Twentieth Entry

Treading back to the stone door ushered a transition almost as jarring as the bubble of magical Silence that had just dissipated. This time, however, it was smell, not sound, that stopped me in my tracks.

Right up against the crack of the door, the murky odor of dust and death faded—and something altogether unexpected took its place: the soft, savory scent of broth. Onions. Roasted roots. A hint of pepper. It wrapped around me like a humid heat. My stomach, up until now indifferent, gave a low, longing twist.

I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.

Or how secure a meal could smell.

Ragar was no longer by the door. She had moved further in—seated now among the bugbears, poised before a simmering cauldron like some battle-worn aunt hosting a family she didn’t choose but would defend all the same. Her posture was relaxed, her tone even. She ladled out steaming portions into crude bowls, and they accepted them without suspicion.

So she had made the food.

Ah. There she was.

That matronly side that tended to fade into the shadows had resurfaced like clockwork. Just as it used to… when the dust would settle long enough for her to remember we were all still mortal.

Her place in my notes, my world, slowly making sense again.

More conversation floated up from the gathering, muffled by the thick stone between us and thinned by the echoes of bootsteps in the corridor behind me. The largest of the bugbears spoke the most—his tenor occasionally piercing the wall in sharp fragments:

“…brother… take over… Spider Alliance… run wild against…”

Whatever he was saying, it was enough to stir the others into agreement. Chins lifted. Weapons tapped. Feet shuffled forward.

And then… the largest stood. Reached out.

Clasped Ragar’s hand—not gently, but firmly, in the way of goblinoids who call violence a love language. It was a pact. An understanding. And she squeezed back.

I exhaled without meaning to. The tension in my shoulders bled out, just a little.

It had worked.

I turned and padded back down the hall, mindful to keep my steps quiet. When I returned to the others, the bodies had been cleared from sight—dragged or carried to a quieter section. Good. Better not to let potential allies stumble over evidence of our less diplomatic moments.

“It looks like Ragar managed to get them on her side,” I told the others, motioning them toward me.

“Ah, so we have new allies,” Raph’æl said, his voice light, a small smile forming as he finished drying and stowing his tea cup.

“Presumably,” Jack muttered, punctuated by the metallic click of his weapon being reloaded with those strange copper pellets. “Or they gained an ally in her.”

“Syldithas—”

“Don’t forget Glesa, Raph,” Jack hissed, jabbing a clawed finger into Raph’æl’s pauldron. “We can’t keep pretending she isn’t a wildcard. We all remember what happened.”

My vision teetered at the edge of that name—Glesa.

The drow thief. The one who wormed her way into our ranks and unraveled my place within them, thread by thread. I remember… not remembering. The fog. The days I spent adrift from the others. How she’d infected my trust. Left without warning, or maybe I simply stopped noticing she was gone.

No promises. No closure. Just absence.

So yes—Jack had every right to be wary.

And Raph’æl still held every compulsion to forgive.

Well. As long as one wasn’t drow.

Jack folded his arms, eyes narrowing. “I’m just saying, it’s not a great pattern.”

“She’s not Glesa,” Raph’æl answered, calm but firmer than usual. “And even if she was, she’s trying now. That should matter.”

“She’s always trying,” Jack said, raising his voice to sharp whispers. “Trying what, though? Nothing good for us! That’s the pattern!”

Raph’æl pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing quietly. Then he half-turned toward the door. “We weren’t the ones watching. Fanesca knows more than we do. Let’s hear her out.”

My shoulders locked. Just like that, every eye was on me. The tactician’s seat. Again.

And my thoughts, ever traitorous, chose that exact moment to wander to Raph’æl’s voice. Not his logic, not the words—just the way he said my name. Steady. Certain. Like I could be trusted.

I hated how much it meant to me. I still do.

“I… Let’s—k-keep calm,” I stammered, cursing the lack of conviction in my tone. “Just stay back here. Let them come to us.”

“Act natural,” Jack muttered, leaning back against the wall and polishing his rifle like it hadn’t just been someone’s bane mere minutes ago. “Got it.”

We waited at the end of the corridor—quiet, alert, poised for diplomacy or disaster. The largest bugbear’s voice no longer reached us. Just the distant hint of their cooking flame shining under the door, and the low shuffle of movement echoing down the stone throat of the hall. I kept my eyes on the door, half-expecting it to swing open and undo all of Ragar’s progress with one misplaced word.

And in that small pause, I noticed Super.

He was crouched a few feet from the wall, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. His hands were twitching—fidgeting with the seams of his satchel, then drumming against his knees, then pulling a loose string from the hem of his belt just to flick it into the air like a cat playing with prey.

It was… almost juvenile. And deeply unsettling.

“Are you alright?” I whispered, breaking the hush more out of curiosity than concern.

Super tilted his head up at me. His wide, glassy eyes blinked once. Slowly. “I’m so bored.”

That’s all he said.

No commentary on the mission. No reflection on the near-death encounter. No moral evaluation of our temporary alliance with carnivorous humanoids. Just bored.

I didn’t know what I expected. I don’t know that I ever do with him.

I crouched beside him. “You almost died back there.”

He made a chirping noise that might have been a laugh. “Yeah. So did you.”

I looked down at the cave floor, at the faint streaks left behind from when I was dragged out of the fight. I still hadn’t fully shaken the sensation of the javelin skewering through me like a tent peg. There had been so much blood. If it hadn’t been for my cantrip magic, it would still be caked upon my tunic.

“…Doesn’t that bother you?”

He plucked something from behind his ear—possibly a crumb, possibly a rock—and flicked it toward a wall without looking. “Mmm… nah.”

I stared at him. He stared at the wall.

And I found myself envying him in a way that I didn’t like.

There was something maddening about his indifference—whether it was real or crafted. Either option required a kind of strength I didn’t have. To be so detached. To keep all your fear walled up behind absurdity… or worse, to never feel any of it at all.

I used to think he was just odd.

But at that present moment, I thought… maybe he’s free.

He doesn’t seem to belong to anyone. Or maybe he refuses to. He has no expectations of the group beyond transport, amusement, and the occasional pickle.

However, I—I’m caught. I’m entangled.

So tangled in them—in Raph’æl’s caring glances and Jack’s protective silences and even Ragar’s contradictions—that I don’t remember what it feels like to be unknotted from all of it.

Super yawned. “I’m gonna go stand by the bugbear pile,” he said, already halfway up.

“To guard?” I asked.

He grinned as he started down the hall. “Sure. Also maybe a snack break.”

I watched him disappear behind the bend, unsure if he was joking.

Or if that even mattered anymore.

The stone door scraped open with a low, drawn-out groan. The sound seemed rougher than I remembered. Maybe it was all in my head. Ragar stepped out first, her posture suspiciously casual. She was followed by six towering bugbears, each moving with the kind of authority born from survival.

However, what really snagged me was Ragar’s face. She is many things. Strong. Unapologetic. Lethal, in nearly every sense of the word.

But subtle? No.

That grin—wide, a little too toothy, brittle at the edges. I’d seen it before. After the chaos preceding the birth of that orc child. After her own near-death in Thundertree. After any time she needed us to believe she had everything under control while the world teetered sideways around her.

She could hold a blade steady in a tornado, but put her in front of a room full of expectations and the fake composure radiates like torch fire.

What did she learn in there?

The bugbears filtered out behind her. They moved like a unit—like soldiers, not scavengers. Jack stepped forward to intercept their approach, setting his massive frame between them and the rest of us. No aggression. A wall of muscle and quiet warning. He turned just enough to make sure Hew, the dwarven axe slung at his side, gleamed in the low light. Not a threat—just… presence.

“Stay on your guard,” Raph’æl murmured beside me, his voice tight with quiet steel. I nodded, lips too dry to respond.

“Sooo,” Ragar began, far too chipper, gesturing to us as she turned and locked eyes with the largest behind her, “this is the resistance I told you about.”

The largest stepped forward. His eyes dragged across Sildar, Raph’æl, and me with deliberate slowness, assessing. Maybe wondering how this “resistance” came to have such small recruits. Maybe calculating how many bones he could snap before anyone stopped him. Then, without a word, he clasped hands with Jack. A hard, bracing shake with the only one of us who could meet him eye-to-eye.

“Good to have strong allies in the family,” he said, voice gravel-thick. “Thanks for doing what you could for my brother. Before those spider freaks got to him.”

I flinched.

Jack stiffened. “I’m… sorry—your brother?”

Ragar slid between them quickly, her grin stretched so tight I feared her face would snap in half.

“Yep! Haha! This is Groggery—he’s… King Grol’s brother!”

I blanched. My insides lurched. Sildar exhaled, barely. Raph’æl went very still beside me. I didn’t have to look to know his jaw had gone tight with concern.

“And this—” Ragar went on, gesturing toward a younger, more slender (well, in comparison) bugbear with Grol’s unmistakable brow and scowl, “—this is Junior! Grol the Second.”

A blend of choked silence and uneasy stammers spread through our group. It would have been comical if it didn’t involve something so …grim. Grol was already dead when we found him. Betrayed by the very alliance we were now stalking through these halls. And… he had a family.

Shame prickled down my arms like static.

The shame of a failure.

Of a near-miss.

“We’ve got others stationed around the cave,” Groggery said, looking down the hall behind us.

Oh no.

It occurred to me, with a pang of unease, that we might eventually have to lie about the skirmish in the corridor. Pretend we hadn’t injured and killed a portion of their kin. Pretend those deaths were the fault of the Alliance. Or bad luck. Or anything but us.

Another damn mask to carry.

Gods forgive us.

“Let’s leave them to their posts,” he added with finality.

“Yes, that’s—absolutely,” I said uncomfortably fast, joined by a chorus of eager agreement from the others. The cheeriness of our performance could have been picked apart by anyone with half a sense of emotional nuance—but the bugbears, thankfully, didn’t seem the type to read subtext. They looked pleased. Content.

We were led back through the cleared chamber, the savory scent of stew now thick in the air. The room was still warm with firelight and fresh cooking—an oasis tucked into the belly of a war zone.

He spoke over his shoulder as we walked. “They’ve been holing up in a temple within the cave. That’s where they have their meetings. It’s just up ahead.”

A temple. In a cave.

That familiar chill prickled the back of my neck. Déjà vu wields a knife.

We paused there—let ourselves settle in the stew-scented room for a moment before the next step. Ragar continued speaking to Groggery about the layout of the caves. Jack leaned back against the wall, sharpening Hew. Raph’æl refilled his cup. Even Sildar relaxed a little, taking the time to rewrap his bandages.

And I drifted—quietly, instinctively—toward the cauldron.

The broth was still hot, fragrant, gently bubbling. One ladleful, tucked into a dented tin cup, and I walked to the corner to lift my mask and quickly take a sip.

Just enough to warm my throat.

Just enough to trick my body into thinking everything wasn’t on the verge of crumbling.

Our new allies led us down curling walkways, spiraling deeper into stone and shadow until we came to a set of double doors. Other than the quantity of them, they were as humble and blunt as any other threshold in the mine. Unmarked. Unadorned. One would have never guessed that a temple lay beyond.

A temple. Built in a forge.

Or perhaps over it, long after the hammering ceased.

Either way, it carried weight. And dread.

We paused just before it, letting the familiar pulse of the cave’s thunder crest and fade to mask the sounds of Ragar searching the frame for traps. She crouched, reaching toward the keyhole—then froze.

The doors opened.

We all stilled like prey.

A male drow stood before us. Smug. Almost regal. Expression carved in confidence and cruelty.

“Oh gods,” Raph’æl whispered beside me, the tremor in his voice unmistakable. I heard the faint, metallic click of Jack adjusting the grip on his weapon. Not raised… yet.

“Why, hello there!” Ragar forced a smile, voice too high. Sweat began to form just at her brow. “What’s your name? Mine is—”

“My master has been expecting you,” the drow interrupted. “All of you. Come inside.”

“Eheheh!” Ragar gave a painfully cheerful laugh. “I guess we’re going in, y’all!”

She marched forward.

I didn’t follow right away. I couldn’t.

From my vantage at the back, I could see into the room in slivers. Two bugbears flanked the center, standing like soldiers at rest. Not captives. Not fodder. Comrades? Another drow, nearly identical to the one before us, hovered nearby. And at the far end… a third. Taller. Cloaked. One eye glinted above a sharp eyepatch, and he held a black staff crowned with a carved spider. This one hadn’t spoken yet. He didn’t have to.

I knew authority when I saw it.

I was the last to enter. My stomach twisted like a spell miscast.

Jack’s hand lingered on his sidearm.

Ragar’s thumbs hooked her belt, but her fingers tapped her daggers in subtle rhythm.

Raph’æl’s hands were loosely clasped in front of him—fingers interlocked, disguising his holy accord.

They were all, in some way, ready to act.

I should be, too.

The room’s features formed around me: six broken marble pillars lining the walls. A massive stone statue of a seated dwarf loomed at the rear, a warhammer spread across its lap. Its eyes—two gleaming emeralds—glistened in the torchlight like twin judgments. I didn’t recognize the god. Not by face, at least. I’d only ever bothered to study holy symbols. Faces were for the faithful.

Dust had been swept into the far corner. Bedrolls clustered neatly around a smoldering pit near the statue. Oddly informal for such a grand space. A war room disguised as a campsite.

To the west, a wooden table sat between pillars. Scattered maps, maybe. I didn’t look too long. My eyes kept finding that staff—the black one. The spider. The sigil of them.

The door closed behind us with a heavy, deliberate click.

Then locked.

Simultaneous protests from Ragar and Jack were ignored by the drow behind us, who offered no explanation. Only silence.

The one-eyed drow finally spoke, voice like silk wrapped around a dagger.

“My eyes have been tracking you all for some time,” he said. “It has been… fascinating, watching your path. You are clearly formidable. Even the death of Venomfang has reached my ears.” He let a pause hang in the air. “However. The rather clumsy attempt at ransacking Cragmaw Castle—”

“We were not there to ransack,” I cut in before I realized I was speaking. My voice was soft, but sharp. I just… didn’t want our new allies to get the wrong idea. “We were there to retrieve our employer.”

I didn’t dare look up, but I could feel the temperature shift.

The drow glared at me. My mask felt transparent. I knew that wrathful gaze well—an expression akin to what usually preceded a backhanded slap from the Overseer. “There are always two sides to history.” His voice grew colder. “I do not agree with your perspective.”

Just like that, I felt like a child again.

Not in awe. But in danger.

“Hey, that’s okay,” Ragar said with a shrug and a forced chuckle, trying to save the mood. “We all have our own perspectives, not all of them hafta be right or wrong!”

I knew what she was trying to do. Diffusion. Distraction. It wouldn’t work here. Not against this particular entourage.

But it did distract me from my own emotional drowning. These were the rare moments I could trust Ragar to keep my eyes set on what was really important.

The drow leader stepped forward and gestured to Groggery and his kin. “So now, we must ask: What are you doing… with them? Are they prisoners? Or part of some sad attempt at insurrection?”

Groggery snarled. “I heard what you did to my brother. We will not stand with you any longer. You will perish by my claw!” He surged forward, but Jack reacted instantly. He seized the massive bugbear’s arm and dragged him back with a force I could not possibly begin to fathom.

“Not now,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Not like this.”

Groggery growled, but relented, still bristling.

The drow chuckled, decorum almost lost as he leaned against his staff. “You poor fool. But what did you expect? This alliance is mine. I built it. I have been pulling at the strings all along— strings none of you even realize exist.”

“You’re a puppeteer,” Ragar deadpanned. Her tone was quickly beginning to shift, sharp and tired. If there was anything she could not stand, it was certainly playful arrogance.

I was expecting him to take it as mockery. But he smiled, as if that pleased him.

“This mine. Phandalin. The entire valley… it will all belong to me soon.”

She sighed, truly unfiltered. “And who are you, exactly?”

The drow lifted his chin. “I am known as Nezznar.”