Chapter Text
The forest should have been quiet. It had grown darker, eerie. Tendrils of tadpole ooze leaked out of some of the trees like sap. There was also a heavy fog that covered your feet as you walked through the grassy trails.
Instead, this forest--this infected woodland, it breathed. It was a raspy breath, jagged. Hungry.
Sparrow moved through the underbrush with the silent precision of her wood‑elf lineage, but even she couldn't ignore the way the trees seemed to twitch—like they were listening. Her long, dark braid brushed her back as she crouched low, emerald eyes scanning the shadows for movement. She'd grown up in the marble halls of Elwood Manor, trained in etiquette, diplomacy, and the elegant sword forms of noble duelists.
None of that prepared her for this.
Not for a world where monsters didn't just kill. They infected.
The Netherbrain's new evolution had changed everything. The tadpoles no longer needed to be placed behind the eye. They lived inside the bodies of beasts, lurking beneath skin and sinew, waiting for the moment a claw or fang broke flesh. One scratch. One bite. One breath too close.
And you were lost.
Sparrow tightened her grip on her blade. "Just keep moving," she whispered to herself. "Don't think. Don't—"
A twig snapped behind her.
She spun, blade raised—
—and found a pale elf leaning casually against one of the unaffected trees, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place.
"Well," Astarion purred, "aren't you a delightful sight in this miserable forest."
Sparrow's heart lurched. She didn't lower her sword, stayed on guard.
He lifted both hands in mock surrender. "Darling, if I meant you harm, you'd already be screaming."
"That is not comforting," she muttered, her eyes narrowing.
"It wasn't meant to be."
He stepped closer, red eyes gleaming with amusement—and something else. Something sharper. He looked her up and down, lingering just a little too long on the curve of her waist, the braid over her shoulder, the way her stance balanced strength and elegance.
"You're far from home, little bird."
"My name is Sparrow," she corrected.
"Oh, I know." His smile widened. "I heard you muttering it in your sleep."
Her cheeks warmed. "You were watching me sleep?"
"Only a little." He shrugged. "You're very watchable."
She turned away before he could see her expression. "I don't trust you."
"Good," he said lightly, smirking. "You shouldn't trust anyone right now. Especially me."
A rustling sound echoed through the trees—wet, dragging, wrong.
Astarion's expression sharpened instantly. "We should move."
Sparrow nodded, but before she could take a step, something lurched into view. A wolf—skin stretched too tight, ribs pulsing like something inside was trying to escape. Its eyes were milky, its mouth dripping with black ichor.
Astarion hissed. "Oh, marvelous. A walking tadpole dispenser."
The wolf's chest bulged. Split. And something writhed beneath the torn flesh.
Sparrow's stomach twisted. "Gods..."
Astarion stepped in front of her without thinking. "Stay behind me."
"I can fight." Sparrow pressed.
"I'm sure you can," he said, voice low, "but I'd rather not watch you get turned into a mind flayer today."
The wolf lunged viciously.
Sparrow moved with him, their blades flashing in tandem—her elegant, noble-trained strikes paired with his vicious, predatory precision. For a moment, they were perfectly in sync.
Then the creature's body convulsed, and a slick, wriggling tadpole shot outward like a dart.
Astarion grabbed Sparrow by the waist and yanked her aside, the parasite missing her cheek by inches.
She landed against him, breathless.
His lips brushed her ear as he whispered, "See? You need me."
She shoved him away, face burning hot. "Don't get used to that."
"Oh, I fully intend to."
But the humor faded from his eyes as he looked at the twitching corpse.
"This world is changing," he murmured. "And not for the better."
Sparrow swallowed hard. "Then we change with it. We must."
Astarion looked at her—really looked at her—and something in his expression softened.
"Perhaps," he said quietly, "you're not as breakable as you look."
The forest had quieted down, it was eerie, as if waiting with bated breath.
Sparrow knelt beside a fallen log, coaxing a small flame to life with trembling hands. The tinder caught slowly, reluctantly, as if the woods themselves were holding their breath. When the fire finally flared, its glow pushed back only a sliver of the encroaching dark.
Astarion lingered just outside the circle of light, leaning against a twisted oak with casual elegance that Sparrow didn't trust for a heartbeat. He watched her with that unreadable half‑smile, red eyes glinting like a predators in the dusk.
She didn't look at him for long. She didn't want him to see the unease in her face.
The crash site had been chaos—screams, smoke, the metallic stench of something not of this world. She'd stumbled out of the ruins with only her sword and her stubborn will, and somehow this pale elf had appeared at her side, offering help with a charm that felt too polished to be real.
And yet... she'd accepted it. Because the world was falling apart, and even a questionable ally was better than being alone.
Sparrow sat back from the fire, rubbing her palms together. "We should rest. It's a long road to Baldur's Gate."
Astarion stepped into the firelight at last. The glow revealed faint violet shadows beneath his eyes—so faint she might have imagined them. But she hadn't.
"Baldur's Gate," he mused, lowering himself gracefully onto a stone. "Quite the destination for someone who looks like she'd rather be anywhere else."
"I need to find someone," Sparrow said, sharper than she intended. But that was all she gave him.
Astarion tilted his head. "Ah. How important can this...someone be?"
Sparrow bristled. "It's...my sister..."
Astarion's smile faltered for a heartbeat. "Oh."
He looked away, and for a moment Sparrow saw something crack in his expression—fear, maybe. Or hunger. Or the weight of a secret he wasn't ready to share.
The fire popped. Sparrow flinched.
Astarion noticed.
"You don't trust me," he said lightly, though his eyes were too sharp for the tone.
"I don't know you," Sparrow replied. "And the world is... different now."
"Different," he echoed, almost amused. "That's one word for it."
Silence settled between them, thick as the mist curling through the trees. Sparrow lay down near the fire, sword within reach. She closed her eyes, but sleep didn't come easily. When it finally did, it dragged her into a dream that felt too vivid to be just a dream.
Arieal stood in the streets of Baldur's Gate, her hair whipping in a storm of psionic wind. Her eyes glowed purple—wrong, corrupted. When Sparrow reached for her, Arieal whispered, "You're too late."
Sparrow jolted awake.
Astarion was crouched beside her, his face inches from hers, expression unreadable.
"You were dreaming," he murmured.
She scrambled back, hand on her sword. "Don't do that."
He raised both hands in mock surrender. "Forgive me. You were... thrashing. I thought you might hurt yourself."
But his eyes lingered on her throat a moment too long.
Sparrow's pulse hammered.
Astarion stood, brushing dirt from his clothes. "Dawn is coming. We should move if you want to reach your dear sister before the world ends."
Sparrow rose slowly, never taking her eyes off him. The forest around them seemed to shift with every breath—branches curling like claws, shadows stretching too far. The air hummed faintly, as if the land itself was infected.
She tightened her grip on her pack.
Baldur's Gate was leagues away. Astarion was hiding something. And Sparrow had no choice but to walk beside him.
"Let's go," she said.
Astarion smiled, soft and dangerous. "After you."
Together, they stepped into the mist.