Twenty-Second Entry

In the interim after Ragar had undone the locks of both Gundren and Nundro’s chains, there was an odd sort of discomfort in the air. Like stutters in the tapestry of time, we found ourselves facing the culmination of months of pursuit— yet none of us knew how to speak of it.

Everyone’s words came haltingly, tangled in fatigue or embarrassment.

The brothers, though gaunt and tattered, carried themselves with the indomitable spirit I recalled from Gundren’s early messages. But when our stories finally converged—our battles, our detours, the hounding crawl through the dark— the pauses that followed said more than any of it.

We were all forced to admit how many weeks we had allowed to pass as the two sat here, hungry, hurt, helpless. Though it had been in the name of improving ourselves and bettering our synergy to combat the Spider Alliance, it was a hard listen. For both us and them.

I recall the weary anguish in Gundren’s eyes. Beneath his hardy, dwarven demeanor, there was a grief so old. Even more painful so was to deliver the news of Tharden succumbing to the Alliance’s assassins.

No rage followed. Only quiet, terrible acceptance. The kind that, at times, succeeds a hope held too long.

He still thanked us for our perseverance.

It felt like an empty gratitude, but not by his tone. His voice, though dry, was steady and sincere. It was me who could not meet it.

I just couldn’t see how I deserved it. Another victory served too late.

We tried to coax our own brand of normalcy back in the midst of it all, though the cave itself resisted. Jack paced around all four corners of the chamber, like a restless sentry. Raph’æl was quick to set down his pack and dip into his herb stock— asking the brothers, in that earnest way of his, whether they preferred lemongrass or chamomile. Magically coaxing a spark from my last tinderbox, I fueled a small fire with the cell’s straw and wooden rubble, hoping it was enough to grant warmth and boil water for him. 

A faint commotion drew me to my feet. Past the chamber’s entrance, Ragar was calming one of the allied bugbears who was barking warnings to an unseen threat. We all tensed for a moment, but concerns were quickly quelled when we heard and then saw the subject of their attention.

Through the corridor’s dim echoes, came the wet slaps of Super’s webbed feet.

He had managed to track us down, granting us wordless reassurance that the collapse had not blocked our only exit. The wounds he had were numerous but shallow. Most likely just from traversing narrow walkways. I mended them quickly and he accepted the spell with a half-hearted croak of thanks before leaning against the wall like he never left it.

Before following Super’s retraced path out, we decided on taking a short rest. And within it, I cradled my cup of simple black tea and relished the therapy of its scent rather than the taste.

Though it’s a tea I’ve known since my youth, the nostalgia tied to it was tangled up in this group alone. A good thing. The nuns’ murky teas were more akin to punishment than refreshment. But Raph’æl’s were pristinely steeped, jewel-like in the glow of the fire, and often, if requested, accented with the pungent, deity-blessed comfort of a goodberry. Their scent said, all is fine.

At this time.

The group spoke fervently amongst each other, though no specific quotes come to my mind— just the weight of the words:

The Alliance was never drow. They only disguised themselves as them. There was nothing other than spiders that connected them to the Underdark.

Nezznar, that heinous creature that tried to take us down with him, had been something called a “githyanki”— some warrior being from another plane.

The portal beneath Cragmaw had been how Gundren was pulled into this place.

And, perhaps most unsettling, the Alliance had never even found what they sought. Half the cave was untouched, as what they came for— a forge of legends, of spells— was guarded by something even THEY feared. They had only settled in the shadow of it, waiting for us to arrive so we could clear the path for them.

Conversation grew impassioned. Rest and then find the forge? No, forget the forge. We achieved our mission. Gundren is recovered. So we should take him back to Phandalin, right? We were initially hired all that time ago to assist him with the discovery of Wave Echo Cave. So that’s done.

That’s the end of this.

Of us.

The end…

Nundro’s moans pulled me back into the world before I could drown further into my thoughts.

Grateful—almost absurdly so—for the interruption, I crossed the chamber toward him. He hadn’t moved from where we’d left him, still seated on the cold stone floor while Gundren limped slow circles around the room, reacquainting himself with movement and strength. His brother, by contrast, seemed carved into stillness.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I whispered.

He gave a sound that was half a laugh, half a sigh. “Not unless you’ve a Regenerate spell on ya, lass.”

Only then did I notice what I’d somehow overlooked: the empty space where his left leg should have been. His trouser leg had been tied off with a crude knot to stop the bleeding; beside the wall lay his other boot, now purposeless. The world seemed to tilt for a moment, and even behind my mask I felt the blood drain from my face.

Nundro caught it, of course. Dwarves have a way of catching what you try not to show. He chuckled again, though it sounded pained. “Ah, don’t fret it, lass. Break was days ago—too far gone even for magic. You did right by us. Just… if you’ve got a bit more to eat, I’d be grateful.”

Before I could even ponder whether I had any rations left to give, Super’s arm emerged from my peripheral to hand the poor soul a pickle. Nundro blinked, then barked a laugh before devouring it like a man starved.

And I, now feeling as aimless as his left boot, felt the need to be useful in some form or another.

So I drifted, subjecting myself to the old role of quiet little ghost. I listened. Ragar’s low rumble as he bargained with Sildar about hiring the bugbears to defend Phandalin. Jack’s metallic clicks as he reloaded his rifle, deftly dodging Super’s attempts to pry at its secrets. And Raph’æl, his voice uncertain but insistent, trying to steer the conversation back to the Forge of Spells.

He still wants to stay.

And I…

My hand brushed against something as I wandered—a desk, squat and dwarven-made, half-swallowed by rubble and dust. Its dull color made it nearly indistinguishable from the stone around it. I tugged at the drawers, finding them stubborn and unyielding. It took far more strength (and graceless grunting) than I’d have liked, but eventually they gave. One was empty. The other contained a small bundle of papers—maps, perhaps, or records.

As I reached for them, Nundro’s voice rasped across the room.
“Check under the left drawer.”

I obeyed, pressing against the wood until it shifted with a muted scrape. The false bottom lifted, revealing a small hoard: a leather sack heavy with coin and gems, two electrum ale mugs, and a single healing potion nestled beside them.

“Confiscated,” Nundro said, watching me with a faint smile. “But they were meant for all y’all, once we finally met.”

I nodded, letting the mugs and sack fall to the floor with a chiming weight. The sound drew everyone’s attention; boots shuffled closer, voices rose in curiosity. But my focus had already shifted to the papers still in my hands.

The bundle was a mix of beautifully drawn maps—segments of Wave Echo Cave, complete with dwarven annotations and dates tracing back decades—and something newer. Between the parchment sheets, one document stood apart. Its paper was fresh, almost unnaturally so, unmarred by damp or dust. The handwriting was sharp and deliberate, its phrasing oddly formal, as if written by someone forced to use a tongue that was not their own.

A contract.

Two signatures sealed it: Kith’rak Nezznar… and, beside it, a single looping letter.
“G.”

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck bristle. The contract’s text was brief, but its implications filled the air like smoke. Nezznar himself had written it. He spoke of an “alliance” with the bald one who “wishes to hide in plain sight” and “destroy the human settlement.”

The room thickened with speculation. Raph’æl was the first to break the hush. He confessed—hesitant, his voice rough—that during our fight with Nezznar, he’d glimpsed another figure hidden beyond the veil of the battle. A cloaked silhouette, motionless and silent, watching the chaos unfold with a foreboding, glass staff at hand. Raph’æl had attempted to engage him in battle, but wasn’t able to find a proper opening. He said the figure’s presence made him feel as though Nezznar was not the one commanding the tide, but rather being commanded.

Could that have been G?

Sildar muttered thoughtfully to himself, his soldier’s pragmatism returning. “There are at least five bald men in Phandalin,” he mused. “Though none of them struck me as the sort who’d want the town burned down.” He said it half to himself, half to us, his gaze distant. Still, his words set my mind racing. Five bald men.

Five chances for ruin hiding behind ordinary lives.

Raph’æl, for his part, seemed hungry for a reason to continue traversing. His questions came one after another—whether there might still be untouched chambers, whether we were absolutely sure that the Forge itself truly existed, whether what Nezznar sought could be turned toward good. He kept glancing toward me as he spoke, and I could not tell then if he wanted my counsel or my company. Perhaps both.

Gundren’s eyes shone as he took up the tale. The Forge of Spells, he said, was no myth. Centuries ago, this very cave had been the heart of a collaboration between dwarves, gnomes, and humans—a forge where the mundane could be made wondrous, where magic itself could be folded into metal like light into glass. The maps and notes I still held corroborated every word. Gundren’s voice trembled not with fear, but with the old, familiar thrill of ambition. He wanted to see it restored—not merely as a relic, but as a profit.

Jack, polishing his smaller weapons with the absent-minded care of a man pretending not to listen, spoke up. “The forge—was it that chamber we passed earlier? The one with the burning skull?”

Gundren shook his head. “That was the Smelter. The Forge lies deeper still.”

Curiosity was unanimous.

And so we went.

———

Super, nimble and wordless as he tends to be, led us through the winding tunnels until the air grew hotter and heavier. We came again to the Smelter’s wide chamber, its floor cleaved by a yawning rift. Several ropes still hung from its edge, swaying faintly in the subterranean draft. On the far side, two narrow paths led onward into darkness. Super bounded across with his effortless grace, landing silently on the other side. The rest of us, far less amphibious, chose the ropes instead.

At the bottom, we found the entrance Gundren had described: a narrow tunnel, no taller than four feet. The stone walls were close and rough, pressing in like ribs. Only Super and I could stand upright; the others stooped, crawling forward with slow, echoing movements. I led the way, torchlight hovering close behind, casting pale halos on the uneven walls.

The tunnel ended as suddenly as a gasp. One moment I was surrounded by narrow stone, the next I stepped into a vastness so immense it seemed to swallow thought itself. The air was booming with sound—waves crashing and withdrawing against rock in an endless, rhythmic breath. It was deafening; our words vanished the instant they left our mouths. I understood then that this must be the source of the cave’s strange thunder, that low, intermittent rumble that had followed us since the entrance.

The cavern stretched so high and wide I could imagine the streets of Neverwinter fitting comfortably within it—two whole rows of houses, maybe even a square, swallowed by the dark. The path across was perilously thin, little more than a stone rib bridging two abysses. Below, a great body of water churned and glittered faintly in the light of our torches.

Super stared down into the churning waters, unblinking, his pupils widening in fascination. When I tried to follow his gaze, all I saw was blackness—blackness so deep it felt alive. The more I looked, the more it looked back. A current of cold unease slid through me, and I tore my eyes away.

He said something then, words lost to the roar, and took my wrist with a gentleness that belied his strength. I let him lead. The narrow bridge quivered underfoot as the waves struck the stone below. I wanted to look behind me, to make sure everyone was safe, but I dared not lose balance. So I kept my eyes ahead and prayed that the same gods who had carried me this far would carry them too.

When I finally looked up, my breath caught.

The ceiling above shimmered with veins of phosphorescent stone, glittering like a midnight sky suspended underground. The sight was so beautiful it ached. I had never seen anything so vast or so alive below the surface—only the hollow perfection of the dungeon I was raised in, every brick arranged by svirfneblin hands. This place, by contrast, breathed. It was wild, eternal.

For a moment, I forgot to be afraid.

We reached the end of the bridge, where the rock widened into a ledge large enough for all of us to stand side by side again. I turned, and there they all were—dust-covered, breathless, whole. My heart swelled painfully with relief.

Ragar stepped forward to inspect the door ahead, and with a soft click, the lock surrendered. Beyond it was a small study, long abandoned. Dust lay thick upon the desk, the shelves empty, save for a few brittle scrolls whose ink had long since bled into obscurity. Another door waited on the opposite wall, unlocked this time.

The air smelled faintly of ash and old enchantment, the kind that never truly dies. Each step forward felt like trespass.

When we shut it behind us, the silence struck like a blow. The endless roar of the cavern vanished, replaced by a stillness so total it seemed almost unnatural. We had entered a massive workshop. The floor was laced with a faintly glowing moss that painted the stone in a pale green hue. A clear, timeworn path of stone led forward into a broad, doorless chamber.

And there—at its center—stood a pedestal of solid rock. Upon it burned a flame, emerald and steady, casting an otherworldly radiance that banished every shadow from the room. The air shimmered with heat and the tang of rust, with the faint hum of magic that had slept for centuries yet never faded.

Three armored statues encircled the flame: a dwarf, a human, and a gnome, each identical in height and stance. All equals, immortalized as the founders of this power.

I felt the pulse of it in my bones—the weight of all their hopes, all their greed, all their craft.

This was it.
The Forge of Spells.

A subtle shimmer above the brazier caught my eye—an impossible mirage where the air itself seemed to twist and fold in on its own reflection. I thought at first it was a trick of the flame, some distortion born of heat and exhaust. But no—the light was wrong. It bent around something. And within that distortion, I saw an orb, small, smooth, no larger than a clenched hand, suspended over the green fire.

The others noticed too. Gundren hushed the bugbears, keeping them steady across the room. The rest of us stood together at the threshold, hearts hammering in unison, unsure whether we were witnesses or trespassers to something sacred. No one spoke. We only looked from one another to the flame, to the orb, to the waiting dark.

Should we have addressed it? Presented a weapon to sacrifice? Declared an incantation, or fled, or touched nothing at all? I wanted to ask Raph’æl what the right path might be—wanted him to tell me that maybe stillness was the wiser course—but before any words could leave our lips, Super stepped forward.

Without a word, he leapt, hand outstretched.

Time seemed to hold its breath. His fingers passed through the shimmering air, and the orb flickered—then vanished. For a heartbeat, I thought he had snatched it. Then I saw it again—higher now, above the green fire, pulsing faintly.

A slit opened across its surface. Then a second orb appeared.

Then another. And another. Four in all.

They blinked.

Eyes.

A creature—a spectator—emerged from the warping light, its form coalescing from the shimmer like a dream forced into shape. A great floating eye wreathed in smaller ones, each glistening with knowing malice and patient disgust.

And then, in the silence of my mind, a voice—high and sharp, yet heavy with command—cut through me like glass.

“Intruders. Your presence is unexpected. State your purpose... or face the consequences.”