Just bear with me here.
I always strive to maintain a relatively professional level of writing. Although I do and will make mistakes in terms of continuity and game logic, at a basic level, I consistently attempt to create a half-decent plot, characters, and descriptions, etc. In past projects and tasks, I've never really moved past single romances, thus I've never truly written a harem story, and I feel like if I did, it may or may not impact the quality of this story, and I REALLY don't want that to happen.
From your comments, it looks like the general preference is a harem. There were many great explanations and insights into the choices (on both WebNovel and Wattpad), with pros and cons of each option.
Romance is an integral part of BG3 and this fanfic, and I don't wanna mess it up by trying a harem, which, from my reading experience not generally done well in many stories. And just from looking at both sites, there aren't many stories like this one.
Don't get me wrong, this is NOT me saying NO or YES to either option; this is just me voicing my opinion on it, and I'd love to hear what you think and if you have any examples of stories that have done a harem well, and not the sexually devious kind (you know what I mean), I'd like to hear your recommendations so I can check them out.
Anyway, enjoy this chapter!
...
After that, an interesting introduction, Shadowheart and Fin moved to, you guessed it.
Another sanctum.
This one was warmer, quieter, and smelled of crushed leaves and burning sage. Herb bundles hung from the roots above like dried lanterns, their stems bound in twine. A soft green glow emanated from mushrooms growing along the edges of the foresty floor, lighting the room in pulses.
Inside, standing by a shallow stone block, was a woman.
She was short, broad-shouldered, and unmistakably grounded—like she had grown up out of the earth herself. Her skin was a warm, rich tone, marked with striking green tattoos that formed angular druidic patterns across her cheeks, forehead, and chin. A simple circlet of woven vines crowned her dark bob-cut hair, small berries still clinging to the twigs. She wore a finely crafted bodice of bark-woven leather and patterned linen, fastened by straps and a bright brooch bearing the symbol of a golden oak leaf against a sky-blue background.
The woman didn't turn to greet them.
"I see you," she said calmly, not looking up. "A moment, please."
She was gently cupping a small bird in her hands—a sparrow, maybe—that twitched weakly, its wing bent at an unnatural angle. Her fingers moved with reverence, checking its joints, brushing off a streak of dried blood.
Fin said nothing, letting her work.
She inhaled slowly, then leaned back from the creature. A faint green light began to bloom in her palms, like mist-lit dawn curling over moss.
She whispered the words with quiet purpose.
"Vis medicatrix…"
The light deepened. It pulsed once, sinking into the bird's feathery chest.
Then—chirp!
The bird jolted upright, flapping its wings once, twice, then hopping excitedly on the stone block. It chirped again, full of energy, and fluttered above.
Nettie watched it go, eyes steady.
"There. It's up to her now. Life or death…"
Only then did she rise to her feet and turn toward them.
Her eyes were dark and sharp, lined with a kind of wary kindness. There was no softness in her expression, but no cruelty either. Simply clarity.
"Now," she said, brushing her hands clean and fixing her gaze on Fin and Shadowheart, "what was it you needed?"
Fin stepped forward, his voice flat and without ceremony.
"I've been infected with a mind flayer tadpole," he said. "I need healing."
That got her attention.
Nettie's eyes widened, the calm detachment vanishing in a blink.
"A tadpole?" she repeated. "A mind flayer tadpole?"
The words left her like a hiss, sharp and full of old fear.
She stepped forward fast, already reaching for something tucked beneath her belt.
"Then we need to speak in private. Now."
Shadowheart took a measured step closer, her brow creasing.
"Can you help us?"
Nettie didn't answer right away.
She looked between them—between Fin's unreadable eyes and Shadowheart's guarded stance—and her mouth pulled into a tight line.
"I… need to examine the extent," she said.
Shadowheart narrowed her eyes slightly. "That's not a yes."
Nettie's hand tightened, and Ali's voice pinged softly into Fin's ear, her hard-light head flickering into existence at his shoulder, arms folded, hair swinging lazily.
"Well, this is already going sideways," she muttered. "You know she's not going to help you. She's going to try and kill you."
Fin didn't answer.
Ali turned her glowing gaze toward him.
"You have a plan, don't you?"
Still nothing.
She rolled her eyes.
"Of course you do. Can't tell me though, because—oh right—' talking to the air makes me look crazy.'" She mimed air quotes with sarcastic precision.
Fin let out a breath through his nose. Not quite a sigh. Not quite in agreement.
Nettie had already turned on her heel, moving quickly to the back wall. Her boots tapped softly across the moss-lined stone, urgency in every step.
"Quickly," she said over her shoulder. "This way."
Fin and Shadowheart followed as she reached a blank stretch of wall.
Then, without a word, she pressed her hand against the surface. A faint pulse rippled outward.
A moment later, the wall shivered.
A hidden seam split open with a low grind, and the section of stone sank smoothly into the ground, revealing yet another passage.
Fin blinked.
"…How many sanctums does this grove need?"
Ali popped into his peripheral vision again, looking equally unimpressed.
"I swear, this place is starting to feel like a pocket dimension built by a druid with severe boundary issues."
Fin stepped through without comment.
Shadowheart followed behind, murmuring under her breath, "You'd think one grove was enough."
Behind them, the hidden wall rumbled shut, sealing them off once more.
Nettie's eyes flicked toward Shadowheart, her fingers still gently gripping the thorned branch.
"She doesn't have to be here for this," she said quietly, giving Fin a side glance. "It may be… unpleasant."
Shadowheart didn't even blink.
"I'm staying," she said flatly. "Wouldn't miss it. I'm fascinated to see what you've got in store."
Nettie turned back toward the two of them, clearing her throat softly.
"Well then. I suppose—"
"You planning to heal me with poison?"
Fin's voice was calm. Almost bored. But it cut through the chamber like a blade.
Nettie froze mid-step.
Her eyes widened—just a flicker—but it was enough.
She was holding the thorned branch still, halfway to dipping it into a nearby clay bowl.
"…You knew?" she said slowly.
Fin exhaled, long and steady.
With a subtle twitch of his fingers, cursed energy pulsed through the air.
SHHK.
The branch snapped in half without warning—cleanly sliced right down the middle by an invisible line.
Dismantle.
The two severed halves of the branch dropped to the floor with a clatter.
Nettie stared down at them, then let out a tired breath and slowly knelt to gather the pieces.
"I wanted to see what kind of person you were first," she said quietly. "Before I said anything."
Fin tilted his head. "You mean before stabbing me."
She didn't respond.
He sighed. "You didn't have anything useful to say anyway."
Nettie stood again, still holding the halved branch. "No. I didn't."
She stepped away from the slab and moved toward the far shelf again, eyes shadowed.
"Only Master Halsin had any idea what these things were. He left with Aradin's crew—adventurers, seasoned ones. They'd heard rumors of strange dreams, of something unnatural inside the Selûnite ruins to the west. They went to investigate."
Her shoulders rose and fell with the breath she took next.
"They were attacked by goblins on the way. Some were captured. I sent birds after them. None came back."
Fin groaned under his breath, running a hand through his hair.
"Great. A whole story I didn't ask for."
Nettie stiffened.
"I thought you—"
"You lied," Fin said, sharp now, stepping forward. "You told us we had options. You made it sound like you could help us."
"I had to see—"
"No," he interrupted. "You wasted my time. If there's no cure here, don't string us along."
Shadowheart blinked at him, just slightly. She hadn't heard him raise his voice like that before.
Fin turned halfway toward her, softening his tone.
"She lied, Shadowheart. That's what matters."
Shadowheart nodded slowly, lips tightening. "So she did."
But beneath his detached irritation… the truth stirred.
Fin's eyes narrowed.
This wasn't about hoping for a cure. He knew from the start that Nettie couldn't help. No one in this grove could. The only person who ever stood a chance was Halsin, and even he hadn't found a cure. Not here. Not yet.
Fin had come for something else.
He let the act fade just a touch, just enough for the truth to slip through.
"I don't care about your birds," he muttered. "I don't care about your dead adventurers. I already know how this plays out."
Nettie stared at him, confused.
Shadowheart furrowed her brow. "What does that mean?"
Fin didn't answer.
His gaze flicked once more toward the cluttered stone table behind Nettie—the one filled with jars of every shape and size, filled with herbs, salves, preserved organs… and one, he knew, with something far more important.
The tadpole.
It had slithered out of the drow's head after death. Nettie would have preserved it. Studied it. Probably labelled it as something unholy or cursed.
He turned slowly, voice low.
"Give me the jar."
Nettie blinked. "What?"
"The tadpole," he clarified. "From the drow. You kept it. It's here—somewhere in those jars."
Nettie hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at the shelf behind her. "You want that? Why?"
Fin didn't answer right away. He stepped closer, his eyes scanning the top. Still… there were too many. Glass reflected the dim light in all directions, distorting what lay inside.
He couldn't spot it.
Yet he knew it was there.
"I know what I'm doing," he said calmly. "I'm not planning on implanting it. I just want to study it. Like Halsin would've."
Nettie's jaw tensed. "You're not Halsin."
"No," Fin admitted, "but I'll bring him back."
That caught her off guard.
Before she could ask, Fin gave her something else instead—something unexpected.
He smiled.
Just a small one. Subtle. But it was there.
From the boy who had, until now, been eerily calm and quite brutal, it was jarring.
Nettie's eyes widened just a fraction, taken aback.
Shadowheart blinked, startled by the warmth in his face.
Ali appeared beside him again, arms folded, one brow raised over her glowing eye.
"Ohoho," she teased. "Look at you. Cracking a smile. Careful, you'll break your Sasuke impression."
Nettie finally exhaled and turned toward the shelf. She scanned the jars for a moment, then reached toward the back and pulled one free—a narrow container filled with cloudy fluid. Inside, a pale violet shape floated sluggishly.
It looked harmless.
Until it twitched.
She held it out to him slowly.
"Don't let it get too warm. And… don't open it."
Fin took the jar gently, tucking it into the inner folds of his coat.
"I won't."
Nettie studied him a moment longer, as if seeing something new—and uncertain.
Shadowheart glanced sideways at him again, faint tension in her jaw.
But Fin was already walking away, expression unreadable once more.
Ali hovered at his side, arms still folded.
"I'm giving it… two days before you crack a full grin," she said. "Maybe even a chuckle. Scandalous stuff."
Fin didn't answer.
But that faint ghost of a smile?
He didn't know where it came from, but it felt nice.
...
Fin and Shadowheart quickly left the chamber. Fin stepped through first, only to immediately come to a halt.
Kagha was still in the sanctum.
She was sitting on the same cracked slab of stone where he'd left her.
Her hair hung frayed around her face, a few strands clinging to the side of her cheek. Her clothes were wrinkled and loose at the collar as if she hadn't moved for some time. Her eyes were distant, focused on the middle of the floor as if waiting for it to speak.
Then she looked up.
Their eyes met.
Fin froze.
Kagha blinked once. Slowly. Her expression unreadable… or perhaps too readable. Somewhere between longing, reverence, and mild delirium.
Fin blinked back.
"Nope."
He turned, snatched Shadowheart's wrist, and said, "Move."
"What—"
"Now."
And he was already half-jogging through the stone archway, practically dragging her behind him.
They passed into the outer pool chamber, where the mist hung low and the druidic carvings shimmered faintly with magical light. A group of druids still stood in solemn formation, their hands raised and chanting in slow rhythm. Vines snaked gently through the stone walls as The Rite of Thorns continued.
Fin didn't stop.
Shadowheart half-laughed under her breath. "What was that about?"
"I don't want to talk about it," Fin said flatly. "I saw things in her eyes. Things that can't be unseen."
They reached the grove's main path again, the warm light of the sun filtering through the canopy above. Just ahead, by a grove bench, they spotted a familiar cluster.
Komira and Locke were there, standing close to their daughter—Arabella—who was now on her feet, animatedly recounting something with a mix of wide gestures and breathless energy.
Wyll stood nearby, arms crossed with a proud smile, clearly entertained by the retelling.
Fin slowed his pace.
Arabella spotted him first.
"Hey!" she chirped, waving excitedly.
Komira looked up, her expression softening the moment her eyes found Fin. Locke gave a small nod of gratitude, quiet but warm.
Wyll stepped back and made room for them as they approached.
"Look who made it out alive," he said with a grin.
Fin raised a brow. "Barely."
Arabella grinned up at him. "Did you get in trouble with the scary lady again?"
Fin gave her a look. "Define 'trouble.'"
"She was sitting on the ground when we passed her," Shadowheart muttered, still half-laughing. "Like she was praying to you."
Fin scowled. "Let's not unpack that."
Arabella giggled.
Komira stepped forward and offered a hand to Fin, uncharacteristically formal.
"Thank you," she said, quiet but steady. "For bringing her back."
Fin took her hand briefly and gave a shallow nod. "She got lucky."
Locke added, "She got you."
Fin didn't answer.
He just looked at the three of them—parents whole, child unharmed—and felt… nothing.
No satisfaction. No pride.
Just the next step in a long chain of distractions.
Ali flickered into view near the edge of his vision, arms behind her back.
"Well," she said softly, "you didn't ruin everything today."
Fin adjusted the coat over his chest where the jar with the tadpole rested securely in the lining.
He still had what he came for.
"Let's keep moving," he said quietly.
Shadowheart looked at him, something unreadable in her gaze.
But she followed and fell into step beside him, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as they stepped off the grove's main trail. Wyll jogged to catch up, hands resting easily on his belt.
"So," Shadowheart asked, tone casual, "where to next? Are we meeting back up with Lae'zel and the amnesiac?"
Fin shook his head.
"Not yet. Thought we'd take a look around. Get our bearings."
Wyll raised a brow. "Looking for something in particular?"
Fin didn't answer. Not directly anyways, just said they could blow off some time exploring the grove and its surrounding lands.
Just kept walking with a slow pace through the winding paths of the Grove.
He wasn't aimless. Not even close.
There was a certain tiefling he remembered. A bard, if memory served. A naive personality. A voice is still in progress, but potential bleeding through. Her name hovered somewhere in the back of his head, still fuzzy.
And sure enough, after a few turns and a short climb up a mossy ridge path, they heard it.
A voice.
They climbed a final stone step and crested the ridge where the voice had come from.
There she was.
A young tiefling stood near the cliff's edge, a basic lute cradled in her arms. Her skin was a cool lavender, and her curling black horns swept back elegantly, decorated with golden rings that jingled faintly when she shifted. Her long, violet-pink hair framed a heart-shaped face painted with intensity and frustration.
Her clothes were a swirl of colour; reds, greens, and purples stitched together like a harlequin's patchwork. Tiny golden bells lined the shoulders of her jacket, but none of them jingled as she stood perfectly still, brow furrowed in concentration.
She strummed the lute once, and then tried again.
"Dance upon the stars tonight, Smile and pain will fade away, Words of mine will—"
She stopped. "Will change—no."
She grimaced. "'Become'. Ugh, that doesn't work either."
Her fingers hovered over the strings, annoyed.
Fin said nothing. Neither did Wyll nor Shadowheart.
They simply watched.
Fin's eyes narrowed slightly, not in judgment, but recognition.
This was the one.
The tiefling bard whose song had never quite made it to the surface, whose heart was louder than her voice. He remembered her being more important later. A survivor. A storyteller. Someone the world would need.
Even if she didn't know it yet.
Ali flickered into his peripheral vision, silent this time, watching her too.
"'Change'? No. Damn it!"
Alfira snapped, the word bursting out like a slap to the wind.
She yanked her hand away from the strings, nearly dropping the lute in the process. One of the golden bells on her shoulder jingled mockingly, like it was laughing at her.
Her tail flicked behind her with agitation as she turned in a small, frustrated circle on the cliff edge.
"I swear to the gods, why is this so hard?! It's not even rhyming anymore! Ugh!"
She stomped once—lightly—then held her head in her hands, breathing heavily.
Fin remained still.
Wyll tilted his head, clearly wanting to step forward.
Shadowheart folded her arms.
Fin gave a subtle shake of his head. Not yet.
This was the moment before the melody. The kind of silence that held more than quiet—it held truth. Vulnerability. The mess before the art.
He watched as Alfira inhaled deeply, lifting her lute again, brushing hair from her eyes.
"Nice verse," Fin said dryly. "You planning to finish it before the goblins do?"
Alfira yelped and spun around, nearly dropping her lute again. Her horns tilted back in surprise as she spotted the trio.
"Gods—how long were you guys standing there?!"
Fin gave a nonchalant shrug. "Long enough to see you lose an argument with a sentence."
She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "I'm going to die. If not by goblins, then by this bloody song."
Her fingers plucked the strings once sourly.
"I can't… nothing fits, you know?" she muttered, staring out over the grove below. "It's like I'm trying to bottle grief with a rhyme scheme."
Fin took a few steps closer, arms loosely crossed.
"Is now really the best time to be practising?" he asked. "The druids are in the middle of shutting you all out, and the road's littered with goblins."
Alfira didn't look back at him.
"I… we lost people on the way here," she said softly. "To the goblins. To the woods. One of them was my teacher."
Her voice thinned near the end, the words hitching in her throat.
"She always said the dead deserve to be remembered. That music holds what prayers forget."
Fin was quiet for a moment. Then:
"Do you want a hand with the song?"
She blinked, caught off guard.
"You play?"
Fin took the second lute from her hands with a straight face, plucking the strings lightly.
"Definitely."
Shadowheart arched a brow, smirking already. "Oh, this I have to hear."
Fin sat down on the boulder with a dramatic air of confidence, legs apart, lute in lap like it was second nature.
"It's not so different from bass," he muttered.
For some context, Fin had to do a compulsory music class in High School and spent a semester learning the bass guitar, but note that he would regularly skip class or learn the actual content.
"What's a 'bass'?" Wyll asked.
"...Doesn't matter."
Fin strummed once.
It was bad.
Like, violently bad.
A sour, choked squawk of noise screeched from the strings like the lute had been possessed by a dying goose. He tried again—some half-remembered fingerings, fumbling awkwardly through an arpeggio that sounded more like a spell miscast in five languages.
Alfira visibly winced.
Wyll let out a single, stunned laugh.
Shadowheart? Already covering her mouth.
Another string twanged—a flat, buzzing noise that reverberated off the nearby stones with all the musical grace of a door slamming shut on a cat.
Then silence.
Fin blinked at the instrument, grimaced, and shoved it back toward Alfira.
"…It's broken."
That did it.
Shadowheart burst into laughter, nearly doubling over, hand braced against her knee.
"Oh gods," she gasped. "That was painful. You looked like you were being tortured by your ego."
Wyll clapped once, still grinning. "You gave it your all, Fin. Truly."
Even Alfira had a hand over her mouth, giggling. "I think the lute cried a little."
Fin scowled, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I said bass," he muttered. "Four strings. Big. Reliable. Didn't squeal at me."
Shadowheart leaned in from her rock perch, still chuckling, her voice softening into something more playful.
"Is this how you handle rejection? Shoving it back and pouting?"
Fin looked away.
"Not pouting."
"Oh, I think you're pouting, but don't worry, it's an adorable look"
He grumbled something under his breath that didn't quite qualify as a denial.
Shadowheart's grin widened. "Don't worry. It was… charming. In a 'goblin-being-hit-with-a-pan' sort of way."
Fin sighed and muttered again, this time with even less conviction.
The laughter faded slowly, but the warmth of it lingered.
And Alfira, now smiling despite herself, tucked the lute back against her shoulder and said,
"…Okay. Maybe I'll play, and you can just hum along."
Fin crossed his arms.
"I'm not humming."
"You're definitely humming," Shadowheart said, already stretching out to watch.
Alfira smiled, the laughter still warming her cheeks. Then her expression softened—something distant settling behind her eyes.
"I haven't laughed like that since…" she paused, the smile fading just slightly. "Since my teacher, Lihala."
Fin glanced her way. He already remembered the name—but this time, he listened.
"She loved dancing," Alfira said, voice gentler now. "Had two left feet, mind. Always looked like a drunk squirrel trying to do a waltz."
Wyll chuckled.
"But she loved it," Alfira continued, gaze drifting skyward. "I remember waking up one night on the road, just before we reached Elturel… and there she was. Dancing beneath the stars. Spinning, barefoot in the grass. A huge smile on her face, like nothing in the world could ever hurt her."
Her fingers brushed along the strings absently now, no tune—just feeling.
"And now," she whispered, "when I try to put it into words… my heart hurts. And everything I want to say just crumbles. Like ash."
There was a long, quiet beat.
Then her eyes lit up.
"Wait," she gasped, sitting upright.
"'Words of mine will turn to ash…' That's perfect!"
She strummed a chord—soft and minor, but full of momentum. Her lips began to move again, quietly humming the new rhythm to herself.
Fin sat still, arms loosely crossed.
He said nothing.
But a corner of his mouth twitched—just a little.
She strummed a chord—soft and minor, but full of momentum. Her lips began to move again, quietly humming the new rhythm to herself.
Fin gave a small nod, the kind that said go on, and gestured lightly to her lute.
"'Words of mine will turn to ash… when you call the last light down…'" she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
Then she looked up at them—at Fin, at Shadowheart, at Wyll—and breathed in.
The song began.
The notes were still raw, the edges still uneven, but the heart of it was alive now. Alfira's voice wasn't polished, but it didn't need to be. It carried something weightier than perfection—grief, love, memory, and the longing to hold on to all three at once.
Fin watched her as she sang, the words spilling into the air with a kind of desperate grace.
And slowly… he felt himself drift.
Not away, but more so inward.
The song, as unfinished as it was, echoed places he hadn't let himself revisit in weeks. No, years if he was being honest.
He remembered the road to Yartar. The soft crunch of his and Helga's boots stepping through damp forest trails and snow. The nights when the sky was nothing but mist and starlight, and Helga had walked just ahead, sword strapped to her back, humming something she never finished.
He remembered the times she handed him a piece of stale bread, pretending not to care that he hadn't eaten in days, even though she hadn't eaten for much longer.
He remembered the time she punched a mercenary so hard he cracked a tree—and afterwards, she asked him if he wanted the man's boots, though they were much to large for his small body.
And he remembered that final moment beneath Elmer—the flickering runes, the stench of blood and soul magic, the walls caving in.
Her broken arm still managed to wrap around him.
Her voice—hoarse and soft—had said, "I love you."
He had felt her heartbeat against his chest.
It had been real.
And then… You know the rest.
The music wound down slowly.
Alfira plucked the final note and let it hang in the air, like the last leaf of autumn, too stubborn to fall.
Silence followed.
Wyll sat back with a low exhale, visibly moved.
Shadowheart didn't speak. Her hands were clasped, her eyes distant.
And Fin?
He closed his eyes for a second longer than necessary.
Then nodded once, the smallest motion.
"…It was good," he said.
And he truly meant it.
...
[End of Chapter]