Sixteenth Entry

The mind is a wondrous thing.

How quickly it can turn certainty into self-doubt. How easily it lets you play roles you once swore you’d left behind. Even in the chaos, even under the fangs and fury of those spiders, my body moved with a kind of practiced conviction. Not out of fear. Not out of instinct. But out of supposed prophecy.

Triumph coursed through me when it was over—not because I had survived, but because some stubborn part of me that I still haven’t managed to purge had been waiting for this moment. For this script. I had trained for years under the cruel vision of a future I never asked for, fed blood and fear and fire by the Messengers so I could someday strike down Lolth’s brood.

And for a moment—just a moment—I believed that’s exactly what I had started doing.

I was the blade. I was the answer. I was the deliverer.

But the mind… the mind is not kind.

Jack and Raph’æl stood near one of the collapsed husks. The spider’s legs curled tightly beneath its ruined body, carapace caved in, its weightless corpse no more frightening than a dead beetle—if you ignored the scale.

Etched across its abdomen was a sigil. Faint. Uneven. As if carved by ritual or branded by heat. A humanoid skull… but its jaw was all wrong. Distorted. Not elven. Not even drow. Almost alien in its geometry. It carried no mark of the Spider Queen. No resemblance to her wicked heraldry.

Raph’æl asked, voice low:

“Is that… the symbol of Lolth?”

And just like that, the illusion unraveled.

“No,” I answered. My voice was quieter than his, though it felt like I was speaking to myself.

“No… That’s something else.”

I turned from the body, from them, from what I had done.

What had felt like divine purpose moments ago now soured in my throat. I hadn’t slain any soldiers. I hadn’t thwarted Her reach. I had murdered pets. The twisted guardians of some other hand. Some other threat.

And I had screamed judgment into the world like a divine oracle, invoking the wrath of a prophecy I never wanted to carry—speaking Undercommon oaths with fire and steel while my allies stood just behind me.

How embarrassing. Thank gods above they couldn’t understand what I’d said.

But I knew.

And knowing made me feel foolish.

The victory I felt—that righteous, soaring sense of becoming—sank into something hollow. The spiders weren’t sent by Lolth. Not directly. Maybe not at all.

And yet… part of me almost… wanted them to be.

Because if they were Hers, then I had purpose. Then the Messengers weren’t all crazy, even if they were undeniably vile. Then the absence of a childhood and my years of suffering hadn’t been for… absolutely nothing. I wouldn’t be a girl forged for a war that would never come. A weapon with no wielder.

What are you thinking?

You’d trade treasured freedom and a home for a purpose this vile?

You disgust me.

I walked away. Not fully out of shame. I reminded myself that it was time to investigate, time to look for signs of what happened here—to find survivors, clues, reasons. But truthfully? I needed to be alone, too. And in this dangerous silence, those thoughts that nearly swallowed me at Reidoth’s place were dancing freely upon my head once again.

The mind is a wondrous thing indeed. And a cruel one, too.

Ragar arrived with her usual absence of ceremony, striding into the hall as if she hadn’t missed a life-threatening encounter by mere minutes. I was still brushing cobwebs off my shoulders and boots when she stormed past me.

A flicker of anger rose so fast in me it almost startled me.

“Why weren’t you—”

“I don’t do spiders,” she cut me off, not even bothering to look at me. She punctuated the sentence with a sharp kick to the husk of one of the fallen beasts before pushing forward into the King’s quarters, where the others had already gone.

I stood there, my mouth a tight line, knuckles white around the torch’s grip. Then I threw it down, the flames snuffing out with a hiss.

What would be the point of following her? She wouldn’t listen. She never does. And even if she did, what could I say that would change anything? She’s an ally, yes—but only in the thinnest, most technical sense. I don’t trust her. Not yet. And I was starting to fear that I never would.

All noise inside the quarters—the shuffling, the scraping, the displeased voices at her late arrival—faded until fully muted.

My anger twisted into unease. I rushed inside. The room was empty.

King Grol’s massive bed had been flipped, revealing a tunnel hidden beneath it. Torchlight flickered faintly down the passage. They were already deep inside. I followed.

The corridor led to a makeshift prison—if you could even call it that. Manacles bolted low to the ground, surrounded by the scraps of discarded food and torn bedding. But no corpses. No bones. Just silence. Stillness.

And at the far end, an ugly tableau of death.

King Grol’s bloated corpse sat slumped over another. His withered arms were locked around the pale, featureless thing that had clearly stabbed him—a gaunt creature with no muscle tone, sagging skin like wet parchment, and a long, slack tongue lolling from its mouth. Its dagger was still buried in the king’s gut.

It looked like something half-formed, like a sketch of a person drawn by someone who had never seen one.

Then there was the ring.

Scattered stones. Smeared minerals. Symbols that prickled my memory.

Ragar immediately bent over the circle, eyes flicking across the markings. I didn’t need to speak. I already knew what it was. But I didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to name it. Not here. Not in this place.

Not in front the ghost of my past, which lingered in every stroke of those runes.

Jack crouched beside the king’s corpse and lifted his arm. It moved stiffly.

“Rigor mortis,” he muttered. “Sets twelve to eighty-four hours after death.”

Raph’æl, watching him, nodded slowly.

“That would line up with the goblins upstairs. Dead for at least two days.”

I blinked. Right. Jack had examined them. I’d been too distracted. Too internal. And yet here he was, pulling forensic deductions from the aftermath like it was just another training field. I forget sometimes that he’s a soldier. How many corpses has he handled in silence while the rest of us panicked?

I had a lot to learn. About him. And from him.

I turned my attention back to the thing I did understand. The broken circle.

The markings were unmistakable, even partially destroyed. It was a summoning ritual. I’d endured enough of them to know. Temenos’ favorite way to remind me I was never the strongest one in the room. Throw a beast from the abyss at me. Wait for me to fail. Step in, triumphant, just in time to steal the victory and the glory. Declare that I’m not ready for doomsday yet.

And the look on his face every time…

Ragar’s voice broke into my memory like a blade.

“Summoning circle,” she murmured, following the symbols with a furrowed brow. “A one-way teleport gate, right? How did they even manage this?”

My frown deepened. There was no way Grol had designed this. He’d been manipulated—or worse, coerced. He wasn’t smart enough for this level of spellwork.

“I’m no expert on the arcane,” Raph’æl offered, “but wouldn’t it take days to figure out what it was summoning?”

I knelt by the disrupted runes, fingers ghosting over the fractured lines.

“Yes. But one thing’s quickly discernible, at least. Whatever this was calling, it was from this plane of existence.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Is that unusual for a summoning circle?”

“Not… unheard of,” I said carefully. “But most summoners reach beyond the veil. To other realms. That’s where the power is. This, though… could have come from any part of this world. Or the Underdark.” I rose slowly, brushing powder from my gloves. “Whatever fate befell Cragmaw, it started here. This is the invasion point.”

Jack stepped toward the two bodies, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he peeled back King Grol’s clenched hands from the attacker’s form. Beneath them, still clutched in the thing’s limp grip, was a pendant.

A spider, again. And that same alien symbol. A twisted skull. A jaw out of joint.

And like a sudden current from the depths, I remembered Grol’s words:

“It is too late. I already took payment. From The Spider Alliance.”

I had been too unnerved to approach the mystery corpse, but Jack had done so with ease. Raph’æl had leaned in as well, noting the eyes looked disconcertingly familiar.

They were Finnegan’s eyes.

I knew what he meant. Not the man we trusted. Not the man who guided us through the wilds. Who had laughed and shared meals beside us.

That accused twisted copy of his.

If it was the False Finnegan who carved that summoning circle… had he always been a traitor?

Or was he just a puppet in someone else’s grand design?

The others began speaking, putting pieces together aloud. Their voices blurred in my ears as I stepped toward the body, my limbs heavier than they had any right to be. I knelt and lifted the pendant in its hand—the same alien spider symbol, half-buried beneath the folds of its robe. I recognized the skull from the spiders above, of course. But now I saw what I’d missed before.

The legs. The spider.

I stood so fast I nearly dropped it.

I saw that symbol earlier. I walked right over it.

A jolt of shame kicked my legs into motion. I bolted back up the stairs, retracing my steps, crashing into the half-ruined royal chambers. Papers and ash were strewn across the floor, and there—half-covered by a burnt piece of parchment—was the same stylized spider emblem, printed faintly into a document.

“I thought I was wrong,” I murmured. “But—”

There it was.

The Spider Alliance.

A letter bearing their symbol. Dated the very day we first arrived at Cragmaw Castle.

I didn’t even finish reading it. I just ran. Back toward the stairwell—only to nearly crash into Raph’æl. The rest of the party had followed me, apparently, tracking my footsteps back through the ruined corridor. I stumbled and caught myself, flustered beyond words, when Ragar reached past me and snatched the letter from my hand.

She skimmed it in seconds, then let out a low sigh, casual as ever.

“It’s the Spider Alliance,” she said flatly. “They told Grol to hand over Gundren Rockseeker immediately.”

My voice found its way out of my throat, small and uncertain.

“So… Gundren wasn’t here when the spiders came.” It was the closest thing to hope I had to offer. A feeble thread.

“But he was here before,” Jack added. “The chains downstairs—they’re dwarven-sized. That room was meant for him.”

I watched Raph’æl rake his hands through his hair, the realization crashing over him heavily.

“So basically…” he said slowly, “Gundren was right there. Just down those stairs. We were so close to saving him. He…”

I couldn’t.

I turned and left. Back down the stairs, past the ruined bed, into the tunnel where the air still smelled of old rot and cold stone. My boots echoed off the walls like judgment.

I heard Raph’æl’s voice behind me, faint but undeniable.

“…He probably even heard us fighting.”

I stopped.

The words hit harder than any wound.

I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms. My body ached for something to strike, to shatter, to bleed. But there was nothing here except stone and silence and shame.

I knelt by the wall where the manacles lay. Empty.

I squeezed my eyes shut, but the heat behind them pushed forward. I blinked once, twice, and still the tears came, tracing hot paths down my cheeks.

“I was so close,” I whispered.

Too scared to fight the bear. Too desperate to survive.

And Gundren paid the price.

“I’m so sorry, Gundren,” I choked, my voice raw and cracked.

“I should’ve found you. I should’ve been braver. Smarter. Something. Anything.”

But I hadn’t been. And now the man I greatly owed for bringing us together, who had believed in us, was gone—vanished into some unknown fate. Maybe still alive. Maybe not. But we had missed him.

Because of me.

Because I ran.

I was on edge the entire time we remained in the ruined castle. My thoughts refused to settle. Every sound made me flinch. Every creak felt like it might unearth another missed opportunity, another failure I hadn’t noticed until it was too late. I nearly slipped again—my mind drifting toward that dangerous, familiar numbness, the kind I hadn’t felt since working with that drow thief. But then something happened that pulled me out of that spiral completely.

Ragar confessed.

The map. The map—to Wave Echo Cave. The very one she’d lifted from King Grol’s desk and never mentioned until just shortly. The same map Gundren had supposedly planned to follow.

It wasn’t with her anymore.

It was back in Phandalin.

With the Miner’s Exchange.

The revelation hit like an earthquake. The room erupted.

Jack’s trust shattered in a heartbeat. Raph’æl’s too. They didn’t hold back this time—no tact, no hesitation. Accusations flew like arrows, sharp and unrelenting. I said nothing at first. I just watched the chaos unravel, feeling numb and increasingly nauseated. I only stepped in when Jack turned on his heel to leave us behind altogether, planning to collect the dragon spoils and go. I caught his arm and quietly reminded him that the dragon parts we’d recovered—his reward, evidence and claim—had already been taken back to town by the hunters working with Sildar.

Again, to the Miner’s Exchange.

Where Ragar, it now seemed, had always been headed.

There was no hiding it anymore. Her loyalty wasn’t with us—not completely.

And then Jack snapped.

Lightning exploded from his throat in a flash of primal rage. It slammed into the basement wall, crackling and filling the space with raw heat and blinding light. For a moment, none of us spoke. Not even Super, who chewed his pickled snack with muted urgency. Raph’æl stomped up the stairs without another word. Ragar shrank in place, her posture deflated. The silence afterward was somehow louder than the outburst itself.

So I followed him.

I didn’t care about resolving anything. I just… needed to breathe. To feel the cool air again. And I needed the calm he provided my heart.

When I reached the king’s quarters, Raph’æl was already speaking with Sildar, his tone collected but heavy.

“The bad news is Gundren isn’t here,” he said. “The good news is, neither is his body.” He handed over the letter. “He was traded to another group. We can still find him.”

Sildar took the news like someone half-drowning, half-clinging to a raft. His relief was tempered, but genuine.

“So there’s still a chance,” he whispered, more to himself than to us. “Though I doubt his brothers will take the news that way.”

“They needed him alive,” I offered. “That has to mean something. He’s a resource, not a corpse.” I needed to believe that. For Sildar’s sake—and mine.

He gave me a faint smile, eyes glinting with a trace of steel. “Then we have two problems,” he said grimly. “First, Gundren’s brothers are still in the mine. And if this Spider Alliance is moving in, then they’re in danger too. Second… I don’t know the way to Wave Echo Cave. I was only supposed to protect him once he led us there.”

“The map’s safe,” came Ragar’s voice behind us.

We all turned. Everyone had drifted back into the room. Ragar stood in the doorway, weary and emotionally worn, but defiant.

“It’s at the Miner’s Exchange. I swear. You don’t know these people like I do.”

None of us spoke right away. The air was brittle.

“Well? Are you coming with us?” Raph’æl asked Sildar, his tone less a question and more a command, or maybe a plea.

Sildar nodded. “For my best friend’s sake? Of course.”

So that was that. We were headed back to town. To unfinished business. To another road.

As we gathered our things to leave, I heard Jack lean close to Ragar, voice low and crackling with restrained fury.

“Last. Chance.”

And then we were off again.

As we walked back to our carts, the sun beginning to rise, I kept thinking about what Sildar had said. About the map. The timing. The trust we kept letting slip through our fingers like dry sand.

I thought of Gundren. Of how close we’d been.

I thought of the circle of summoning chalked out in the dark.

Of Finnegan’s eyes on a dead man’s face.

Of my own fear—how it keeps controlling me in ways I don’t always see until it’s too late.

Something in me twisted as I looked down at my hands. They’d shaken so much this past day—when I fought, when I cast, when I simply tried to feel what was right.

I need that to stop.

I need certainty.

There’s a ritual Garaele had offered me—some form of higher divination. Something that might give me a true glimpse of what’s coming… or what’s already gone. Legend Lore. I’ve been putting it off, clutching to coin and comfort, thinking I needed to buy safety. A place to call mine.

But what good is a home if your heart is still haunted?

No. I didn’t want to live with this uncertainty anymore.

Peace of mind comes first.

I need to know the truth. I need to know what it will cost me to ask.

And when I do… I’ll pay it. Even if it means waiting longer to rest beneath a roof of my own.