He wore that easy smile of his—the one he wore when he was the Blade of Frontiers, saving innocents and slaying beasts. Was I the innocent or the beast?
we both know the answer to that question.
The relentless onslaught wore him out, his muscles raw, his innards still aching for more. He craved reprieve from it, a solace, or something — anything — to sate it, to head it off, to control it before it controlled him.
He would find it in a tucked-away druid grove: a man who’d jumped to their rescue, a hero who saved their hide from the goblin raid.
Shadowheart finds solace in Marcy, a drow bard, as she deals with the aftermath of Nightsong’s revelation.
Wyll pays a visit to his father and finally airs out his grievances.
Her life’s greatest calling—to be a Dark Justiciar—is right at her fingertips. Shadowheart only needs to make sure everything goes according to her plan. If that included seducing their illustrious leader to swore utmost loyalty to her, so be it.
If only she herself didn’t falter.