profitable contract than stand on her own two feet.
She walked in a haze of determination, ignoring every sideways glance at her horns or the terrifying metal constructs that loomed overhead.
Wait for me outside, Hesperia informed her familiar, and the raven swooped upwards to settle on one of building's domed roofs. Watching with beady eyes until she disappeared through the front door.
Finally, Hesperia could breathe.
Sorcerous Sundries was as she remembered it from her last visit, and just as wondrous. She'd not forget those vaulted ceilings, intricate metalwork and windows that spilled sunlight in jewelled hues across her face. She bathed in it, revelled in what felt like a homecoming.
Until someone walked into her back and nearly sent her toppling over.
Winded, Hesperia clutched the strap of her bag tight against her chest, turning to shoot a disdainful look at the blundering oaf with whom she'd collided.
Her glare met a throat. She tilted her head slightly, and found a pair of piercing golden irises surrounded by inky sclera, staring right back at her. Mouth pressed into a thin line, the man looked about as impressed with her as she did with him.
“Excuse me,” she huffed.
“You're excused.”
And with that, he was off.
Hesperia's mouth fell open, gaping at his back. Sharp horns bobbing above the rest of the customers, he swept off in robes of blue and red. He did not look back, seemingly intent on reaching his destination.
Hesperia followed.
Or rather, she, too, had somewhere infinitely more important to be.
