Still alive, just got back to Uni, so the first two weeks have been hectic. As usual, I appreciate your comments and do love any feedback or notes you can give.
Enjoy!
...
The final note faded, and silence lingered for a moment longer.
Then came the applause, and it was warm.
Fin clapped once. Then again. Shadowheart joined him, her hands slower but no less sincere. Wyll gave a quiet whoop before following with a steady rhythm, the trio offering Alfira a moment of quiet celebration.
Alfira lowered her lute into her lap and exhaled shakily.
"Thank you," she said, her voice still soft with emotion. "I was having trouble… finding the words."
Fin folded his arms, stepping back with a hint of a smirk.
"Glad I could lend my vast musical expertise."
Shadowheart tilted her head, a crooked grin forming.
"Oh, please. You nearly broke the poor thing. Leave it to the real musicians."
She nodded toward Alfira with a dramatic sweep of her hand.
Alfira let out a watery chuckle. "The lute did look a little scared."
Wyll gave a lopsided grin as he leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on his belt.
"That song," he said. "It was about Lihala, wasn't it?"
Alfira nodded once, her expression tightening.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "She was my teacher. And… friend."
The words seemed to land heavier than she expected.
Her throat worked once, trying to hold something back.
"Sorry," she muttered. "Damn it—"
Tears slipped down her cheek.
She turned her face slightly away, one hand wiping quickly at her eyes.
Fin chuckled gently. Not unkindly. Something about the way she apologised—like grief was an inconvenience—felt familiar.
"Let it out," he said, voice lower now. "You're allowed to."
"I don't usually—" she tried, shaking her head. "I'm all right."
She sniffed once and pulled her sleeves over her palms, dabbing at her cheeks. Her eyes were red now, but she was trying to smile through it.
"I haven't finished a song since Lihala died," she admitted. "Haven't played at all, if I'm honest."
She looked down at the lute in her lap, fingers absently brushing the strings.
"She was playing hers when it happened. That morning."
Her voice dipped.
"We didn't hear the gnoll coming."
The sentence hung, unfinished, even though the thought wasn't. Her shoulders tightened as she stared out at the trees, pupils unfocused, her body curling in slightly.
"There was so much blood," she whispered. "I—I can still smell it."
Wyll lowered his head respectfully. Shadowheart didn't speak either, her arms crossed loosely, but her gaze fixed on Alfira with unexpected softness.
Fin stepped a little closer and lowered himself to sit beside her, careful not to crowd.
She didn't flinch. But she didn't look at him, either.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, watching the forest below.
"…I lost someone too," he said. "A long time ago now. She used to hum under her breath when she thought no one was listening. Never finished the melody either."
Fin then chuckled.
"She had this habit… whenever she thought I wasn't listening. Some broken little tune, never finished. Always out of key. Drove me insane some days."
He let out a dry exhale. Almost a laugh.
"Later on, I caught myself humming it. Still don't know what the second half was supposed to be."
His eyes traced the forest line for a breath.
"She was stubborn. Liked to pretend things didn't hurt."
He paused again, before turning his head just enough to glance at Alfira.
"Your teacher, she'd be proud of you."
Alfira blinked and turned toward him, caught off guard.
"Heh," she murmured. A small, surprised smile tugged at her lips. "She'd yell at me for that metre."
She lifted her fingers, pretending to conduct the tune with exaggerated flair.
"And make me play it over and over again. 'Again, Alfira. From the second verse. Don't mangle the transitions like a drunk bard on festival night.'"
The smile didn't fade.
Her eyes, glassy only moments ago, now held something clearer.
Resolve.
"And that's exactly what I'm going to do," she said. "Finish The Weeping Dawn. For her."
She stood up, brushing down the folds of her dress with practised flicks of her hand. Her posture straightened. The music hadn't fixed the grief, but it had certainly given her a direction.
"I've a long way to go… but thank you. I… I needed this."
She hesitated, then laughed softly to herself.
"Gods, listen to me ramble. I haven't even asked your names."
She gave a half-step back and dipped into a shallow, almost formal bow.
"I'm Alfira. Bard, composer, emotional mess. It's lovely to meet you—formally, I mean."
Fin stood as well, adjusting his coat.
"Fin," he said simply, tone returning to its usual calm.
Shadowheart stepped forward next, one brow raised, arms crossed.
"Shadowheart."
Wyll gave a small bow.
"Wyll. At your service"
Alfira clapped her hands together, her eyes lighting up.
"Oh! You're them, aren't you? The ones who helped save the Grove during the goblin attack yesterday?"
Fin smirked, his chest rising a little.
"Well. I did most of the heavy lifting."
Shadowheart rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in her head.
"Oh, don't start," she muttered."
Wyll chuckled, clearly enjoying the banter.
"Let him have his moment."
Alfira let out a soft squeal, covering her mouth with her fingertips.
"I knew it! I heard some of the stories—well, second-hand stories. I was already turning them into songs! I mean, not good ones yet, but still!"
She gave an embarrassed little shrug, her smile turning sheepish.
"I've always wanted to live like that. Stand on my own two feet. Be… someone who matters. You know?"
From beside Fin, Ali flickered into view with a faint hum of static, arms folded, eyes glowing faintly.
"She's got Stephanie's energy," Ali murmured, her tone wry.
Fin gave a subtle nod, barely perceptible, but real.
Yeah.
He saw it too.
That spark. That hunger. That quiet belief that music could mean something, that stories could carry people when strength couldn't.
That kind of heart was rare.
And important.
He didn't say anything more.
But for a moment, as Alfira beamed under the sun-dappled trees, lute still clutched to her chest like a lifeline, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the world wasn't completely broken.
Fin cleared his throat with a quiet cough.
Alfira's eyes snapped back to him, mid-ramble, her hands still halfway through a passionate gesture about heroic ballads and mixed time signatures.
"As much as I've enjoyed this little break…"
He tilted his head toward the forest path behind them.
"…we've got business to handle."
Alfira's smile faltered a little, the brightness in her posture dimming.
"Oh. Right. Of course."
Her hands lowered to her sides. She gripped the neck of her lute with both palms, fidgeting slightly.
Fin, however, offered a rare thing.
A smile.
Not the smirk. Not the snide curl of self-satisfaction.
"You should swing by our camp sometime."
Alfira blinked, stunned.
"Seriously. I'd love to hear more of your songs. We could use a little… fun."
He looked over his shoulder toward the faint wisp of smoke curling in the distance.
"And who doesn't like music?"
Alfira stared at him, mouth parting slightly.
"You… really mean that?"
Her voice was quieter now. Unsure. She looked down at her feet. "I'm not exactly… seasoned. I don't know if I'd be much use. Or fun."
Fin chuckled, stepping forward and placing a hand gently on her shoulder.
The moment was light, casual even—but his expression held no mockery.
"Alfira. You're more than enough."
The touch made her eyes widen, and simultaneously made Shadowheart's narrow ever so slightly. Her arms tightened across her chest. She said nothing… but she didn't need to. Her gaze spoke volumes.
Wyll raised a brow, sensing the shift but wisely choosing not to comment.
Fin took a step back and pointed with a casual flick of his thumb.
"Our camp's just past the eastern ridge. A little clearing near a broken shrine. If you feel like joining…"
He met her eyes.
"…then go thatta way."
He made a vague gesture, somewhere between a salute and a lazy wave.
Alfira smiled again—this time, nervous and full of that chaotic bard energy—but it was real.
"I'll… think about it."
"Good. Don't think too long, though. We've only got so many quiet nights."
Ali flickered into view beside him again, smirking.
"I'll give her… two hours before she shows up with three ballads and a fresh anxiety attack."
Fin didn't respond, but his eyes glinted with the kind of mischief that had been dormant for far too long.
The trio turned and began walking, the path ahead beckoning them into the next tangle of woods and fate.
Behind them, Alfira stood quietly, clutching her lute like an anchor, and watching them until they disappeared into the grove.
...
Fin ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.
"I'm spent," he muttered. "Emotionally. Musically. Spiritually. Let's go find Lae'zel and… dragon-lady."
Wyll raised an eyebrow as he walked alongside him.
"You're still calling her that?"
Fin shrugged.
"She hasn't told us what to call her. Not really. So, unless you want me to go with 'Ice Queen' or something, I'm sticking with dragon-lady."
Shadowheart snorted.
"She and Lae'zel are probably—what? Arguing about honour codes again? Or starting a small war over who gets to stand closest to the campfire?"
Fin opened his mouth to reply—
[Tiefling Prison – A Few Moments Later]
— Lae'zel sat behind iron bars, arms crossed, lip curled in a silent snarl. She looked like a panther caged, moments from shattering the lock with sheer contempt.
"Get me out of here!"
Beside her, the white-scaled sorcerer known only as Durge leaned back against the wall, arms behind her head, eyes half-lidded with bored detachment. Frost clung faintly to the corner of the cell, crackling softly under her boots.
They did not speak. They did not move.
They stared through the bars at Fin and Shadowheart.
Who were both doubled over in barely suppressed laughter just outside the cell door. Fin slapped a hand over his mouth, trying not to cackle, while Shadowheart was wheezing silently, her eyes watering.
Lae'zel's glare could have melted steel.
Durge raised a single brow. Her tail tapped the floor once. Twice. Cold mist swirled faintly from her nose as she exhaled.
Fin finally straightened up and wiped his eye.
"Oh no," he said, barely holding it together, "please. Don't stop glaring. It's working."
"When I am free, I will mount your head on a pike and use it to ward off lesser fools." Lae'zel spat
"Promises, promises." Shadowheart cackled.
Durge said nothing.
She simply blinked; however, the air grew colder by a few degrees.
It had been a surprisingly productive day… until it wasn't.
Through a combination of vague threats, intense githyanki posturing, and minimal translation on Lae'zel's part, the duo had managed to squeeze some intel out of a tiefling named Zorru. The creche—Lae'zel's mysterious githyanki outpost—was real, and apparently not far from a rocky mountain pass to the north.
Unfortunately, in typical Lae'zel fashion, "conversation" had quickly turned into "interrogation."
Zorru, who was kneeling at this point, had started sobbing somewhere between "Where is this githyanki group you saw?" and "I will rip your tongue from your skull if you stutter again."
That, naturally, had drawn the attention of the local guards.
And when said guards asked what was going on, Lae'zel had responded by brandishing her sword and calling them "meat-things" with the moral consistency of wet bread.
Durge, for her part, hadn't helped.
She had stood to the side, silently watching the scene unfold with dispassionate amusement until someone laid a hand on her shoulder.
That man was still in the healer's den. Frozen from the waist down.
So, it was no surprise that both of them had ended up in the Grove's makeshift holding cell, locked behind iron bars. Wyll was speaking in calm tones with one of the tiefling guards—an older lady in some leather armour who looked equal parts exhausted and unimpressed.
"Look, I understand tensions were high, but my companions didn't mean harm. They were simply… passionate in their questioning."
The guard gave him a long, flat look.
"They made a grown man cry."
Wyll's smile didn't falter, though it gained a hint of strain.
"Perhaps he had… had a sensitive disposition?"
Back at the cell, Lae'zel gripped the bars with both hands, her lip curling.
"This is a waste of time. Release me or suffer the consequences."
Fin leaned in slightly.
"You're already behind bars. What consequences are you threatening, exactly? Emotional damage?"
She growled low in her throat.
Durge remained seated, silent, frost swirling idly around her boots. One of the floorboards beneath her groaned softly as ice spiderwebbed across the surface.
Fin nudged Shadowheart with his elbow.
"Should we let them out?"
She smirked.
"Eventually."
The word had barely left Shadowheart's lips when the heavy flap of leather boots echoed down the stone steps behind them.
Zevlor.
The tiefling commander strode into the chamber, his crimson skin flushed a shade deeper with frustration, brows furrowed beneath his dark, arching horns.
"What in the Hells is going on down here?"
Fin and Shadowheart both flinched upright like guilty schoolchildren caught by the headmaster.
Shadowheart tried—badly—not to giggle.
Fin coughed into his fist, expression suspiciously neutral.
Behind the bars, Lae'zel lunged forward, gripping the metal with both hands.
"Is this how your people treat those they call saviours?" she barked, eyes narrowed into daggers. "I bled for your whelps! And now I rot behind bars while you sniff at politics like a neutered hound! K'chakhi!"
Zevlor didn't flinch.
His gaze swept over her, then to Durge—still sitting calmly, mist curling under her boots—and then back to Fin.
"I was told," he said slowly, "that she and her… dragon companion were harassing my people."
His words were calm, but the edge behind them was unmistakable.
"I do not tolerate intimidation. Not even from those who saved us."
Lae'zel inhaled sharply, ready to spit another insult.
Fin stepped forward, raising a hand.
"Lae'zel," he said evenly. "Don't."
She growled, already drawing in a breath to speak—
—and Fin turned his head, slowly, to look at her.
A single glance.
Sharp and as quiet as death, it shut her up instantly.
Her mouth snapped closed like a steel trap. She glared back, furious, but didn't say another word.
Fin returned his attention to Zevlor.
"Apologies," he said. "On her behalf."
Zevlor's brow arched.
"Are gith always like that?"
"Brutally honest and slightly unhinged?" Fin shrugged. "Yeah. Comes standard, unfortunately."
Zevlor exhaled, clearly restraining himself.
Fin softened his tone slightly.
"But if I may… consider letting them go. I did manage to get Kagha off your back. More or less."
Zevlor's eyes widened.
"Truly?"
Fin nodded. "She won't be a threat anymore."
There was a long pause.
Then Zevlor stepped forward, his expression shifting—reluctance melting into something closer to respect.
He offered Fin a slight bow of his head.
"Then I must give you my thanks," he said. "That is no small feat."
Fin inclined his head in return, saying nothing more.
Behind him, Shadowheart leaned toward Wyll, whispering just loud enough for Fin to hear.
"Look at him. Politicking already. Soon he'll be shaking hands with nobles and signing scrolls."
Wyll smirked. "Don't give him ideas."
Ali flickered into view over Fin's shoulder, arms folded.
"Okay, that look you gave Lae'zel? Terrifying. I'm proud."
Fin didn't answer.
...
[Forest Trail – Late Afternoon, en route back to camp]
The sun filtered low through the trees, casting long shadows along the dirt path as the group made their way back to camp. Birds chirped lazily above, oblivious to the war council forming below.
They walked in a staggered line—Fin near the front, shoulders slack with fatigue; Lae'zel close behind, upright and stalking like a predator; Wyll and Durge in step beside one another, and Shadowheart trailing just behind, arms folded and eyes scanning the canopy.
Somewhere along the way, their respective intel/missions were shared.
And Fin's, naturally, had taken a tone.
"So, let me recap," he said, voice low and dry. "We meet the healer. She tells us she might be able to help. Then, surprise—she tries to poison me. With a stick."
Lae'zel snorted.
"Your mistake was expecting competence from surface weaklings. A githyanki healer would have gutted you cleanly before wasting a dose."
Fin cast her a glance over his shoulder.
"Charming."
Shadowheart muttered, "She nearly did, to be fair."
Lae'zel gave a sharp nod.
"As she should have. If there is no cure, better to die with clarity than live in delusion."
Durge spoke next, her voice cool and measured.
"Zorru was more useful than expected. He and his companion stumbled upon a githyanki patrol stationed near the mountain pass. The companion didn't survive the encounter."
Lae'zel's head snapped to her.
"You are certain?"
Durge nodded.
"He cried when he said it. Twice."
Lae'zel's jaw clenched, her eyes flaring with renewed purpose.
"Then we go. At once. My kin will lead us to the creche where we can receive purification. We waste time with these distractions."
Wyll sighed.
"And what of Karlach? She's still out there—possibly dying. Possibly killing and destroying the Sword Coast as we speak"
He looked toward the group, one brow raised.
"If she loses control, we'll feel it from Baldur's Gate to the bloody Spine."
Lae'zel scoffed, not even sparing him a glance.
"Your fiery devil is your concern. My people are our only salvation."
"So we're splitting already?" Wyll scoffed.
Fin groaned. Loudly.
He didn't stop walking, but his hand came up to rub at his face.
"Gods, I'm too tired for this," he muttered. "We draw straws. The longest one picks the direction. End of debate."
That got a pause.
A beat of silence.
Durge blinked at him.
"…You're joking."
Lae'zel growled. "You would leave fate to chance?"
Wyll raised an incredulous brow. "Straws?"
Fin dropped his hand from his face and shot them all a deadpan look.
"Last time I left you alone, you got arrested. Forgive me for not trusting anyone's 'plan' right now."
Only Shadowheart chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Well, at least one of us still has a sense of humour."
Fin sighed, "Oh, it's not a sense of humour. It's exhaustion in disguise."
Ali appeared beside him, flickering to life with a glowing hum.
"Confirmed. His sarcasm threshold is peaking. If he starts talking about flipping coins, I'm pulling him out of the conversation entirely."
Fin waved her off without looking.
They kept walking.
...
Finally, the group returned to camp. AStarion hadn't moved much, although he was interested in what the group had gone up to. After relaying today's events to him, the group split off to do their things before bunkering down.
Lae'zel sat sharpening her sword near the edge of the clearing, muttering githyanki oaths under her breath. Durge lounged on a nearby boulder, carving arcane symbols into a strip of leather, frost trailing her fingertips. Wyll was doing push-ups near the fire.
Fin, however, had taken refuge in his tent—if you could call it that. A half-pitched canvas tucked against a sloped rock, just far enough from the others to feel isolated, yet close enough to return if something tried to eat him in the dark.
He sat with his back against a rolled-up bedroll, a battered wine bottle in one hand and a half-empty goblet in the other.
The wine was surprisingly smooth. He let it sit on his tongue a moment longer than necessary before swallowing.
"Technically," he muttered to himself, "I haven't had alcohol since I was reincarnated…"
He tilted the goblet, watching the crimson liquid swirl inside.
"…Unless you count that one time Helga tried to ferment mead in the woods."
He winced at the memory.
"One sip. Comatose. Four and a half days. Pretty sure I spoke fluent squirrel for two of them."
The tent flap rustled.
He didn't look up.
"Shadowheart."
She chuckled from just beyond the canvas.
"Do you see through the tent now? Or do you just have eyes in every direction?"
He smirked and finally glanced over his shoulder.
"I take it as a compliment."
He gestured with the goblet toward a patch of ground across from him.
"There's space. Blessed be the priestess gracing my lowly tent."
Shadowheart stepped through with a crooked smile, her arms wrapped loosely over her chest. The flickering light from the campfire gave her hair a faint copper tint.
"I was bored," she said, settling onto the canvas with casual ease. "And you're the least annoying out of the bunch. For now."
Fin raised an eyebrow.
"I don't believe you. You're clearly here to seduce me."
Shadowheart tilted her head, as if considering it.
Then—without a word—she reached out and took the glass from his hand, her fingers brushing his.
She brought it to her lips and took a slow sip, her eyes never leaving his.
The movement was fluid.
Almost dangerous.
She swallowed, then licked the remaining drop from the corner of her mouth with deliberate ease.
Fin blinked.
"…Bold," he muttered.
She handed the goblet back.
"Don't worry," she said, reclining slightly against the bedroll. "If I poison you, you'll know."
Fin took the cup back and swirled what remained, lips twitching.
"You flirting or confessing?"
Shadowheart's smile curved.
"Little of both."
Her smirk had barely settled before it happened.
A sudden jolt of pain shot through her arm—so sharp, so blinding, that she gasped. Her hand jerked violently, glowing a deep, unnatural purple. The goblet slipped from her grasp.
Thud.
Thankfully, it landed on one of Fin's crumpled pillows, the wine sloshing but the glass unbroken.
Shadowheart clutched her wrist, breathing hard, eyes wide with something between panic and shame. The glow faded almost as fast as it had come, vanishing beneath her skin like it had never been there.
The tent fell silent.
Too silent.
Her voice cracked.
"…I… I should go."
She moved to stand, her fingers already pushing at the flap of the canvas.
Fin's hand shot out.
He grabbed her by the forearm—firm, but not harsh. Enough to stop her.
"Not letting you leave," he said. "Not until you tell me what that was."
She froze.
Tension filled the space between them. The tension of choices made long ago and secrets carried for too long.
Shadowheart's eyes met his.
And for a moment… she saw something in him.
Not confusion. Not fear. But recognition.
She sat back down slowly, gaze still fixed on him, searching.
Then, quietly—too quietly:
"I serve Shar. The Lady of Loss"
There it was.
The words hung in the air, heavier than the wine. Heavier than her breath. She told him everything. Not in full detail—there were still things she didn't dare say—but enough. Enough for him to know. Enough to break the illusion she'd maintained since they met.
Of her Lady, she spoke like one would speak of a storm—distant, vast, beautiful, and terrifying. The Nightsinger. Mistress of Loss. The goddess of secrets, memory, and shadow.
And for the first time since they began their journey, she didn't hide behind metaphor or lies.
When she finished, her voice barely above a whisper, she lowered her head.
"Please," she said, "don't make a big deal of it. I've told no one. I can't…"
Her voice trailed off.
Fin chuckled.
It wasn't mean. It wasn't mocking.
Just soft. Honest. The kind of laugh that didn't belong to a man who'd just heard something terrible.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"That's it?" he said. "That's the big secret?"
She blinked at him. "You're not… horrified?"
"By what? The glowing hand? The dark goddess? Or the part where you drink half my wine and nearly take my arm off mid-flirtation?"
Her mouth parted slightly in disbelief.
"I've killed corrupted monsters and walked through a soul-fueled explosion in a school basement. You being a follower of Shar doesn't exactly rank on the threat list."
He reached over, grabbed the second goblet from the kit beside him, and filled it with what was left of the wine.
Then, without fanfare, he handed it to her.
"Now sit," he said. "And tell me everything."
His voice was warm now. Not demanding. Not prying.
Inviting.
"Spare no detail."
Shadowheart stared at the glass in her hands.
Then, at him, something fragile moved behind her eyes. Something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Trust.
She smiled.
A real one this time.
...
The night deepened.
Outside the tent, the forest whispered its usual lullaby—wind in leaves, distant frogsong, a faint owl's cry. But within the canvas walls, a quiet, spell-like stillness took hold.
Shadowheart spoke.
And Fin listened.
It wasn't one of her usual cryptic half-truths or masked riddles. This was different. She let it all spill, bit by bit, like shadows melting into moonlight.
She told him how she had sacrificed her memories—willingly, completely—offering her very self to Lady Shar for the sake of obedience and purpose, how she awoke after the rite knowing only her mission, her name, and her devotion to the Mistress of the Night.
She told him of Shar's teachings—how emotion was weakness, memory was a shackle, and pain was a form of refinement. That the world was cruel, and that cruelty could be beautiful when wielded with purpose.
She spoke of her disdain for Selûne, goddess of the moon, Shar's hated twin sister. How the Selûnites were fools, clinging to half-truths and sentimentality, wallowing in memory and "light" like it would save them from the cold truths of the world.
Her voice wavered only once.
"When I see them," she said quietly, "the Selûnites… I feel something. Not hatred. Not really. It's like—like they're holding something I forgot how to reach."
Fin didn't interrupt.
He just watched her.
He didn't prod or question. He nodded, hummed now and then, kept his gaze steady, unflinching, not judging. His presence was an anchor.
It grounded her.
Until finally, her words slowed. Her breath hitched.
And she looked down at her left hand.
"The wound on my hand," she said softly. "It never quite heals. Sometimes it's nothing. Other times…"
Her fingers twitched slightly as a ghost of pain danced through them.
"…it sends waves of agony through my entire arm. Like something tearing me from the inside."
She flexed her hand and turned it toward him.
A faint scar ran diagonally across her palm—subtle, but strange. The flesh around it shimmered ever so slightly, like ink on silk.
"It's my burden," she said. "From Lady Shar. A mark of her blessing. A reminder."
She hesitated.
"I can feel her influence… even now. A whisper in my bones. Sometimes stronger. Sometimes faint. But always there."
Fin reached out and gently took her hand in his.
His thumb brushed along the curve of the scar, his touch careful, like he was afraid to make it worse.
"Why would Shar make you go through that?"
Shadowheart swallowed hard.
"…I don't know."
Her voice trembled just slightly.
"Not that I can recall, anyway. That knowledge… it may have been among the memories I gave up."
She looked away.
"But even if I did know—it would not be my place to question her will. Lady Shar has her reasons."
Fin didn't respond right away.
He just held her hand a moment longer.
Then, softly:
"…She shouldn't have to hurt you to prove something."
Shadowheart blinked.
The words hit somewhere she hadn't been reinforced. Somewhere soft. Somewhere, still healing.
But she didn't pull away.
Her hand remained in his, their fingers loosely threaded together in a quiet pact neither had spoken aloud.
Fin leaned back just a little, letting the silence settle before he spoke again.
"I've mentioned this before," he said, his voice low and even, "but I'm not religious."
Shadowheart's eyes flicked up to his, still guarded, though her posture had relaxed.
"Never really was," he continued. "When I was younger, the only thing I prayed for was the strength to get through the week. Faith… it always felt like someone else's map. Not mine."
He ran his thumb once more across the line of the scar, then let their hands rest between them.
"But I do respect it. That sense of purpose. That certainty you get. You follow your Lady with everything you have. And even if I don't understand it… I admire it."
Shadowheart tilted her head slightly. "Most people hear 'Sharran' and start sharpening pitchforks."
Fin chuckled softly.
"Well, now I know why. And I'm not saying I agree with all the… pain and soul-scarring. But you're not like the stories. You're not a monster."
He paused, gaze softening.
"And I get why you keep things close. I do. But…"
He looked her straight in the eye now.
"If you ever feel comfortable enough—being a little more forthcoming—"
He gave a small shrug.
"I'd like that."
Her breath caught, not from surprise, exactly. But from how gently he'd said it.
Not a demand.
Not a test.
Just an invitation.
Her walls, ever-present and ever-guarded, didn't crumble. But for the first time in a long while, she didn't feel like she needed them quite as high.
She nodded.
"I'll try," she said.
And she meant it.
Fin smiled.
"Good. Because the next time your hand lights up like a Shar-scented candle mid-seduction, I'd prefer a little warning."
Shadowheart laughed—soft, real, unguarded.
"Heh, Noted."
Fin yawned, the kind that started deep in the chest and took his whole face with it. He ran a hand through his hair, slouching deeper against the bedroll.
"Well," he muttered, "as fun as emotional vulnerability and secret goddess scars are… I need my beauty sleep."
Shadowheart smirked. "You think sleep is going to help?"
Fin gave her a dry look.
"Don't make me take back the wine."
She chuckled and rose to her feet, dusting off the back of her leggings. The air shifted slightly—cooler now, quieter—as the conversation came to a natural close.
He looked up at her, the firelight from outside the tent casting amber flickers across her face.
"Thanks," he said simply. "For talking. You made the night a little less… bleak."
Without missing a beat, she leaned down and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
Her lips were warm and gentle.
"Thank you, I didn't think I'd find such favourable company," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
And then she turned and slipped out of the tent, leaving the flap to settle behind her.
Fin blinked.
His hand slowly lifted to the spot where her lips had been, fingers brushing against his skin like he wasn't sure the moment had happened.
His cheeks darkened with a slow, steady heat.
"…Damn."
...
[End of Chapter]