Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

                “Love. Mavari.”

                 “Zevlor?”

                “Our child’s name…Tilith. I choose the name Tilith.”

                “Tilith. It’s a beautiful name.”

                 “Cerys, Lia. Listen to me. If we fall, don’t try to avenge us. Use one of the Teleport scrolls and get back to Baldur’s Gate immediately.”

                “But, sir—"

                “That’s a direct order, Cerys. Come. Let’s show them how proud we Tieflings are.”

                At this point in their relationship, neither of them saw much of a point in shielding their feelings. They could read each other like a book, anyway, after everything they had been through. And, yet, Mavari could see how rigidly Zevlor held himself as he tossed the envelope on the table in front of her. Why was he trying to hide his reaction? She frowned at it, then glanced up as he checked the kettle on the stove. “What’s this?”

                “Read it,” he spoke, moving toward the liquor cabinet, “then tell me what you think.” His voice was level but carried a hint of heat to it. Though his back was toward her, she could tell he was pouring a glass of whiskey for himself.

                “Did your meeting with Wyll go well?” she asked, tentatively reaching for the envelope.

                “Just read it,” he commanded. She saw him take a long pull from the drink, staying still for a breath, and then moving toward the opposite end of the kitchen.

                Absently, she rubbed the side of her belly as she reached for the envelope. She slid out the contents, immediately noting that it was nice stationary. Upon reading the salutation, Mavari’s eyebrows lifted. “’To our esteemed Commander’?” She didn’t miss his thinned lips as he set down a cup of tea in front of her. “None of the coalition addresses you that formally.”

                He gave her a plain look before moving back to the counter. She got the hint and continued reading. As she did, she started to understand why he was controlling his reaction. Not wanting to agitate him further, she swallowed the urge to ask questions. Once Mavari got to the end of the letter, she frowned. “The High Observer is…?”

                “The head of state.” He was busying himself chopping vegetables and not looking at her. But, for as still as the rest of him was, his tail was flicking back and forth. Alarm bells started going off in her head.

                She set the letter down carefully. Digesting what she just read, Mavari grabbed her cup of tea and took a long drink. She was aware that Grand Duke Wyll Ravenguard had been trying to secure a political meeting with Elturel for quite some time. Somehow during the correspondence, it must have come up that the Tiefling refugees had found their way to Baldur’s Gate three years prior. And, now, he was requesting specifically that Zevlor come along on the diplomatic visit.

                Not just Zevlor, though. “…he wants all of us to come?” she asked tentatively.

                “I would like to cordially invite you and your family to stay in the newly renovated Shieldhaven Manor in High Hall,” Zevlor recited. She heard the sharp thwick of the knife hitting the cutting board. “Pretentious pricks,” he muttered to himself.

                That flavor of comment was unusual for him, but she didn’t blame him. “Something seems off about this. Why would they want you to come back after exiling the Tieflings?”

                “To serve as an example, perhaps.” Oh, she didn’t like that dark tone in his voice. Neither did she like the speed in which his tail started thrashing the air. “I don’t trust it, either.”

                She wrapped her hands around the tea cup. “But we don’t have much of a choice, do we?”

                That was enough to warrant a glance from Zevlor. His face carried a myriad of emotions, but the most prevalent one at that moment was frustration. “We do have a choice,” he told her quietly. “The children aren’t going. You’re not going.”

                She clenched her jaw. “I’m not letting you go back to Elturel by yourself, Zevlor.”

                “If this is a trap,” he argued, placing the knife on the counter, “I’ll not put you or the baby in danger.” He took a moment to collect himself before he crossed the room toward her. Quietly, he knelt beside the chair. Placing both hands on her stomach, he leaned his head forward to rest on the baby bump, exhaling low and slow. This baby was too precious to risk it. Not after they had spent all that time begging her patron to let them conceive in the first place. Zevlor was understandably protective, but—

                Mavari placed her hands on his cheeks, gently forcing him to look at her. “And I won’t let our daughter go without her father,” she argued quietly. His expression turned from frustration to surprise. It took a moment before realizing what she had said. “Ahh…surprise?” She gave a weak laugh as Zevlor rose onto his knees, the surprise shifting into affection. “Mira accidentally let it slip the last time she and Halsin came to check on me.”

                “A daughter,” he repeated, voice hushed with wonder. He carefully leaned in to rest his forehead against hers. His fingers were tracing circles on either side of the bump. She could feel the baby shift in her belly.

                Allowing her arms to loop around his shoulders, she added, “I guess you better be thinking of some names, Papa.”

                “It’s bold of you to assume I haven’t already picked one.”

                She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you serious?” He snuck a quick kiss to quiet her, clearly in a better mood than he was minutes before. “Zev—” He snuck another one. “Stop that.”

                “No,” he remarked simply, pressing his lips against hers once again. This time, she wasn’t fighting it, returning the kiss in kind.

                The sound of the front door slamming open interrupted the moment. Zevlor pulled back and rose to his feet, smoothly grabbing the letter from the table. He stuffed it in his pocket. “We’ll discuss this later.”

                “Later,” she agreed, though she couldn’t resist swatting his behind while he moved away. He gave her a half-exasperated, half-amused look as he returned to chopping vegetables. She smirked at him and turned as their adopted children rounded the corner.

                Zevlor clicked the lock on the door. At this point, it was a formality—when one had adopted multiple children with lockpicking skills, it wasn’t as though a simple lock could keep them out. But Mattis was old enough to recognize what it meant and was much more adept at keeping the younger ones from interrupting…most of the time. Every once in a while, Mirkon or Silfy would sneak their way in despite this.

                Tonight wasn’t that, but they didn’t wish to be interrupted regardless. He headed toward the bed. Mavari, already lounging against a pile of pillows, was looking over the letter again, frowning. He carefully slid in next to her, giving a kiss to her temple. She looked over and tapped the letter against her palm. “What’s Shieldhaven Manor?”

                “As I recall, it used to house one of the more influential families, until they were wiped out by vampires. Now, it’s little more than a glorified guest house.” He resisted the urge to sigh.

                “Cute. We get to stay in a place where the entire family died. That’s not morbid at all.”

                “The same thing may have happened to this very house,” he pointed out to her.

                “Nope. I’m not considering it.”

                He grazed her cheek, a quick, playful gesture, before turning serious again. “I would assume their intention is for Wyll and the Flaming Fists to stay there, as well.”

                Mavari kept tapping the letter against her palm. “Do we trust the Fists?”

                “In a manner of speaking,” he began. “The elder Duke Ravenguard has worked hard to whip them into shape.”

                “Do we trust them to effectively guard Tieflings in a place that hates Tieflings?” she asked bluntly.

                “No,” Zevlor responded immediately. He paused at the answer. “To be frank, I wouldn’t trust anyone but our kin. Anyone else, and I’d be constantly watching our backs.”

                “Our backs,” she repeated. “You’ve come around to us going?”

                “I would heavily prefer you all to stay home and safe,” he argued, “but I think I’m going to lose that argument.”

                “C’mere.” She patted her chest. Zevlor stared at her for a long moment before sighing and shifting down the bed. He tangled his leg with hers and allowed an arm to sling across her midsection. He nestled his head against her chest. Gently, she reached up to scratch his scalp. He groaned, pressing a warm kiss to her skin briefly, and let himself enjoy the gesture. Only after a few minutes of massaging his head did she speak again. “Truth be told, I’m not keen on the kids going, either, but I think we need to give them the option, love.”

                “For what purpose?” he mumbled. “They don’t need to be put in harm’s way.”

                “Well,” she began. “You’ve talked about how you wished you could see Asher’s grave just one more time, right?”

                He paused before lifting his gaze toward her. He wasn’t going to deny that the idea had a certain appeal to it, despite the present danger, but… “…What are you getting at?”

                “This may be the only chance any of you get to see Elturel again,” she spoke quietly. “The kids may want to see it one more time, too.”

                He drew in a breath. Her fingers started to lightly scrape his scalp again. Zevlor closed his eyes and let his head lull against her chest again. He muttered, “You’re too clever for your own good.” She knew she could convince him of anything like this.

                She hummed. “I know.” Mavari moved her fingers from his head down his neck to his back, gently scratching all the while. “…You said you want Tiefling guards?”

                It was easier to concentrate with her fingers on his back, but he still felt like he might be lulled to sleep if he stayed in this position too long. A little longer wouldn’t hurt. “Yes. But I’m not sure how many we can pull from the coalition without putting Lelith in danger.” The Hellrider Coalition, formed of Elturian veterans and volunteers, started as her idea, after all—they couldn’t leave her unguarded. Taking away a soldier for each family member plus himself as the Commander would leave a sizeable dent in their number.

                She tapped her chin. “We’ve also the problem that our kids wouldn’t take well to being guarded by a coalition member,” she mused.

                Yet another reason he wanted them to stay home, but his wife had been right that they should have the chance to decide for themselves. “Just what are you proposing?”

                “We know our fair share of adventurers. Highly capable ones that the kids adore. Let’s hire them to watch the kids, then you and I can have coalition members for us.”

                He paused at that, sitting up to look her in the eye. “I don’t need—”

                “You’re having a coalition member guard you,” she told him flatly, “and I won’t hear otherwise.”

                He side-eyed her. “Are you giving orders to the Commander?”

                “I outrank you,” she cheerfully informed him.

                He snorted at her but didn’t argue. “Adventurers would be able to avoid certain…red tape that we would not.” It wasn’t a bad idea. He rubbed his chin. “You have some in mind?”

                “As a matter of fact, I—” She winced. “Damn, kid.” She absently rubbed her belly before pausing. Without warning, she snatched his hand, placing it on her belly, then holding hers on top of his.

                “What—” And then he felt it. The little bump against his palm, for the first time. He felt his breath catch as he looked to his wife, speechless.

                “She’s active tonight,” Mavari laughed, turning her face toward his.

                He swallowed, feeling the tears brim his eyes, and pressed his forehead against hers again. The conversation would be shelved again.

                “You’re going to Elturel.” It was a statement, not a question.

                Mavari glanced up from her spot on the floor at Mol, standing over her with arms crossed and a frown on her face. She pursed her lips as she placed another piece of laundry on the pile. “We’re going to Elturel,” she confirmed, keeping her voice carefully level.

                “Silfy let it slip,” Mol continued casually, leaning against the door frame. “When?”

                “Within the tenday.” Sensing this was going to be a longer conversation, Mavari carefully moved to stand. As she rolled forward onto her hands to support her weight, a sharp pain in her back made her wince, leaving her in a completely awkward position. “Damn it,” she grumbled. Well, she was officially at that stage of pregnancy, she supposed.

                The young teenager looked at her for a moment before stepping forward. “Here.” Her tone was gentler than it had been a moment ago. “Let me help.” With Mol’s assistance, she was able to get to her feet long enough to sit on Mirkon’s bed. Mol settled in beside her. “I’m surprised Zevlor’s letting you go with the baby and all.”

                “I’m not completely helpless, Mol.” She rubbed her back. But it was true she was slowing down as she entered her third trimester. If they had been going earlier in her pregnancy… The warlock sighed. “And I didn’t exactly give him a choice in the matter, either.”

                “That doesn’t surprise me.” The teenager idly kicked her feet, glancing around the room. “Little surprised the kids want to go though.” Kids. She was all of a year older than Mattis. “Maybe not Mirkon, but the other two.”

                Mavari paused and looked at her. “What do you mean?”

                Mol ignored the question, picking lint off her clothes. “…I want to go, too.”

                That gave her pause. “You…do.”

                “Yeah.” She looked to Mavari. “Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing for me in Elturel, not anymore. But I want the kids to be safe.”

                She scrutinized the thirteen-year-old. For all she could tell, Mol was being sincere. “I’ll have to run it by Zevlor before I commit to anything.”

                “Oh, he won’t say no,” Mol brushed off. “He never says no to you.” That was completely untrue, and Mavari had no clue where she got it from. Before she could say anything in response, Mol was hopping off the bed. “Anyway, you’re useless right now, so tell me what you need help with.”

                “Useless?” she snorted. “You’re being awfully critical for someone who is asking a favor.”

                “I’m doing you a favor.” Mol looked back and smirked at her, picking up the clothes piles.

                Mavari sighed and started instructing her on what to do. But, in the back of her mind, she hadn’t forgotten that comment about Mirkon. Her adopted son’s words from earlier that day rang in her mind: “Oh, I can see my other mom and dad again.” At the time, she assumed what he meant, and now she was questioning it. Was their son, the dreamer, hinting at something else?

                “Elturel?” Cerys repeated, sounding doubtful. “Are you sure this is wise, sir?”

                “On the contrary, I think this is a terrible idea, Lieutenant.” She and Zevlor were walking through the Ravenguards’ gardens, which had proven over the years to be one of the most private places to speak in all of Baldur’s Gate. This was not a conversation he wanted to have in front of the other members of the coalition. “But the Grand Duke insists on my counsel, and the High Observer formally requested the presence of my entire family.”

                Cerys’s eyes widened. Over the three years they had been in the Gate, her skills had improved immensely. When the coalition formed, it didn’t take her long to rise in the ranks. Over time, she had become one of Zevlor’s most trusted advisors, as well. It was only natural for him to confide this in her. “I don’t like the sound of that,” she admitted. “Wasn’t that long ago we were all told to leave, and now this?”

                His hands were clasped behind his back, and one tightened around his wrist. “My wife proposed that this may be our only chance to see Elturel again,” he began. “I would wish to leave them all here, safe, but I couldn’t deny her that point. We left the decision up to the children, and they all wished to go. And Mavari, of course, won’t stay home if the children are going.”

                The young woman glanced at him. “We’ll send some of ours with you, then. Can’t trust the Fist to protect you like we’d protect our own.”

                He nodded slowly. “I’ve considered that, although we can’t risk splitting our numbers. If I’m honest, I’d prefer having more guards along who aren’t confined to the rules of our order. We’re looking into hiring adventurers, ones we trust, to watch the children.” He looked to her. “I was considering asking Lia to guard Mavari.”

                Cerys looked to be considering this. “You’re going to want someone who is adept at taking down enemies from a distance but still capable at close range combat,” she mused. “Not to mention someone who is tenacious. Of our group, she’s your best bet.” The way the sentence lingered, it sounded like she wanted to add more but cut herself short.

                He knew what she was going to say, though, and he beat her to the punch: “Of our group, you and she are the best for the job. However, I would like you to come along to guard me.”

                Cerys stopped, straightening stiffly. He paused, turning back toward her. “Sir?”

                “Is this a problem, Cerys?”

                “Well, I…” She frowned. “Am I the best person to guard you, Zevlor?”

                Interesting. She had dropped the honorific. He considered this. “The children do not know the other Hellrider veterans like they know you. They’ll be much more comfortable with you present than, say, Guerus.” His longtime Lieutenant was a trusted ally but not as friendly a face as Cerys was. “Besides, I need them here to run things in my absence.”

                She opened her mouth to protest then promptly shut it. “Yes, sir. I’d be honored.”

                He smiled at her, feeling a wave of relief, before he continued walking. She fell into step behind him. “If you have anything you’d like to do in Elturel,” he began, “I would not prevent you from doing such.” He paused, realizing he knew very little about Cerys’s family. “We’ve…planned to stop by the graveyard.”

                “I’d like that,” Cerys confirmed quietly. “Would be nice to visit Mom’s grave, put some flowers on it or something. I doubt my dad’s bothered.” Zevlor glanced back at her, raising a brow. “Dad’s human,” she supplied. “He walked out on us when I was twelve. Came back around when my mom got sick, maybe out of guilt, then left again.” She exhaled. “Not sure if I wanna see him again though.” She sounded conflicted.

                “You don’t have to,” he reminded her gently. “I am sorry to hear about your mother.”

                “It was…years ago. Just wish things could have turned out differently, is all.”

                He made a non-committal noise of affirmation in his throat and changed the subject. “We will need to consider supplies to take with us.”

                “I don’t want you going,” Rolan said bluntly. “Either of you.”

                Lia looked up sharply, scowling at her brother. “Either of us? I thought you and Cerys were on a break. Again.”

                He shifted, almost imperceptibly, and scowled back. “We are on a break, but that doesn’t mean I can’t—”

                “Worry? Fine. Worry all you want. Make demands of her? Not a damn chance.” She liked Cerys. It frustrated her how much of an idiot her brother was when it came to the lieutenant. She shoved one last item in her pack and worked on tying it. “And, by the way, last time I checked, I’m an adult, and you don’t have a say in what I can or can’t do.”

                “Lia.” His voice was sharp. But, when she glared at him, his face was softer. Scared. “We don’t know what’s waiting in Elturel. And you…you’re there to take the fall if something happens.”

                “That’s a shitty way to say I’m hired muscle.”

                “It’s the way that your worried older brother is looking at it,” he snapped at her. That gave her pause—Rolan admitting his concern wasn’t usual. She willed the tension from her shoulders, and he did the same. “I know it’s your job. But I don’t…like the idea of you going back there. Any of you. Why is this necessary?”

                He already knew the explanation, about the High Observer specifically requesting Zevlor’s presence and that of the family. He knew that Lia was being asked as someone they trusted to keep his pregnant wife, their own family friend, safe. There wasn’t anything she could say in reply to that he didn’t already know. Drawing in a breath, she slung the pack over her shoulder. “That’s why Zev is requisitioning scrolls, Rolan.”

                She pushed past him out her bedroom and toward the dining room, Rolan trailing behind. There, on the table, the siblings had laid out everything that was requested of Sorcerous Sundries for the trip. Cal was there, leaning against the wall with a frown. She gave him a cursory glance before setting her pack down with her other things. “Say it, Cal.” She might as well hear them both out.

                “I don’t see why you have to go back,” her younger brother blurted out. Where Rolan had been hard, commanding, Cal’s voice sounded a lot smaller. “Getting out the first time was hard enough, but you—”

                “Cal,” Lia said patiently, “Cerys recommended me because I have a good chance of getting out if things go south.” That wasn’t strictly true, but Cal didn’t need to know that. Now that both brothers were here, she looked at them both in turn. “…I want to see Mom’s grave.”

                That drew their attention. Cal stood up straighter, and Rolan stiffened. “Lia,” Rolan began softly.

                “We might never get this chance again,” Lia continued, “and I…” She shifted. “I want to be able to see it one more time before I die.”

                “It sounds so morbid when you put it like that,” Cal mumbled.

                Rolan, for his part, looked conflicted. “I don’t…” He sighed. “I want you to have that opportunity. Truly, I do. But not like this.”

                “It’s the opportunity I have, so you better get okay with it fast.” She winced. “Sorry. I just… We’re not changing the fact I’m going, okay? Help me count these scrolls.”

                Both stared at her for a long moment before Rolan stepped forward. “Teleportation scrolls have a tendency to transport you to the wrong location if you’re not careful,” he warned her. She shot a look at him before seeing him withdraw something from his pocket. He grabbed her wrist to hold her palm upright, placing a sending stone in it. “If you need a more reliable way of getting out, use this. I’ll come to you immediately.”

                “There’s going to be twelve of us Tieflings,” she pointed out. “You can only take eight with you using the spell, can’t you?”

                Rolan thinned his lips and used his other hand to close her fingers around the stone. She knew better than to argue.

                Cerys’s nerves were on fire as they were loading the airship. It would be the fastest and safest way to get to Elturel, according to the Grand Duke, but the unfamiliarity made her nervous all the same. She watched as the Fists loaded crates onto the airship before turning her attention back to Zevlor, who was quietly conferring with Lelith. He and the Grand Duke of the Coast looked grave, though Cerys could not hear what they were saying. She watched as a worried looking Silfy crept up to her father, wrapping her little arms around his waist. Though Zevlor did not stop speaking with Lelith, Cerys watched as his tail curled around the eight-year-old protectively, one arm resting around her.

                The sight simultaneously filled her with warmth and made her a tiny bit jealous. If they all managed to survive this trip, Silfy was going to grow up with a dad who loved her and was proud of her. Cerys badly wished she could have had that experience, but none of them could go back and change the past. Probably would make things worse if they could.

                Her eyes scanned the area as she walked. No sign of Mol, who had insisted on coming along, much to her Commander’s chagrin. Mirkon and Mattis were sitting off to the side, snickering to each other. Lia hadn’t arrived yet, either. That left…

                Ah, yes. Mavari was standing with Minerva, one of the adventurers that had been hired for the trip. Minerva was a gray-skinned Tiefling woman with white hair pulled into a high ponytail and long bangs framing her face. She stood a couple inches shorter than Mavari. Wracking her brain, Cerys recalled that she had some training as a cleric of Tymora, but most of her skills were a little more subtle. But, she had some experience working with pregnant women, which, in addition to being a friend of the Commander’s wife, had appealed to Zevlor.

                Presently, they were both engaged in conversation with the druid Halsin. Cerys didn’t wish to interrupt, so she merely nodded politely as she passed by. Mavari met her gaze and offered a quick grin of acknowledgment. “…important to make sure she eats properly on the trip,” Halsin was saying, unaware of her presence.

                “The blood of her enemies, got it,” Minerva chirped in response.

                Halsin was taken aback. “No, that’s not…”

                “Breathe, Halsin. I trust Minerva.”

                Cerys coughed politely and moved away quickly. In her haste, she didn’t think to look where she was going first. Unfortunately for her, this meant she didn’t realize until it happened that she ran face first into someone’s chest. “Oh, damn, I’m sorry, I—” It was the very familiar feeling of hands at her back that had her looking up into an even more familiar face.

                Devils take her. Of course it had to be him. “Rolan,” she half-yelped. “You’re not—what are you—why?”

                The look of concern on his face melted into one of annoyance at her stammering. Typical. “I came to help Lia with the scrolls,” he began, “but evidently I’m not supposed to be here.”

                She felt her temper flare. His hands were still on her back, and, she realized with horror, her hands were on his chest. She quickly stepped back and cleared her throat, aware of the heat rising to her cheeks. Damn it all. “We have everything under control,” she informed him curtly, “but of course we need the supervision of the Master of Ramazith’s Tower.” Cerys was being catty. She knew she was. But something about his presence made her so mad.

                “Far be it from me to want to see my little sister and my friends off,” he shot back, “let alone my irritating sometimes lover.”

                A cough interrupted them. They glanced over to see Lia, in the middle of unloading the cart, jerking her head to the side quickly to indicate they were going to attract an audience. She made a quick shooing motion with her hand before she continued her task.

                Right. “This way,” he commanded. Clasping his hands behind his back, he led her to a spot behind a large pile of crates. It wasn’t the most private location, but it would block them from the people milling about the airship dock. He turned toward her and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

                Several seconds went by, and, the next thing she knew, she was perched on a crate with her limbs wrapped around him, dragging his mouth down to hers. She felt his hand at her back, the other supporting himself on the crate, as he pushed back against her. Emotions rushed through her, but she tore her lips away, gasping for breath. “I’m still pissed at you,” she grumbled, although, for the life of her, she couldn’t remember why that was this time.

                “What else is new,” he grumbled at her, nipping at her neck before pulling back to face her. He stood up straighter, letting his hands fall to either side of her hips. “You’re the most irritating woman on the planet.” Before she could argue back, though, he sighed. “I’m sorry. Can we call a truce?”

                Cerys paused. Their…relationship, if one could call it that, was complicated. It seemed like they spent just as much time arguing as they did actually enjoying each other’s company, breaking up and getting back together often enough she was embarrassed to even talk about it. Sometimes, she wondered if she should just give it up entirely, and then he’d do something sweet for once and draw her back in. But calling a truce during one of their off again periods? That was…new. “…Rolan, are you feeling okay?”

                He grumbled. “I’m fine.” He paused, then relented. “I’m…not fine.” With a sigh, he brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers before letting his hand settle at her neck, thumb lightly stroking her cheek above the jaw. “I don’t want either you or Lia to go on this trip.”

                She set her teeth. “It’s part of the job, Ro. Lia’s our best archer. If anyone’s gonna be able to keep danger at a distance, it’s her. And I…I’m not going to let the Commander walk into danger without a friendly sword at his side.” Again.

                “Anywhere but Elturel,” he mumbled. “Anywhere else, and I’d feel better about this.” He let his other hand rise to her face, mirroring his first. It felt weirdly tender for him, and Cerys wasn’t sure whether to feel more pleased or weirded out. Awkwardly, she let her hands slide to his chest. “I’m convinced you’re all walking into a trap.”

                “I know.” They all were, if she were honest, but saying that now didn’t seem to be helpful. “Look at how much we survived since leaving the first time. We’re stronger, now. Better.”

                He closed his eyes and placed his forehead against hers. “Lia has a sending stone. The minute you need the help, say the word, and I’ll come immediately.”

                That probably should have made her feel mushy inside, but, instead, she felt awkward. “We’ll manage.”

                His fingers twitched a little, and he opened his eyes to meet hers, looking exasperated. “I’m trying to be vulnerable, Cer.”

                “Stop it. It’s weird.”

                “You’re impossible.”

                They stayed like that for a while. Then… “Does this mean we’re on again?”

                “No.”

                “Great, then you can enjoy the new bartender you like so much at the Elfsong while we’re gone. He looks strong enough to handle your mood swings.”

                “Damnable woman. I ought to hex you right now.”

                “Go ahead and try.”

                “Well,” a new voice boomed, sounding amused. “You two look like you’re having fun. If I weren’t here on a job, I’d ask to join you.”

                Rolan quickly jerked away from her. Observing them, amused, was a tall red Tiefling. He had dark eyes and long black hair slicked away from his face. A pair of impressive horns curled back along his skull in a large C shape, with the tips just above his shoulders. He was tapping a trident against his shoulder idly. Cerys knew her face had to be bright red by now, but she had work to do. Hopping off the crate, she cleared her throat. “You’re one of the adventurers, aren’t you?”

                “I am,” he confirmed. “Name’s Ranveer. Nice to meet you both.” A lopsided grin.

                Ranveer. He was the one meant to guard Mirkon. “Lieutenant Cerys,” she said by way of introduction. “The Commander and his wife are over by the ship.” She felt the press of Rolan’s hand against her back. “I’ll be there shortly.”

                “Far be it from me to interrupt you,” Ranveer responded cheerfully. He moved toward where Cerys indicated.

                She watched him go before feeling Rolan’s thumb and forefinger at her chin. He tipped her face toward his and gave her a tender kiss. She faltered a little, caught off guard by the sweetness of the gesture, before placing a hand at his cheek. “Don’t die on me,” he half-demanded, half-pleaded.

                “I can’t make any promises, Ro,” she began, and that only made him kiss her again, harder this time. She swallowed down a groan and reluctantly tore her face away from his. The affection was making her uncomfortable. “We’ll talk later.”

                Later could very well mean never. She felt his hand tighten at her hip, but she pushed him away, moving back toward her charge. She willed her tail to stop wagging.

                “Everything is loaded and ready to go, sir.”

                “Thank you, Blaze.” Wyll turned his attention toward Zevlor. “Once everyone is on board, we can depart.”

                “As you command, Your Grace,” he responded with a brisk nod. True that they were on more familiar terms than this, but formality was to be called for on this diplomatic mission—especially in front of the Flaming Fists escorting Wyll. He turned his head toward and called: “On the ship! We’re leaving!”

                They had gathered a bit of a crowd at the airship dock. From his vantage point on the ramp, he saw Lia hug her brothers in turn before embracing her girlfriend. Ever observant, he didn’t miss the awkward hug between Rolan and Cerys before she stiffly jogged toward the ramp. “Are you…?” he questioned.

                “We’re not,” Cerys grumbled, quickly boarding.

                He resisted the urge to chuckle. As much as he tried to keep from the affairs of his subordinates, his wife had no such boundary, and the coalition members tended to talk freely. He usually heard the gossip from her whether he wanted to or not. Unfortunately for Cerys, her tumultuous love life was a favorite topic amongst the ranks. But he let her pass without commentary and instead kept his eyes forward.

                A figure swooped overhead, landing in front of Mavari. With frantic hand movements, an alabaster Tiefling fluttered her batlike wings nervously as she spoke, loudly apologizing for being late. His wife held up a hand to silence her before going in for a hug. A little late, Samara, Zevlor thought to himself. It was hard to mistake her for anyone else, with the equally white hair and two sets of black horns. Despite her tardiness, she was a capable cleric and a friend of the family. There was no question they’d ask her to accompany them.

                He heard his daughter squeal before seeing Silfy streak toward Samara, arms outstretched. Samara pulled away from Mavari to kneel, arms wide. As the girl crashed into her, Samara stood and swung her around. They hugged tightly as Samara jogged toward the airship. “Sir,” she greeted, pulling an arm free to salute Zevlor.

                “Papa,” Silfy chimed in, mimicking her guard.

                It was more formal than was required, but Zevlor politely returned the salute. “At ease, soldiers,” he intoned. The pair giggled as they got onto the airship. Five seconds later, Samara swooped back down to the ground to grab her forgotten packs and boarded again sheepishly.

                Next up the ramp came Ranveer with Mirkon slung over his shoulder. His younger son was laughing his head off, squirming, but the druid kept a tight hold on him. Ranveer tossed Zevlor a friendly smirk before boarding. “You just wait until my next birthday,” Mirkon was yelling, “then I’ll be able to beat you up!”

                “I look forward to it, kid,” Ranveer laughed.

                Almost immediately on their tail was Mattis, followed closely by Minerva. He noticed the bashful way his older son was carrying himself and willed himself not to grin. Though Mattis never outright admitted to anything, he was sure that the boy would be on his best behavior this trip, if only to impress his assigned guardian. As they passed, Minerva gave Zevlor a quick wink. She, too, was fully aware.

                “Mavari,” he called in warning.

                She held up a hand toward him, turning toward newcomers. Truthfully, he had half-expected Mol to back out of the trip, but the young teenager, packs in hand, came trotting up to the warlock. Behind her was the tallest Tiefling he had ever seen, with red skin, white hair, and black horns that curved at an angle before growing straight up. He was less familiar with the man than Mavari was, who confirmed that Mol’s choice of guard was a good pick. A paladin, she had said, and one who did frequent work for Rolan. Judging by the armor and the cape fluttering behind him, with fur lining the top, he looked imposing enough. Good. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to worry so much about Mol after all.

                Without wasting any time. Mol and the man came up the ramp next. “That’s Zevlor,” the girl supplied, pointing him out to her guard. “This is Kefkar.” She jerked a thumb at the tall paladin.

                “Kefkar,” Zevlor repeated, holding out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

                “Likewise.” A firm, strong handshake. He liked that. He gave them a nod and allowed them to board.

                Finally, Mavari and Lia ascended the ramp. One look at his face must have told her everything, because Mavari smoothly supplied, “I had to make sure the kids made it on first, love.” He allowed himself a frustrated sigh. Smirking, she lightly touched his stomach—or, rather, the armor covering it—before passing. Lia shrugged at Zevlor as she hopped on, too.

                That was all of them, then. He nodded toward one of the dock workers as he stepped down onto the deck. “Prepare for departure!” yelled one of the workers. The ramp was pulled promptly as the airship whirred to life.

                As the airship lifted into the air, the Tieflings gathered at the railing to watch as their loved ones got smaller and smaller. They waved down to those gathered below. Zevlor drew in a breath as he wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders, hoping they weren’t making a mistake.

Chapter Text

                "Where the fuck is the source of this fire!?”

               “Silfy? …SILFY!”

                “I can’t breathe!”

                “Hold on, baby girl, we’re getting you out of there.”

                “The door’s jammed!”

                “Then kick the damn thing open!”

                “Step back, Mattis.”

                “Hurry!”

                Silfy didn’t remember much about her mommy and daddy.

                Mattis did. Ever since Mama and Papa talked to them about going to Elturel, he started talking about them again. Daddy was a Hellrider, like Papa, who was killed in Avernus. She barely remembered what it was like in Avernus except that it was very hot and very scary, and Mol had found them and claimed she was going to protect them now. She tried very hard to remember what Daddy looked like, even after Mattis told her how Daddy was big and strong, and how Mattis thought his adult horns were going to look like Daddy’s. But all she could remember was that his hugs were strong and tight, and he hugged her so tight it almost hurt before he went away.

                Not like Mommy’s hugs. Mommy’s hugs were soft and warm, and she smelled like cinnamon. Mommy always let her lick the spoon when she was baking something yummy. And Mommy protected her when devils came into their home. When she thought of Mommy, she thought of Mommy screaming, and then a lot of red, and then she couldn’t remember anything else.

                She dreamed of Mommy and Daddy that night, and there was a lot of red and screaming and monsters. She woke up crying. Silfy tore herself from the bed she was sharing with Mol and ran out of the room, past the huge guy with two different colored eyes who came with Mol, past the room where her friend Samara was sleeping, and tried the door where Mama and Papa were staying.

                It was locked. Silfy knew what happened when the door was locked, because Papa and Mama got really upset when they would pick the lock and come in the room, and now Mama had Bean in her belly. But she was scared, and she couldn’t get to her Mama and Papa, and the tears were falling harder, and she started wailing for her parents.

                She thought she heard other doors opening. The big guy shifted uncomfortably. But her focus stayed on that door as her little fists pounded on it, until the door was suddenly not there. And then there was Papa, and he was only wearing pants. Papa scooped her up in his arms and took her into the room, closing the door behind him.

                Silfy was getting too big to be carried, but she clung to Papa’s neck. But Papa carried Mama around sometimes, and Mama was definitely too big to be carried.

                “Baby? What’s wrong?” Mama sounded sleepy. She watched her adoptive mother wince as she sat up in bed. Samara said that the baby was as big as an eggplant and that Mama’s back was probably going to start hurting a lot, and the baby was moving more now. Mama let her feel Bean when she pushed against her belly.  Silfy liked to think Bean was trying to hold her hand. Maybe the baby wanted to hold her hand again, because Mama was touching her belly with a frown.

                “I had a bad dream,” Silfy whined at her. She was eight, and she was a big girl. But she was also very, very scared. “Can I sleep with you?”

                “Of course, baby.” Mama yawned and carefully scooted over. Papa gave her a squeeze and set her down. Silfy immediately crawled into bed next to Mama and snuggled up against her.

                This bed was smaller than the one Mama and Papa had at home. When Papa sat down on her other side, there wasn’t as much room as usual. But Mama said it was okay, and Papa never told Mama no.

                Well, almost never.

                Mama hugged her tightly. Papa put his arm around Mama and kissed the top of Silfy’s head. She liked when Papa kissed the top of her head. Mama was warm and soft and gave big hugs with an extra squeeze at the end. Papa was big and strong and but always very gentle. Snuggled between them, she felt safe.

                “Do you want to talk about your dream, sweetheart?” Papa asked. He was lightly petting her hair.

                “Okay,” Silfy agreed. And then she started to tell them about her dream, and Mama and Papa held her tighter. When they fell back asleep, Silfy felt safe wedged between Mama and Papa and Bean.

                Mama and Papa would protect them in the scary place. She knew it.

                The problem with letting Silfy sleep in the bed with them was that they already didn’t have enough room, and there was even less when she was trying to get comfortable. So Mavari spent a good chunk of her night uncomfortable and unwilling to move, lest she wake up her daughter. In the moments when she did find herself nodding off, the baby would start moving. Now, when she had finally fallen asleep, she felt the back of her neck start to flare.

                She groaned, instinctively touching the symbol there. Her patron had agreed to the pregnancy, which meant she was supposed to be off the hook for a year. What in the Hells did he want now?

                Immediately, she felt a shift on the bed then Zevlor’s hand on her hip. She opened her eyes to see that he had propped himself on his elbow. His mouth was set in a firm line, unhappy with the predicament, but his eyes were concerned, questioning. Quietly, so as not to disturb Silfy, she touched his cheek. “I didn’t sleep much,” she admitted to him quietly. It was as much the truth as it was an indication.

                He paused, lips thinning. But the message was clear, as much as he didn’t like it. Drawing in a breath, he leaned his head down to kiss their daughter’s cheek. “Time to get up, sweetheart.”

                “Nooo,” whined the girl. She snuggled closer to Mavari. Mavari’s heart swelled as she ran her fingers along her daughter’s back.

                Zevlor sighed and bargained: “You have until I get dressed.” He leaned forward to kiss his wife softly before climbing out of bed. She propped her head on her hand as he donned his armor. It was a methodical process, almost meditative, and it strangely relaxed her to watch.

                True to his word, as soon as he had finished, Zevlor came back to the bed and scooped Silfy up in his arms. She whined again, and he gave her a squeeze. “Time to get up, soldier,” he intoned, setting her down on the floor. He glanced to Mavari, silently questioning.

                “I need to sleep a little longer,” she offered by way of explanation, hoisting herself into a seated position. “C’mere, baby.”

                Silfy made her way around the bed to give her mother a kiss and a hug before scampering out the door. Zevlor watched her go before he turned his attention to his wife, frowning again. “If you need me,” he began.

                “I’ll shout,” she finished for him, scooting toward the middle of the bed. He leaned in to kiss her, then lingered there with their foreheads touching. “…But I really do need sleep, love.”

                He lightly touched her face in acknowledgment before standing. “I’ll have someone check on you in a few hours if I don’t hear from you.”

                She smiled at him as he left the room. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, the smile faded. “What do you want, Urich?”

                “Oh, that’s no way to talk to your beloved patron,” a voice silkily replied. From a swirling mass of purple energy, the demon stood from a crouched position. He rose to his full height, shoulders back, head held high, and let his wings stretch. He gave a frustrated sigh as they hit the walls on either side of the room. “Couldn’t get the cushy room, could you?”

                “We didn’t consider your feelings when we picked our cabins,” she remarked dryly, “nor did we expect you’d show up.”

                Urich clicked his tongue at her. “My cute little crow and her adorable hatchlings are on their way into danger, and you think I wouldn’t show up?”

                Her blood ran cold. They suspected it, of course, but... “What do you mean?”

                The incubus cocked his head and gave her a slow smirk. He put a knee on the bed, then crawled up toward her. Mavari knew he wasn’t going to actually touch her, but he would certainly push the limits as far as he could. Kneeling over her, he placed his hands on either side of her body, leering down at her. “You’re going into a holy city that has a hatred for devils and Tieflings, and you think you’re not in danger?”

                “If that’s why you wanted to chat, you’re gonna have to give me something useful.”

                He lifted a finger toward her chin. Though he didn’t touch, she tipped it upward anyway, as though he actually were doing it. Urich clicked his tongue at her again. “I’d watch who you speak to in Elturel, little crow. There’s a strong stench of demon coming from that direction.”

                She paused. “Demon,” she repeated slowly. Not devil? Not after Kreeg’s dealing with Zariel?

                “Demon,” he repeated calmly. He shifted forward so that his face hovered inches from hers. “Hiding in plain sight.”

                And he should know. Damn it. She met his red-eyed gaze with a steely look of her own. “…You’re going to watch out for us, right?”

                “I need to protect my investment,” he responded simply.

                “What if your investment gets really angry that you could have prevented her family from getting hurt, and you did nothing?”

                Urich snorted. She caught his tail flicking out of the corner of her eye—a quick shudder of interest. “Very well, little crow, I suppose I’ll watch out for the hatchlings.”

                “And my husband?” she countered.

                Urich’s hand traced the air along her cheek. “Must I? He’s so…rigid.”

                “Urich.”

                The demon sighed and leaned back. His wings twitched. “Fine. I’ll watch out for the broken bird.”

                “Good.” She winced at a twinge in her back. For now, she had to ignore it. “Who is this demon?”

                “Don’t know.” The incubus crossed his arms. “Haven’t figured it out. Just smelling the stench of them.” He brushed a thumb along his lower lip. “You’re getting fat,” he complained.

                “The whole reason I weigh what I do is because you want me to look like this,” she shot back, feeling insulted.

                “Not your normal body. This…” He gestured to her pregnant belly. “You used to have a cute little bump. Now it’s getting too big.”

                “…that’s what happens with babies, Urich.” She glowered at him. “They keep growing until they’re born.”

                “You mean you’re gonna get fatter?” He made a face.

                “You asshole,” she growled. With no warning, she fired off an Eldritch Blast at him.

                “Hey!” Urich took it in the chest, then scowled at her. “What?”

                “You don’t get to be a dick about us having this kid and then insult me in the process,” she snapped. “If I didn’t have to worry about the child growing inside of me, I’d kick your ass.”

                “Seems like you’re primed to do that anyway.” He smirked. “Point taken, little crow. I’ll be back when you land.”

                With a flourish of purple smoke, he vanished. Mavari growled at the spot where he disappeared, but the need to sleep overcame her need to fight him. Grumbling, she shifted down the bed to lay on her side and was surprisingly out like a light.

                All the adults were smiling and friendly, but they all seemed nervous. Papa Zevlor kept pacing back and forth across the deck, occasionally talking to one of the other adults. Mama Mavari hadn’t come upstairs yet—Papa said she needed more sleep, but Mirkon didn’t understand it. Why did she need to sleep more?

                And the airship was boring. They could look over the edge at the ground below, but Samara was told she wasn’t allowed to fly them around, so all he could do was look. He tried dropping things over the edge before Cerys yelled at him for it.

                “Adults are not fun,” he informed Ranveer. Ranveer was an adult, but he wasn’t like other adults. He was big and strong and very fun.

                His big friend chuckled. “No, they aren’t,” he agreed, ruffling Mirkon’s curls. Something felt wobbly, but Mirkon didn’t think anything of it. He crossed his legs and rocked from side to side, watching his surroundings on the deck. Mattis was playing some sort of card game with Mol. He watched Samara rub the back of her neck and approach Kefkar.

                “Hey…you wanna wrestle?” she asked. Kefkar blinked at her. Within seconds, he was shedding his upper armor by way of answering. “Yessss!” Samara pumped her fist in the air and followed suit. In the blink of an eye, the two adults were throwing each other around the deck.

                “Those adults are fun,” he informed Ranveer. “How come Mama and Papa don’t wrestle like that?”

                Ranveer didn’t respond for a very long time. “Everyone likes different things,” he finally responded. He was chuckling as he said it. Mirkon didn’t get why that was funny, but Ranveer was a silly guy.

                “I want to wrestle, too,” Mirkon insisted. “Wrestle with me!”

                Ranveer’s face fell., “Oh, I don’t think—” He tried to protest, but Mirkon was already launching himself at his buddy.

                “Come on!” The little Tiefling wrapped his arms around Ranveer’s shoulders and started swinging his body back and forth. Ranveer flopped around helplessly. “You call that wrestling, you weakling!?”

                “Buddy,” Ranveer began, but Mirkon started thrashing around harder. If he just fought back, this could be fun. “All right,” he conceded, “you asked for it, little buddy.” Without further warning, the druid’s large arms encircled him. Mirkon squealed with delight as Ranveer lifted him into the air and fell backwards. Mirkon giggled in delight, but Ranveer had misjudged how close they were to a few crates. Mirkon felt his head bump against a crate.

                There was a sharp pain and a ripping sensation, followed by red falling into his vision. Mirkon scarcely knew what was happening until he saw his horns laying on the deck. Ranveer had knocked off his horns.

                He started screaming at the top of his lungs.

                “What’s the big deal?” Mattis grumbled to Mol. “It’s just his baby horns. And he saw me lose mine, too!”

                “Mirkon’s not always the most aware in the moment, and you know it,” Mol scolded him. “And I remember you being beside yourself, too.”

                Mattis reached over to flick her forehead. Mol leaned back from his fingers. “Yeah, but I never screamed like I was dying.” He loved his adopted little brother. He was very patient with Mirkon. But they were brothers, and brothers annoyed each other. That’s how it worked. “And,” he added, watching as Mirkon ran at top speed toward Zevlor, blubbering all the while, “I never went crying to the old man or Mavari.”

                “Leave him alone,” she snapped at him. She glanced over as Zevlor knelt in front of the sniffling Mirkon, carefully inspecting his forehead. “Zevlor’s a great dad. He loves you three so much, and it shows. Mavari, too.”

                “I know…” He, too, watched as Zevlor laid a palm across Mirkon’s forehead. The white light emanated from his hand for a few seconds before he withdrew it. His brother sniffled before tackling his adoptive father in a tight hug. “It’s just…I’ve been thinking a lot about my mom and dad.”

                Mol glanced at him. “…they are your mom and dad.”

                “No, I mean, my real mom and dad.”

                “…They are your real mom and dad.”

                “Stop it.” Mattis frowned at her.

                “You stop it.” Mol made a face back.

                “Fine, I’ve been thinking a lot about my biological parents, are you happy?” She nodded in satisfaction. Mattis sighed and idly shuffled the hand of cards he held. “…Silfy doesn’t really remember them. I said I wanted to go back to see their graves, because it felt like the right answer at the time, but…” He sighed. “Do you think that’s right? It’s not gonna bring them back or anything.”

                Mol considered, flipping a card between her fingers expertly, idly. “I dunno that I’m the right person to ask,” she said slowly. “But I think…if you don’t, you might regret it when you’re older.”

                “Now you sound like the old man,” Mattis grumbled.

                “Maybe I hang around you all too much.” She smirked. Mol had been coming around a little more often. The smirk faded. “What were they like?”

                He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to drum up their appearances in his mind. It was getting harder by the day. “Dad was big. Really big. He was a Hellrider and was so proud of it. He just got a promotion a couple days before we got sucked into Avernus…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Had this huge belly laugh. He and Mom were talking about having another kid before…well…” He sighed. “Dad got killed pretty early on by devils.”

                “I’m sorry,” Mol supplied. Her voice was gentle—this didn’t happen often, but it was always sincere.

                “Mom was very…soft.” He didn’t know how else to describe her. “Never raised her voice, not once. She always took care of us and found a way to get us whatever we asked for.” Come to think of it, he wasn’t entirely sure how she accomplished that. “I was out of the house when…” He trailed off. “I found Silfy under her body.” Mol sat up straighter. “I think she blocked that out of her memory. I hope so, anyway.”

                “Silfy woke up screaming last night,” the teenager said slowly. “I wouldn’t be so sure.” He paused. Should he talk to his sister about this…? Mol picked lint off her shirt. “They sound like they were great parents.” Her eyes shifted to Zevlor and Mirkon again. By now, Zevlor had started walking, with a happily chattering Mirkon trailing behind him. “But not all of us had that, so…just be patient, okay?”

                Mattis considered this. He assumed Mol was referring to herself. Last he knew, she claimed she never knew her parents. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

                “Good.” She leaned back. “Now, let’s get back to playing, okay?”

                “Navigator says we should be there by tomorrow, sir,” Cerys informed her Commander. After the excitement of the day, things were winding down. The kids were in their rooms, and Ranveer, still feeling guilty over expediting Mirkon’s horn loss, agreed to take first watch. “Should be there around mid-morning, according to their estimation.”

                “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Zevlor was standing at the railing, but it wasn’t out into the expanse above Faerun he was looking. Instead, arms crossed, he was watching his wife walk back and forth across the deck, chattering animatedly with Minerva. With the kids asleep, it gave the adults a little more time to socialize with each other, and the adventurers, at least, were keen on taking advantage of that time. He glanced to her. “Why don’t you take the rest of the evening off, Cerys?” he added gently.

                “Sir?” she repeated, blinking.

                “I’ll be retiring to our cabin soon,” Zevlor continued, “with my wife. You and Lia won’t have to worry about watching our backs for the remainder of the evening.”

                Cerys wasn’t stupid. She understood his meaning loud and clear. But thinking about it made her cough and blush regardless. “Understood, sir.”

                He gave her a brisk nod before straightening, heading toward where the two Tiefling women were chatting. Cerys watched him leave briefly before sighing, heading below the decks. First thing she was going to do with her night off was take off her bloody armor. After that, she’d find Lia.

                They were probably due a heart-to-heart anyway, all things considered.

                As it turned out, finding Lia was going to be easier than she anticipated, considering the taller Tiefling threw open the door while Cerys changing. She shrieked and covered herself immediately. Lia didn’t fazed, closing the door and plopping down on the edge of the bed.

                “Let’s go drink on the deck,” she proposed. She shook a bottle of wine in her hand. “Don’t know how thin these walls are, but I do not want to be down here to see whether or not the happy couple’s loud in bed.”

                “Lia,” Cerys protested.

                “Oh, come on, we all know they’re doing it.” She shook the wine at her again. “C’mon.”

                “…Fine.” She finished getting dressed, and the two women made their way to the deck. They did pass the Commander and his wife on the stairs. Although Zevlor’s face was carefully neutral, Mavari’s looked downright smug. “Have fun, you two,” Lia sang at them. The Commander shot her a look, but Mavari’s grin only widened.

                “Lia,” Cerys admonished.

                “Cerys,” Lia returned. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t be doing the same if you had the opportunity. Although,” she eyeballed where Kefkar, Minerva, and Samara were sitting, “who’s to say you couldn’t?” Cerys spluttered a little. Lia shook her head. “You’re off again with my brother, aren’t you? Go on and have some fun.”

                While it did occur to her that they perhaps should be interacting with the adventurers, she also had no desire to have…that with them. Cerys frowned at her. Lia shrugged. “Alright, fine.” She jerked her thumb toward the bow of the ship, and Cerys followed her. Lia plopped down on the ground, her back against a crate. She pulled a couple cups from her pack and poured the liquid, sliding one of the vessels over to Cerys. After a moment’s consideration, she took a seat, carefully reaching for the cup so as not knock it over.

                “Never thought I’d get to ride one of these things,” Lia murmured, stretching her legs out in front of her. She swallowed some of the liquid and sighed, leaning her head against a crate. “Wish it were under better circumstances, but that’s life.”

                “That’s life,” Cerys echoed. She held her cup toward Lia in a silent request. Lia obliged, clinking her cup against Cerys’s. Both took a swallow of the wine. “How are you…feeling, about all of this?”

                “Honestly?” Lia gave a sardonic laugh. “Not great. I think we’re all walking into a damn death trap.”

                “Seems to be the common consensus,” Cerys mumbled, taking another swallow. This stuff was strong. Not that she minded. “Elturel seems intent on getting us killed one way or another.”

                “Don’t I know it.” The archer swirled her drink. “But I…” She sighed. “I don’t think I’ll ever get a chance to see Mom’s grave again, you know? I had to come along.”

                Cerys thought about it before glancing to Lia. “Did…Cal or Rolan…?”

                “Dunno.” Lia shrugged a shoulder. “They never said one way or another.” She paused before withdrawing what looked to be a sending stone from her pocket. “But Rolan gave me this, so I figured I can tell them when we’re there, and at worst they can always scry on me when I’m at the grave. That way, they can see it, and they’re not in danger, too.”

                “That’s a wonderful idea.”

                Lia paused before pocketing the stone. “I’m about to say something to you that would piss my brother off if he knew I said it.”

                “Oh, that’s not ominous.” She gulped down more wine. “Do tell.” Rip off the bandages, so to speak.

                “You are far too good for Rolan,” Lia said bluntly. “You two are fantastic together when you’re not fighting. But then he has to ruin it every time.”

                “Oh, I don’t know that it’s…” Wait, why was Lia on her side? That didn’t seem right. “I would say I ruin it just fine on my own half the time.” This would also be the only time she’d admit to that. “I don’t understand. Shouldn’t you be on his side?”

                “Cerys,” Lia said plainly. “I love my brother. I would die for my brother. But I know him. Whatever it is you two have going on could be great if you would just get yourselves together. But something isn’t working. And, I’m telling you, he is too damn proud to change.” Her lips thinned. “I like you, a lot. I’m telling you that you deserve better treatment than what Rolan’s been giving you.”

                Cerys rubbed her temple. She appreciated Lia’s words, but… “I think you’re giving me too much credit,” she admitted. “I’ve broken up with him for some stupid reasons that weren’t his fault. And,” she added, before the other woman could cut in otherwise, “it’s weird that you’re actively encouraging me to sleep with other people.”

                It didn’t stop either her or Rolan from doing so on their breaks, but his sister saying it made Cerys’s skin crawl. His sister.

                Lia looked at her for a long time. Then she sighed. “I guess you’re right. It’s probably not my place to say anything.” She knocked back the rest of her wine before refreshing her glass. Cerys followed suit, holding out her cup for a refill. “But, well…Cal’s got Geraldus. I’ve got Rikka. Our relationships are going great. Too great, in Cal’s case.” She wrinkled her nose, and Cerys bit back a grin. Of all the siblings, it was the youngest who was the most demonstrative. “I don’t know why yours can’t be. The only thing that I can figure out is that it’s Rolan being Rolan.”

                Cerys considered her answer for a moment. “I’ll…talk with him when we get back. Try to figure things out once and for all.” It was for the best. And, truthfully, if this ended with them breaking up for good, maybe that was what needed to happen? She pursed her lips. “…He really didn’t want either of us to come.”

                “I told him we were big girls,” Lia huffed. But her face softened. “He…worries. And I think especially knowing that we’re here as guards first and foremost spooks him.” If Zevlor and Mavari were being targeted, the two women were the ones meant to get in between them and danger. And, while Zevlor was likely the larger target, he at least could fight back. Mavari’s pregnancy handicapped her more than the warlock would ever admit. Of all the hired guards on this trip, they were the two most likely not to make it home. Lia debated before looking to Cerys. “That sending stone I showed you,” she began. “Rolan gave it to me. I know we have the Teleport scrolls, but he was worried they’d get us off target. Said to call him if we needed an exit.”

                Cerys froze. “Teleport spells can only carry eight other people aside from the caster,” she began. There were twelve of them on the trip. So that meant…

                “I know,” Lia responded grimly. She did not like the implications of that. But she didn’t have much time to debate it, because Lia snatched her hand. “Promise me something, Cerys.”

                “What?”

                “If we go down,” Lia spoke, voice low, “we go down together.”

                Cerys jerked backward. “What?”

                “I’m gonna fight like hell to make sure you get back to the Gate,” Lia began, “and more so that you can get back to my idiot brother and figure things out for good.”

                “And I’ll fight like hell to make sure you get back to Rikka,” Cerys promised. “We’re…not going to die, Lia.” She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

                “If we go down,” Lia repeated, “we go down together.” They clinked glasses once more. And, as the night wore on, they eventually wandered over to share drinks with the adventurers, and Cerys forgot about her worries just for a little while.

                But tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow…

Chapter Text

                “This whole thing was a damn trap from the beginning.”

                “Fucking pricks. I knew it.”

                “Kick their asses?”

                “Kick their asses.”

                They were standing on the deck, as the airship began its descent to dock. Grand Duke Wyll stood directly to his left; his wife on his right. Zevlor’s arm was around her waist and had to remind himself several times not to hold too tightly. Silfy, nervous for their arrival, had tucked herself at his other side, peeking out between him and Wyll as she clung to his leg. Though he kept his eyes forward, he smoothed his hand over her hair comfortingly. If he knew his family, he’d guess that Mirkon was leaning against Mavari’s side, with Mol and Mattis standing close together but separate from the adults.

                Their guards and the Fist surrounding them must have been an imposing sight. He could hear Cerys’s measured breathing behind him. Despite his cool demeanor, his nerves were on fire. Now, as the airship was landing in the holy city, he was desperate to tell Wyll to turn around, to take them back to the safety of their new home. Zevlor once again felt like he was leading his entire family into a trap.

                As High Hall came into view, he felt Mavari’s hand lightly brush his. He glanced down to her smiling, reassuring face, and leaned over to kiss her forehead in gratitude. Despite the danger, he was glad to have her by his side.

                The airship slowed to a stop, and he noticed a small gathering of people on the dock as they set up the ramp. There, standing regally in pristine, formal robes, was the High Observer. Gideon Grayspire, the former General of the Hellrider forces, now elevated to his new position following Kreeg’s demise. He recalled Grayspire cutting an imposing figure in his gleaming armor. He cut just as imposing of one in his new role.

                The last time he saw Grayspire was when the man was stripping him of his title in front of the other Commanders. The others did nothing but watch as he was given the ultimatum to leave. And now the High Observer formally invited them to stay in a manor in High Hall. He clenched his teeth. The sooner this trip was over, the better.

                The high elf woman in polished armor to Grayspire’s right, he recognized as Faera Quil. Quil was one of his trainers when he enlisted; in his eyes, there were no Hellriders without her. Over time, as he watched her rise in the ranks and then eventually joined her, she was a respected leader first and, later, a friend and confidant. Given her position now, he assumed she was picked to succeed Grayspire as the new General. It was a well-deserved promotion, to be sure, but it was sullied by history.

                Did you agree with Grayspire’s orders, Faera?

                He didn’t recognize the human man to Grayspire’s left. Next to anyone else, he likely would have been tall, but the man was dwarfed in comparison to the High Observer’s stature. Slender, well dressed, a goatee. He looked…gentler than the other two, but Zevlor wasn’t a young buck. He knew appearances could be deceiving, especially here.

                “Grand Duke Ravengard,” greeted Grayspire, spreading his hands wide. It was a gesture very unlike the former general. “Welcome to Elturel.”

                “High Observer Grayspire,” Wyll greeted, descending the ramp. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”

                “Breathe,” Mavari whispered to him. Zevlor gave her a light squeeze before he slid his arm out from around her, instead offering the arm to escort her. She easily slipped her arm through his. Taking a deep breath, he stood tall, proud, and started down the ramp after Wyll. He heard two sets of footsteps immediately following them before several more followed.

                “And you, Commander Zevlor.” Grayspire’s eyes turning toward the Tiefling. “I’m pleased to see you and your family were able to make the trip.”

                “High Observer,” Zevlor greeted, voice measured. “General,” he added, nodding toward Quil. “I admit that the invitation came as a surprise.” He felt a subtle squeeze to his arm. He was aware that the comment had some bite to it. What wasn’t clear to him was whether his wife was warning him to watch his tone or approving of it.

                “Yes, well…” The comment trailed off. Grayspire’s eyes turned away from him for a moment. He looked a little perturbed, but the expression quickly dissipated. “I did not expect you to have such a…large retinue.”

                “I think you’ll well understand why I wanted to ensure my family was protected,” Zevlor responded dryly. Mavari squeezed his bicep again. “Is this a problem, High Observer?”

                “No, not at all,” the High Observer responded smoothly. “Given the circumstances, I suppose it is understandable.” He supposed. There was a pause. “You have a lovely family.”

                Something in his tone made Zevlor bristle. It would be immediately apparent looking at their family that the kids were not biologically his nor Mavari’s, but they were no less their children. He lifted his chin, ready to speak, but his wife tightened her hands around his arm to halt him. “I’m sure, High Observer,” she spoke smoothly, pleasantly, “you’re well aware of the number of people who lost loved ones during and shortly after Avernus. Isn’t it wonderful that children could find loving families when the decisions of adults cost them theirs?”

                The High Observer regarded her curiously and not for an insignificant amount of time. Zevlor held his breath. “Indeed,” he finally spoke. “I didn’t catch your name, ma’am.”

                “Mavari,” she supplied. She held out her hand to the High Observer. He took it, giving a polite kiss to the back of her hand, before she withdrew it. Zevlor wasn’t sure if he admired his wife’s audacity or feared for her. “I’ve heard so much about your city.”

                “You are not Elturian yourself?” Grayspire questioned.

                “Luskan.”

                “Luskan.” He paused for a long time. Zevlor wondered if the man were trying to figure out something polite to say about the port city. And, all the while, Mavari watched him with a smile. Finally, he said: “Quite the colorful place.”

                “Colorful is a very polite word,” Mavari responded cheerfully.

                “Zevlor,” Quil cut in. Always the observant one when things became awkward. “Are those Trystian’s kids?”

                The interruption was welcome. He turned his attention to the General. “They are.” Zevlor glanced behind him where the kids were hovering. Minerva’s hands were on both of Mattis’s shoulders, while Silfy was ducking behind Samara. Mattis met his gaze with thinned lips.

                “High Observer,” Wyll cut in, undoubtedly also sensing the tension, “would you be so kind as to direct us where we are staying?”

                “Of course,” Grayspire responded smoothly. “Might I introduce Ludreth Glin?” He gestured toward the man, who beamed, extending his hand toward Wyll.

                “Grand Duke Ravengard,” Glin spoke enthusiastically. “It is an absolute pleasure. I am the proprietor of Shieldhaven Manor. I assure you that it’s been properly stocked and cleaned to perfection for your stay.”

                “Well met, Master Glin.” Wyll gave his hand a firm shake. “Lead the way.”

                The Grand Duke and the Commander only had so long as to see where they would be staying in Shieldhaven before they were whisked to the parlor for a meeting, and Cerys along with them. The plan had been to visit the graveyard a group, but it seemed that would have to wait a while. In the meantime, the rest of the family was given free rein to explore the manor…which meant the kids and their guardians had the opportunity to explore the manor while Lia stayed with Mavari in the master suite.

                The kids were a whirlwind in the room, jumping on the bed, climbing on the furniture, chasing each other around the space much bigger than the entire first floor of their house…then, eventually, they got bored and decided to explore the rest of it. Mavari heaved a sigh as she settled into a chair, propping bare feet onto the ottoman in front of it. “This place,” she began, “is too damn big.”

                “Right?” Lia agreed quickly. She stretched her legs out in front of her in her own chair and crossed her arms. “I feel like we could fit the old neighborhood in here.”

                Her charge regarded her curiously. “Have you ever been to this town before?”

                “Never.” True that there had been some wealthier Tieflings in Elturel—that foppish refugee in the Grove that Asharak trained came to mind—but most of them wouldn’t dare dream of seeing the wealthy district unless they were a servant. High Hall had seemed unreal to her as a child. It seemed even more so as she grew and better understood her family’s place in the world.

                She’d never forget how the wealthy wizards looked down their noses at Rolan and laughed. A Tiefling wizard from a poor family? Pathetic, who would ever take on the wretch? Lia had nearly gotten herself arrested for trying to defend her brother’s honor, if not for the fact that a kind Tiefling Hellrider had gotten to her before their angry companion could.

                She doubted she needed to explain any of this to Mavari, but she clarified regardless: “This place was inaccessible to most of us.”

                The warlock made a noise of acknowledgment in her throat. There wasn’t much more to add to it than that. After a long moment, she spoke: “I am not…comfortable, here.”

                “No. Me neither.” She delicately fingered a piece of her armor, debating. Finally, she came out and said it: “I don’t like that the Grand Duke is in another wing. I don’t think it’s for his privacy at all.”

                Mavari was quiet, rubbing her belly absently as she thought. Lia wondered briefly if she should have kept that observation to herself, if she should have tried harder to assuage the fears of a pregnant woman, but the woman finally responded: “I am…anticipating something to happen.” Despite agreeing, Lia cringed. Mavari glanced up. “We both are.”

                Well, that certainly explained why the married couple made a point to be alone the previous night. Although it didn’t surprise Lia at all to hear it. “Rolan gave us a failsafe,” she started. She hadn’t been intending to tell anyone besides Cerys about it, but it seemed prudent in this moment. “He gave me a sending stone to call in if we need his assistance.”

                Mavari gave her a long look—long enough that Lia wondered if she should have kept that to herself. Finally, she spoke: “It shouldn’t come to that.”

                Shouldn’t. Not wouldn’t. And her voice didn’t sound all that confident, either. But the conversation fell silent between them for several minutes before they switched to lighter discussion.

                It would take hours, after the family and their guards ate lunch, before Zevlor and Cerys would return to the quarters. But, shortly after, the group made their way to the cemetery. Every step felt like a dirge. Briefly, Lia reached her hand out toward Cerys’s, giving it a tight squeeze. The shorter woman gave her a look of surprise before squeezing back, then lightly letting it go.

                For better or worse, they were all in this together.

                The first tombstone they found was Asher’s. Zevlor asked for a moment of privacy, so the guards led the children away a safe distance. Lia and Cerys stayed back far enough to be out of earshot while close enough to intervene if something were to happen. Mavari, too, turned to leave, but he reached for her hand. “Stay with me,” he murmured, brushing his lips to her fingers.

                So, she stayed, though she gave him space as he knelt. He gently touched his fingers to the markings on the stone. Asher Redcloak, 1438 - 1472. Devoted Hellrider and Husband. The headstone was abundantly decorated with flowers: carnations, lilies, roses, all white. “None of them are correct,” he sighed, placing his bouquet in front of the tombstone. “His favorites were always marigolds. He said they reminded him of my eyes.”

                “He was right,” she supplied, uncertain if she should say anything at all.

                His eyes glanced to the side. “I see they wasted no time filling the plot that was supposed to be mine.” Her heart panged with a feeling she was afraid to identify. He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now.”

                “Do you…want to be buried here?” Mavari asked cautiously.

                He paused for a long time. Slowly, Zevlor stood, beckoning her to his side. She hesitated but stepped beside him. Gently, his arm wrapped around her waist, and he kissed the top of her head. “No,” he answered. “Elturel is not my home.”

                It took her a few moments before she let her arm slide around his waist in turn. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” she apologized. “It’s…” How did she even approach this? How she wanted to be supportive of his grieving, but how impossible it was not to compare herself to the memory of a dead man? “He must have been very loved.”

                He paused before giving her a light squeeze, looking back to the headstone. “Asher had a big family,” he began. “I’m glad to see they’re keeping his grave well-maintained. They…did not keep in touch, after his passing.” He let his fingers trace atop the stone again. “I often wonder if he would have…approved of my choices.”

                “I’m sure he would have, love,” she comforted him.

                “I wonder…if he would have left with us, or if he would have stayed.”

                She felt a dagger to her heart. “Zevlor, don’t do that to yourself.”

                “…You’re right.” He reached for her hand, lacing fingers with her on top of her belly. They stood there for what felt like ages before Zevlor spoke. “Asher would have liked you.”

                She started a little. “That’s…I don’t…”

                “Let me finish.” His eyes were trained on the gravestone. “Asher would have wanted me to be happy regardless of anything. Becoming a widower in my thirties and never finding love again was…a very real possibility, but he would have wanted me to have a partner and start the family we never were able to. Asher wasn’t the type who would want me to pine over him forever.” His arm tightened around her back. “You and he are very similar.”

                Mavari looked up at him. Zevlor turned his face toward her with a small smile. “Both of you make my life much more interesting,” he began, then added dryly, “and frustrating.”

                She gave him a tiny smile then hesitated. “If you wanted to try,” she began, “we can ask Jael about resurrecting—”

                “No, Mavari.” He turned serious. “I do miss him,” he admitted. “You never truly stop missing those you’ve lost. But I’ve been without him longer than the time I had with him. I’ve accepted his death many times over. And, more to the point, he wouldn’t agree to come back.” Idly, he rubbed his thumb against her stomach. “After all this time, I’m surprised you still try to compare yourself to him.”

                She winced. “I don’t—” The younger Tiefling sighed. “I don’t know this is supposed to work, love. I want to be supportive, but I don’t know how.”

                “Just be present,” Zevlor told her. “Listen. Observe. And don’t ever believe you’re not enough.”

                She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it. “…All right.” Struck by the sudden urge, she reached out to place a hand on the tombstone. “…I’m taking good care of him, Asher,” she spoke out loud, “I promise.”

                There was a flutter on the wind. Mavari gave a light gasp as she felt something brush past her tail, but, when she looked, nothing was there. …Was that…?

                Zevlor glanced back. “Children,” he called, “come here. You two, as well,” he added, beckoning Cerys and Lia.

                Quietly, the family and guards came forward. Mavari’s eyes didn’t leave her husband as he recounted stories of his deceased love, though she felt more at peace. Something about being here, in that strange brush of wind, made her feel like she was doing something right.

                Mol hated being in this place.

                It wasn’t the dead bodies, really—she had seen more than her fair share of those in her short life, especially after the descent. She used to find comfort in graveyards when she was younger, too. Something about the calm and reverence made her feel weirdly safe there.

                But that was when she was on her own, not when she was with other people. She couldn’t stand seeing how weird everyone was acting. They were all too serious, too subdued, as though the dead would judge them if they weren’t. She wanted to tell them that the dead would probably they rather just act normal than like they felt guilty to be alive.

                But, mostly, she felt othered. Mol found herself standing next to Mavari at one point, subconsciously seeking out the one other person who might understand. The warlock gently placed a hand around Mol’s shoulders, keeping her steady gaze on Mattis and Silfy. The two siblings were placing flowers on their parents’ gravestones. “I feel like I don’t belong here,” Mol admitted to her quietly.

                “You belong with us, Mol.” Her voice was gentle but firm. Her eyes remained forward, watching Zevlor kneel next to the kids. “…But that’s not what you mean.”

                The teenager glanced up at her. “…I wouldn’t even know where to look for my parents, if they’re even here. Or if they’re actually dead,” she added as an afterthought.

                Mavari was quiet for a long time. “I think it’s…natural, to think about that kind of thing, in moments like this,” she finally said. “Seeing how everyone is affected, I wonder if…” She trailed off. “I understand where you’re coming from.”

                The adult was wrestling with some feelings she didn’t want to share. That was fine. After years of a bumpy relationship, Mol had come to understand Mavari better. Some of that came with the idea that there were things she would not share with the teenager, no matter how much Mol insisted she actually was an adult. The fact that the warlock spoke to her like an adult but still tried to protect her made her angry at first, but, later, she grew to respect it. Mol wrapped an arm around Mavari in kind and leaned in closer. “…Thanks for letting me come with you guys.”

                “Of course, Mol. You’re part of the family.”

                Family. She had fought against it so long, but maybe—just maybe—she could let herself embrace it. Maybe it would be nice to have parents for once.

                “Where’re your parents?” Silfy asked Mirkon after they left her parents’ graves.

                “Oh,” Mirkon responded breezily, “they’re not here.”

                She eyes the bouquet of lavender and lilies that Mirkon held. Her adopted brother was cradling them carefully. Usually, he broke things, and Mama and Papa scolded him. This was weird. “Maybe in the next row?”
                He didn’t reply. He looked away.

                “Silfy?” Samara called. “Time to go.”

                “Okay,” she chirped, turning toward her guardian.

                After seeing Zevlor’s dead husband and the kids’ parents, the next grave they happened upon was her mother’s. Lia asked for some space as she knelt in front of it. Quietly, she pulled out her sending stone. “Rolan, Cal, I’m with her. I don’t know if you want to use a spell or something, but now is the time.”

                She felt a tingle of magical energy on the back of her neck, and she shivered instinctually. “We’re here, Lia,” she heard Rolan reply quietly. Although she could not see her brothers herself, she was aware that the scrying spell had been successful. At this point in their lives, she recognized the unique signature of her brother’s magic—it just felt more familiar, warmer, than others’ spells. “Cal wants to know if you remembered her favorite flowers.”

                “Of course I did,” Lia remarked. She held up the bouquet, admiring it. Three different flowers, each their mother’s favorite, and each, according to memory, symbolizing her three children. Daisies for Cal, her innocent, sweet son. Irises for the brave, kind Lia. And, for proud, hardworking Rolan, amaryllis. After a moment, she set the bundle down in front of the grave.

                Annabelle, it read, along with her dates of birth and death. Oh, Mother dear! When death relieves our pains/Shall we meet somewhere beyond the realms of mortal planes? The poem excerpt had, naturally, been Rolan’s idea. It cost them extra money they hadn’t had, but he insisted that only the best would do for her.

                “The weeds are overgrown,” Rolan complained. “Who is taking care of these graves? She deserves better.”

                “We were the ones who cleared away the weeds before,” Lia remarked. She reached forward to yank some, tossing them to the side. “If the deceased’s family isn’t around, then…”

                 “We should hire someone,” Rolan began, but he trailed off. What was the point? They wouldn’t be around to make sure it was done, let alone done well. Lia heard him sigh over the sending stone.

                “Gods, I miss her,” Lia whispered, letting her fingers trace the lettering. “Mum would have loved the tower.”

                “Cal says she would have had everything cleaned and organized much quicker than we did,” Rolan spoke, amused. “He’s right.”

                “We should try making her spice cookies again. See if maybe this time we can get the recipe right.”

                There was long silence on the other end. “I do think she would be proud of us,” Rolan noted quietly. Cal must have asked. “I think she’d be pleased we have made a life for ourselves in the Gate.” Cal must have started to say something else, because Rolan quickly cut in: “Oh, well, let’s not get into that…”

                “What?” Lia demanded. Rolan didn’t reply.

                After a long while, it was Cerys who carefully approached Lia, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. “Do you need more time?” she asked quietly. “We don’t want to rush you…”

                “I…” Lia looked at the grave again. At the poem, at the flowers, at the remaining weeds. She quickly yanked more of those and tossed them to the side. She desperately wished that this didn’t feel like the end. “…yeah.”

                Cerys nodded slowly. “My mum’s grave is close to here,” she supplied.

                Lia felt herself numb as she pocketed the sending stone, mutely following the younger woman. Steady Cerys was clutching the peonies to her chest like they were a lifeline. While she stood vigil as her Lieutenant visited her own mother’s grave, Lia, curiously, realized that her brother had yet to drop his scrying spell.

                She elected to not share that.

                “Cerys,” Zevlor called quietly. He hadn’t wanted to cut anyone’s grieving short, but it was starting to get late. Sooner than later, they would be asked to leave. He felt a pang of regret that his lieutenant was the last one who got to visit her loved one’s resting place and wondered if he needed to find an excuse for her to take a break to come back.

                “I’m fine,” she insisted in response. Cerys drew in a breath and stood. She touched the modest headstone once more before returning to the group. She looked to Zevlor for a moment before adding: “I think I’d like to see my dad, if time permits.”

                “We will find a way,” he promised her. He could allow his people that much, or go down fighting otherwise. His fingers reached blindly for his wife’s hand. “Shall we return to the manor?” He felt his wife’s fingers lace with his and squeeze gently. “Children,” he called, “we’re leaving.”

                Silfy and Samara had stuck close to them the entire time. Minerva and Mattis weren’t too far away. Mol trotted up with Kefkar not long after. And Ranveer came jogging up, which meant—wait a moment. “Where is Mirkon?” he questioned, feeling panic start to rise in his chest.

                The druid looked stricken. “I just turned around, and he was gone,” he began.

                The panic turned quickly into anger. “What do you mean, he was gone?”

                “What!?” Mavari’s hand slipped from his.

                The Tiefling’s red skin paled. “He asked me to grab some wild daisies for his bouquet, and, when I turned around…he was just gone.”

                “Ranveer,” Mavari began, her voice steady, but whatever good will she was attempting to garner was about to be gone.

                “You lost our son!?” Zevlor felt his blood boiling.

                “I didn’t mean—”

                “Didn’t mean to, but it’s happened,” the Commander snapped. He whirled toward the other adults. “Find him. Now.” His fingers snatched Mavari’s hand. “Go back to the manor, love.”

                “You’ll need another set of eyes,” she began.

                “Absolutely not.” He saw her eyes flare in defiance, and he understood. She wanted to find their son as much as he did. But… “Go back with the children. Keep yourselves safe. Lia, I need you to escort them. The rest of you, scour this damn city until we find him.”

                “With respect, sir,” Lia chimed in, “wouldn’t it make sense for me to search, too? Since I know the city.”

                He thought about it. “Minerva,” he amended, “stay with Mavari and the children.”

                “Yes, sir.”

                “And you,” he continued, glaring at Ranveer, “we’ll be having words later.”

                Without another word, the furious Commander turned and started running.

                “I know where Mirkon is,” Mol murmured to Mavari.

                The pregnant woman started a little, glancing down at Mol. “…You do.”

                “Let me take Kefkar with me,” the girl continued. “I’ll bring him back to the manor in no time.”

                Mavari looked to where her husband disappeared on the horizon and frowned. After a moment, her eyes flicked to Kefkar. “Make sure to keep her safe,” she conceded. Mavari reached for Mol and kissed the top of her head. “Be careful.”

                “Nothing can kill me in this city,” Mol promised her before she and Kefkar, too, started running.

                Mavari wasn’t sure about that, but, she reasoned, they had little choice.

Chapter Text

                “Come on! We have to go save them!”

                “You’re not going anywhere but home.”

                “We can’t just leave them to die! They’re our family!”

                “Come on,” Mol called behind to her guard. “I know exactly where he is.” She frowned at him. “Hells, we can’t sneak anywhere with that clanking of yours.”

                “This armor is how I’m going to help keep you safe, kid,” Kefkar commented back.

                “Really? Not the huge sword?”

                “The armor is what keeps me safe to keep you safe,” he amended.

                “Yeah, whatever.” The benefit to a massive charging Tiefling in armor was that people jumped out of their way, which then made all this much easier. Mol wasn’t surprised by the stink eyes they were getting, and she didn’t care. As long as no one tried to pick a fight, as long as they could get to Mirkon, that’s all she cared about.

                “Of course, Mol. You’re part of the family.”

                Family was such a…weird concept, and it was one she had tenuous grasp on at best. (Tenuous. That word was in one of Zevlor’s books that she stole borrowed, and she liked it.) She played around with it when she had gathered the orphaned kids in her gang. She had a looser idea of it still with Fletcher’s gang before Kefkar dragged her out of a bad situation. The problem was that she didn’t like answering to any sort of authority, and didn’t being part of a family mean you had to listen to the adults? She didn’t want that.

                At the same time, she saw the way her kids reacted having parents again. From the moment they left Elturel, Silfy had always gravitated toward Zevlor, no doubt because he reminded her of her birth dad. She got attached to Mavari quickly, too. It was no question that they’d adopt her, and she immediately flourished under their care. Cooking with Papa this, reading with Mama that. Mattis took a while longer, but he would go where his sister went. Despite his protests otherwise, he was fond of them, too. Mol suspected he secretly liked having people who cared enough about him to establish rules and look after his safety.

                And, Mirkon… Well, Mirkon wasn’t honest with most of them about his situation in Elturel. She still remembered when they met. He had tears in his eyes and begged her to play along with the idea that his parents were dead. She agreed, of course—they were suffering enough without adding questions on top of it.

                “It’s not much further,” she told Kefkar. “Be ready.”

                “Yes, ma’am.”

                On the edge of town was one of the poorer districts. She knew it well. She followed the path from memory to a ramshackle place where she could hear the raised voices already. Getting closer, she realized that the door was left ajar, which made it even worse.

                “…just wanted to see you again,” she could hear Mirkon’s tearful voice. “I thought if I brought Mom her favorite flowers that maybe you’d talk to me?”

                “Flowers,” a male voice repeated before laughing cruelly. “Did you hear that, Mara? Your son thought he’d be welcomed back with flowers.”

                “If he’s my son,” a female voice responded coldly, “he’s your son, too.”

                “I’m not the one who made a deal with a damn cambion, you stupid bint.”

                Mol skidded to a stop in front of the door. There, she saw Mirkon, clutching the lavender and lily bouquet tightly in his hands, visibly shaking. “Mirkon,” she tried quietly. In front of him were two humans, a man with the same tight curls as Mirkon, and a woman with his big eyes and button nose. Both looked furious—dangerous.

                “D’you think I just made him by myself, Tarron?” Mara mocked. “The foulblood is just as much your fault as mine.”

                “I didn’t deal with no damn devil!”

                “Dad,” Mirkon tried.

                “I’m not your dad, you little monster!”

                Mol felt herself pushed to the side. Kefkar lumbered inside the building, and she scrambled to follow. She noticed the already impressively huge man puff up to make himself look even bigger, stepping in front of Mirkon, crossing his arms. “Don’t,” he said, voice dangerously low, “call him a monster.”

                “He’s my spawn, I can call him whatever I damn please!”

                “Sounds to me like you were just trying to claim he wasn’t your child,” Kefkar responded coldly. “Which is it?”

                “Tarron,” Mara warned, sounding frightened.

                Mol took this as her cue to step up to the boy. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go, Mirkon,” she said quietly. “Let’s get you back to your real mom and dad.”

                He hiccupped and nodded, still clutching the bouquet tightly to his chest.

                “Never come back here again,” Mara whispered harshly. “The day the Tieflings were exiled from Elturel was the day our lives got better.”

                “Oh, fuck off, lady,” Mol growled, leading Mirkon out of the house.

                Kefkar paused. “I am inclined to agree with my young charge.” Mol heard the clanking of armor as he followed the kids. The door slammed shut behind them, then the soft “click” of a lock sliding into place.

                “Listen, Mirk,” Mol began, but the boy stopped in his tracks and burst into tears. She knew she wasn’t going to get anywhere anytime soon. Wordlessly, she looked to Kefkar.

                “Here, buddy,” Kefkar said softly. He crouched down and held his arms out to the boy. Mirkon didn’t resist at all, throwing himself at the big Tiefling. Hugging him tight, Kefkar straightened and placed hand at his ear—probably talking on that sending stone network that Rolan gave the adults. It was so weird, having a group of adults that cared. Sure, one or two cool adults, that she could handle. But multiple ones looking out for their safety felt…strange. Not unwelcome, but…weird.

                “You’re part of the family,” Mavari’s voice echoed in her head again.

                If something happened to her, would the adults be pulling out all the stops to rescue her…? The cynical part of her wanted to say no—she was the one who survived Avernus the first time, she was the one who got out of Moonrise by herself—but there was another feeling there that was unfamiliar.

                Kefkar would drag her out of trouble. He had once before. But seeing how intense Zevlor got when he found out Mirkon went missing, and how much trust Mavari placed in her when she asked to help search… Was this what happened when adults actually cared? Could she really be a part of their family, if she tried…?

                …maybe Mavari was right, and she already was.

                Mirkon was miserable. The bouquet of flowers was left abandoned on the table as he sat on his bed, waiting for his parents to come in. Mattis was in the girls’ room for now. Ranveer should be in here, but Ranveer was in the other room with Mama and Papa. He could hear raised voices—mostly Papa Zevlor’s—but couldn’t make out what they were saying. All he knew was that Mom and Dad didn’t want anything to do with him, and he was afraid Mama and Papa wouldn’t, either.

                Minerva was sitting beside him in place of Ranveer. He didn’t really know anything about her except that Mattis had a huge crush on her, but she had her arm around him, and that felt nice. Mirkon leaned against her side and whimpered a bit. She wasn’t soft like Mama, but she was soft enough to give him some comfort.

                “They hate me,” he said miserably.

                “They don’t hate you, Mirkon,” she soothed. Minerva wrapped her other arm around him to give him a squeeze. “They were scared for you.”

                “I knew what I was doing.”

                “But they didn’t know where you went.” Minerva didn’t sound like she was blaming him. “They were afraid you might have gotten hurt.”

                “I did,” he responded glumly.

                Immediately, Minerva tensed. “You what?” She pulled back, squinting at him like she was looking for something. Her voice was careful: “…where…?”

                “Right here.” Mirkon tapped the spot over his heart.

                A look of understanding crossed her features. Minerva sighed. “Oh, Mirkon…” She hugged him tightly again. He sniffled despite trying to be a big boy. “Everything will be okay.”

                “Do you promise?”

                “I promise.”

                Adults promised a lot of stuff that didn’t come true. But he was going to believe her, because he didn’t know what else to do.

                Seconds later, the door banged open. In came Papa Zevlor, looking really mad, followed by a worried looking Mama Mavari and a scared looking Ranveer. “Minerva,” Zevlor commanded, “leave us with our son, please.”

                “I don’t want you to go,” Mirkon blurted out, gripping the gray Tiefling’s arms.

                She looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, kid, but I have to follow your dad’s orders…” She gave him a squeeze before getting up. On her way out the door, Minerva snatched Mavari’s arm and whispered something in her ear. Mama nodded and moved to sit on the bed.

                Waddled. Mama waddled now.

                He immediately leaned into his mama’s comfortable embrace, taking in the familiar scent of her lavender and vanilla soaps, and eyed Papa warily.

                “Running off on your own.” Mirkon knew when Papa was really upset, his voice got low and quiet. Papa’s voice was low and quiet now. “In a city that is dangerous for us, without your guard. What in the Hells were you thinking!?”

                “I just,” Mirkon began in a tiny voice, “I just wanted to see my mom and dad again…”

                “You could have been hurt,” Papa continued, voice rising in volume, “or kidnapped, or killed. Did you think Ranveer is here just to play with you!?”

                He sensed that the right answer was not “yes.”

                “Mirkon.” Papa’s voice was sharp.

                “No, sir,” Mirkon mumbled glumly.

                “I explicitly told you when your mother and I talked to you about this trip that you were not to be out of adult supervision,” Zevlor continued. His voice was still getting louder. “I warned all of you that people here want to hurt Tieflings. You promised me you’d behave. And you blatantly disregarded this to go off on your own!”

                He buried himself against Mavari’s side. Mama’s arms instinctively tightened around him. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered. Papa never yelled at him like this. He didn’t like it one bit.

                “What were you thinking? Were you even thinking?”

Tears pricked his eyes. “I’m sorry!” he blurted out again. “Everyone else was seeing their moms and dads and I wanted to see mine and I thought you would say no so I—”

                “So you went anyway,” Zevlor continued, “knowing it was the wrong thing to do—”

                Mirkon hated crying in front of people. He tried not to. But his chest was heaving as the tears came faster, and he started crying in earnest. His vision blurred as he buried his face against his mother’s side. Mama’s arms tightened around him. “Get out, Zevlor,” she said coldly. He had never heard her use that tone against Papa.

                “Mavari—”

                “Leave. …Not you, Ranveer. You stay.”

                The door clicked shut. Almost instantly after, he felt his mother shift slightly, and her lips pressed against the top of his head. “It’s okay to cry, baby,” she murmured. Mama lightly ran her claws along his scalp. He liked when she did that. This must have meant a lot, because she only ever called Silfy “baby.” Or maybe he was acting like Silfy right now, because she cried a lot. As Mama held him, he felt the weight of Ranveer sitting on his other side.

                Finally, though, he started to feel a little better. Mirkon pulled back and looked at Mama’s face. “I’m sorry,” he hiccupped. “I didn’t mean to make you scared.”

                “Here,” Ranveer offered, gently pressing a cup of water into his hands. “This will make you feel better.”

                Mirkon dutifully gulped down two big swallows. He felt calmer, somehow. He looked back to Mama and tried again. “I didn’t want to worry anyone,” he continued. “I just thought…maybe, after being gone for so long, my mom and dad would want to see me again.” Mama lightly ran her fingers along his back. “But my mom and dad hate me, and now Papa hates me, too. Please tell me you don’t hate me, Mama.”

                “I don’t hate you, Mirkon,” she responded quietly. “Your father doesn’t hate you either. He was scared.”

                “Nuh uh. Papa doesn’t get scared. He’s the bravest guy there is.”

                “I’ll let you in on a little secret.” Mama leaned closer. “All adults get scared. We just learn how to act brave.”

                “Really?” He was incredulous (that was a word he learned from one of Papa’s books that he stole borrowed).

                “Of course we do.” She kissed his forehead. “Both Papa and I were scared something might have happened to you. Zevlor ran through half of Elturel looking for you before Kefkar told us he and Mol found you.”

                “Papa did that for me?”

                She gave a playful nip to his nose. Mirkon squealed and pulled away, but he was laughing as he did. “Of course he did. He loves you, Mirkon.”

                “But he yelled at me.”

                “Mirkon,” Ranveer spoke. He turned his eyes toward his big buddy. The man’s black eyes had dark bags beneath them. “It’s obvious how much Zev—err, your dad—cares about you. He’s scared and tired, and he’s trying to keep all of you safe. This is hard, but it’s hard for him, too.”

                “You got yelled at because of me,” Mirkon whispered.

                Ranveer nervously scratched the back of his head. “Well, I…”

                “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble,” Mirkon insisted. “I’m sorry.”

                “I know you didn’t, buddy.” Ranveer ruffled his hair. “All is forgiven. Just stick close to me or one of the other adults from now on, okay?”

                “Okay…”

                “Mirkon…” Mama looked serious. “You said you wanted to see your mom and dad again…”

                “Well, yeah.” Mirkon shrugged. “Everyone was visiting their parents and stuff, and Cerys said she’s gonna go see her dad. So, I thought…” He trailed off. “Not that it matters, cause they hate me, anyway.”

                “What do you mean?”

                “Dad said he never wants to see me again, and they were arguing about not being my parents, and Mom called me a foulblood…”

                “What?” Mama’s hand clenched.

                “Mirkon,” Ranveer cut in again. “Listen. Just because those people gave birth to you doesn’t mean they’re your parents. I didn’t mean my real parents until I was older than you.” He ruffled Mirkon’s hair again.

                “Real parents?” Mirkon echoed.

                “Mavari and Zevlor are your real mom and dad,” he said firmly. “They love you and take care of you, and they keep you safe.”

                “Ranveer,” Mama began. Her voice sounded weird.

                “You’re right.” Mirkon straightened. “Mama and Papa are my real mom and dad.”

                Mama’s arms wrapped around him to give him a tight squeeze. Mama kissed the top of his head again before she gave an oompf noise. “Bean has a lot to say about that,” she laughed, placing a hand on her belly.

                “I wanna feel!” Whatever sadness he felt was forgotten as he pressed a hand to his mother’s belly. “Where is she?”

                “Here…” Gently, Mavari took his wrist and guided his hand to a spot low on her belly. Mirkon felt a tiny bump against his palm and giggled. “You can, too, Ranveer, if you want.”

                This, Mirkon thought to himself, is my real family. He supposed he could forgive Papa’s yelling just this once.

                Perhaps he shouldn’t have yelled at the boy.

                Zevlor paced back and forth in the ridiculously large room that Master Glin had assigned to him and Mavari. He hadn’t liked that she had ordered him out of the room, but he left regardless. Now, with time to think, he was worrying that he had been too hard on the boy.

                The blind panic thinking something may have happened to, him, though…

                The door opened and quietly shut. He glanced up to see Mavari glaring at him before she crossed the space to their bed. “Love,” he began.

                “Don’t love me,” she snapped at him, “I’m upset with you.”

                Of course she was. He couldn’t blame her, but it was going to make for a rather chilly night. “Can we talk about it?”

                “I don’t know, can we?” She was tugging off her dress. Zevlor took a moment to admire his wife’s curves before she slipped on the sleeping gown. She shot him an annoyed look. “I had to convince our son that you didn’t hate him.”

                “I…” He paused. Of course the poor boy probably thought so. “I shouldn’t have yelled at him.”

                “No,” she agreed. “You shouldn’t have.”

                He took a moment before moving toward the bed. She had sat down and was rubbing the small of her back with a grunt. Carefully, he climbed onto the bed. “May I…?”

                “…Ugh. Fine.”

                Kneeling behind her, he carefully began the now familiar process of massaging her back. She was stubborn at first, but, eventually, she leaned back, letting her head fall on his shoulder. “It’s not fair,” she grumbled. “You can win fights by giving me a back massage now.”

                “You’re implying I couldn’t before,” he teased, kissing her shoulder.

                “Yeah, but now I’m slower to fight back.”

                He chuckled, applying a little more pressure with his thumbs to a knot in her back. She whined a bit in response but didn’t stop him. “Considering I’m the one who made you pregnant, this is the least I could do.”

                “Stop being sweet. I’m supposed to be pissed at you.”

                Ah, yes. “Has Mirkon calmed down?”

                “Yeah. Ranveer and I both reassured him that none of us hate him, and that we were worried about him.” She let one of her hands reach up to tug his hair loose. “He went to see his parents.”

                Zevlor paused. “I thought he was an orphan.”

                “So did I.” Her fingers idly twirled around a lock of his hair. “According to Mol, he didn’t want anyone but her knowing initially, and it just kind of…stuck. They’re humans who struck a bargain with a cambion…”

                “Humans with a Tiefling child,” he echoed. “I am assuming it was not a happy reunion.”

                “No.” She turned her head, letting her face rest against his neck. “But he now knows without a doubt who his real parents are.”

                A terrible way to find out, but… “Thank you for speaking with him.”

                “Talk to him tomorrow,” she advised. “He knows you love him, but it’ll mean more if he hears it from you.”

                “I will.” He kissed her shoulder again. Zevlor slid his hands around her front to rest lightly on her belly. “Better?”

                “…Better if you move those hands lower, handsome.”

                He snorted but obliged, scooting his body closer so that she could lean against him properly.

                Zevlor was going to be in meetings all day again. Cerys was remiss to leave him unguarded, but Lia had offered to cover her at least part of the day. Mavari was going to be with the kids, after all—she’d have a few hours. She was grateful to the archer for this and vowed to herself to do something sweet for her friend—provided they made it out of Elturel with their lives intact. That was becoming less and less of a certainty.

                But, if she didn’t do this, she would regret it for the rest of her life. Steeling herself, she made her way to one of the more comfortable neighborhoods, avoiding the stares that were tossed her way. She squared her shoulders and marched with her head held high. Perhaps she should have waited until someone could come with her…but, well, this was a private matter.

                It didn’t take long to get to the address. She took in a long breath before lifting a fist to rap on the door—one-two-three-four-five. After what seemed like an eternity, the door opened to a pretty human girl—couldn’t be more than five.

                “Hello,” she greeted gently.

                “You have horns,” the girl stated bluntly.

                “…I do have horns.”

                “Daddy has a picture of two ladies with horns in his office. Mommy doesn’t think I know about it, but I do.”

                …He did? “Is your daddy home by chance?”

                “Ummm…” She squinted. “I’m supposed to see who is asking before I answer that.”

                “My name is Cerys,” the Tiefling supplied with a smile.

                “Okay,” the little girl chirped. She shut the door in Cerys’s face. Cerys…wasn’t sure how she should react to that. She didn’t have long to consider it before the door opened again. Tall, dark hair, tired looking face… She’d recognize him anywhere.

                “…Hey, Dad,” she greeted.

                “Get in here,” he commanded, voice low, glancing around furtively. “Quickly.”

                “Glad to see you, too.” She slipped inside and noticed immediately that her father didn’t invite her to sit down as he closed the door.

                “Cerys,” he whispered, “why are you here?”

                “…The High Observer invited Commander Zevlor and his family to visit. He brought me along as part of his guard.”

                “Just a visit?” he confirmed. “They haven’t…reversed their decision?”

                Suddenly feeling defensive, she crossed her arms over her chest. “We live in Baldur’s Gate now,” she told him flatly. “Those of us who survived, that is. Not that you looked into whether or not I survived, did you, Dad?”

                He worked his jaw as he tried to formulate a response. “Cerys, look. I have a new life now, and Sherralyn—”

                “—doesn’t want you associating with Tieflings, I take it.” He didn’t say anything. “Your—other daughter mentioned you had a picture in your office your wife doesn’t want her to know about. I’m guessing it’s Mum and me.” He frowned. “Her grave was cleaner than I expected. No flowers, but no weeds. Guessing that’s your doing?”

                “I pay someone to keep it clean,” he replied quietly.

                “Dad, I don’t get you,” she admitted, frustrated. “Seems you care more now that Mum’s gone then you did when she was alive. Would’ve been nice to see some of this when she could have appreciated it.”

                There was a conflicted look on his face. “You have to leave, Cer Bear,” her father said, nearly inaudible. “Elturel’s…not safe for you.”

                “I know that.”

                “No, I mean, it’s not safe.”

                There was something in his words. Cerys lowered her arms. “What do you know?”

                A call from further in the house, and he glanced back, nervous. “Just get out of the city as soon as you can,” he pleaded with her. “Please.”

                As he shooed her out the door, warning bells began to go off in her head.

                “I’m scared,” Mirkon whispered, practically smashing himself against her side as they walked.

                “It’s okay, sweetheart,” Mavari insisted, squeezing his hand. “I’d never let anything bad happen to you.” She felt Mol’s eyes her on her other side and ignored it. “We won’t stay long, okay?”

                Behind them, Kefkar and Ranveer moved in silence. They already met Kefkar, but having two massive Tieflings—and one who was incredibly fond of Mirkon—would held with the intimidation factor. Of course, it was likely she’d be intimidating enough on her own…but it never hurt to have insurance.

                “This is it.” Mirkon paused outside the house, wary, but Mavari was less deterred. She marched right up to the door and pounded on it with her fist. The man, Tarron, was the one to answer. Eyes wide, he tried to shut the door in her face, but she shoved back against it harder. Wide eyed, he stumbled backwards. Mavari confidently strolled into the house.

                “You…!” He shook. “This is trespassing! Get out of my house! I’ll call the Hellriders!”

                “Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Mavari drawled cheerfully. “You see, good sir, we happen to be the honored guests of the High Observer. He was the former Hellrider General, was he not?” She tipped her head to the side. She could feel Mirkon moving behind her and allowed her arm to circle around him protectively. “In fact, I happen to be the wife of the Hellrider Commander, Zevlor.”

                “Former Commander,” Tarron spat.

                “Still Commander.” She flashed her teeth at him. It delighted her how he shrank back. “And in an awful lot of meetings with your highest officials, besides. No, dear sir, you’d do well to let me say my piece.”

                “Tarron, what the hell is—?” A woman joined him, eyes widening as she took in the sight. Mavari could practically see the two Tiefling guards with their massive arms crossed behind her.

                “Stay back, Mara!” Tarron warned.

                “Oh, no, Mara should hear this, too.” Mavari turned her toothy grin toward the woman. “Stay, won’t you?

                “Tarron,” she repeated, panicked.

                “I won’t be long.” Mavari dropped the smile. “You two are sorry excuses for human beings and even worse parents. I sincerely hope neither of you decided to procreate again.”

                “I beg your pardon!?” Now Mara narrowed her eyes.

                “But I suppose I have to thank you,” she continued, “because your complete negligence and absolute idiocy means that your son was able to get parents who love and care about him.”

                “You…!” Tarron started fuming.

                “Mirkon,” she began, her voice increasing in volume, “is an amazing child. He’s incredibly creative and writes us the most wonderful stories. One day, if he decides it’s what he wants to do, I wouldn’t be surprised if he became a bigger name than Volo.”

                “Mama?” Mirkon gripped at her dress.

                “Our wonderful, dreamy child,” she continued, “who has the biggest heart. He adores his siblings and would do anything for them. And he’s going to make an amazing big brother when his baby sister arrives.” Here, she touched her belly. Both humans’ eyes flicked down in barely masked disgust. “And you two,” she continued, voice raising enough to make them wince, “are missing out on knowing him, because you insist on being ignorant shitheads who would turn away your own flesh and blood for being born different.”

                “Foulblooded bitch,” snarled Tarron. “Get out of our house!”

                “Mol,” Mavari said sweetly, “would you take Mirkon outside? Gentlemen, you may step outside, as well.”

                “Are you sure?” Kefkar’s voice barely contained his anger at the man’s insult.

                “You can watch from the doorway if you want.”

                “I trust you,” Ranveer chimed in. His tone was also charged.

                Once she was confident that the quartet was outside, Mavari turned toward the human couple, a cocky grin twisted on her features. “You listen to me,” she spoke quietly. As she did, her voice was layered over with another, deeper, masculine one. She took a step closer. “If you value all your appendages—and I do mean all of them—you will never say that word ever again. Not about me, not about my husband, especially not about my son—never.”

                She saw their eyes flick behind her and upward and saw terror fill them. “If I hear you say one word against Tieflings—and, trust me, I will know—I will not hesitate to send a creature from the Abyss after you. If you’re lucky, it’s a quasit. If you’re unlucky—”

                “I disagree,” Urich’s voice said silkily, breaking from hers. She felt his hands on her shoulders as he leaned forward, leering at the couple. “I think they’d be very lucky to deal with me.”

                Mol heard screaming from inside the house, but she couldn’t see around Ranveer and Kefkar’s huge forms. In no time, Mavari strode out of the house, looking unnervingly peaceful. “What happened in there?”

                “Oh, I put some healthy fear into them, that’s all.” Mavari kissed Mirkon forehead. “Let’s go back to the manor. I bet we can convince them to make fish and chips for lunch.”

                “I love fish and chips!” Mirkon exclaimed. He happily took his mother’s hand and swung their joined hands back and forth as they walked, chattering at a mile a minute.

                Tentatively, Mol reached for her other hand. Mavari glanced sideways at her, questioning, before a gentle smile played on her lips. She gave Mol’s hand a squeeze before looking forward again.

                Yeah, Mol thought to herself. They’re definitely my family.

Chapter Text

                “…No. I cannot leave my kin to die.”

                “You’re our way out. You need to take the others and leave.”

                “Not without doing everything in my power to save as many of you as I can.”

                “Waterdeep has proposed a public airship system,” Wyll was saying to the High Observer. “We’ve been using them more of late as a safer means to travel. I quite say I’m in favor of them.”

                “Truly?”  Grayspire rubbed his chin. “I’ve not yet had the pleasure. I suppose decades of mounted combat have made me more inclined toward land travel over anything.”

                General Grayspire had cut a truly impressive figure on the battle field. Long before he was promoted to a rank, Zevlor recalled watching him charge into combat on his trusty warhorse, striking down enemy soldiers with little effort. Watching him had inspired the young Hellriders, eager to earn their own steads. Now, with time away from Elturel, time away from Grayspire’s leadership, Zevlor looked at the man and saw someone so set in his ways it would be hard to sway him.

                “It would make travel between our cities much more convenient,” Wyll offered, “should you be interested.”

                “Mmm. And easier for trouble to get in.”

                By trouble, do you mean Tieflings? Zevlor wanted to ask, but he held his tongue. He had well-earned reservations about his presence on this trip, but, for Wyll’s sake, he needed to save his commentary for his wife.

                Thinking of his wife made him reflect on the previous day’s argument. He regretted how he spoke to his son. Mirkon was a dreamy child, sensitive, and didn’t respond well to anger. He knew that, but he allowed his fear to cloud his judgment. Zevlor bit back a sigh, instead looking toward Lia, his guard for the morning, and he noticed how carefully she was trying not to look bored.

                Yes, well, he couldn’t fault her for that.

                “In the interest of our proposed alliance,” Wyll continued, “I urge you to consider it, High Observer. It would do wonders for each of our local economies.”

                Grayspire made a non-committed noise. He lifted his gaze toward the grandfather clock in the space. “Let us break for lunch. The kitchen is preparing a truly exquisite pheasant tail soup.”

                “I look forward to it.” Wyll smiled at him. It amazed Zevlor how at ease the young man was. Whatever he felt below the surface was not showing.

                “High Observer, Your Grace,” Zevlor began. “Permission to take my leave for the hour?”

                Grayspire’s cool gaze fell on him. “For what purpose, Commander?”

                “I should like to check on my pregnant wife and children, High Observer.”

                Wyll, bless him, jumped in immediately to assist. “Of course, Commander Zevlor. I’m sure the High Observer will agree that the comfort and safety of one’s family is of the utmost importance.”

                To his knowledge, Grayspire had never bothered to have children of his own. Famously, he had declared that a spouse and children would only serve as a distraction to him. So, it didn’t surprise him to see Grayspire furrow his brow, looking as though he wanted to argue, but it seemed he was aware of the company he kept. Instead, he sighed. “Very well. Be back here in an hour, Commander. The General will be here this afternoon.”

                Zevlor nodded. “By your leave.” He stood, and Lia followed suit. Only once they had made it out of the room and out of the building did he speak. “Thoughts?”

                “Sir?” Lia sounded surprised.

                He glanced over toward her. They had a rocky start, with Lia taking a while to forgive him after everything. In truth, they still had their moments—she tended to flourish better under the leadership of his longtime lieutenant, Guerus, rather than his. But her fellow soldiers were fond of her, and his wife adored her, which meant they were in each other’s orbit often. Candid conversation remained rare nevertheless. “What are your thoughts on the meeting?”

                Lia hesitated briefly, peeking behind them. Then, she drew in a breath. “I don’t like the High Observer,” she said flatly. No, he didn’t imagine she did. His lips twisted, though he didn’t respond verbally. “It sounds to me like he’s less interested in negotiating than he is getting his own way.”

                “Astute observation.” Out of habit, Zevlor clasped his wrist behind his back. “He was much the same as General. It was never impossible to change his mind, but it was…difficult.”

                Lia wet her lips and looked at him. “He’s the one who gave the orders for us to leave,” she said frankly.

                “He was.”

                “He stripped you of your title…”

                He willed himself not to clench his fists. “He did.”

                She fell silent. Neither had to voice the anxiety that the group had been feeling since they departed from Baldur’s Gate. Instead, she redirected. “The Grand Duke is handling himself well.”

                “Yes, he is.” Perhaps it was a deliberate choice on Grayspire’s part, to invite the youngest Grand Duke to speak with him, but Wyll was not one to be underestimated. Sharp with his mind as he was with his blade, he played the role of politician with ease. “He’ll have managed to wrangle Grayspire into some sort of agreement by the time we leave Elturel.”

                They both fell silent again. “Zevlor?” she tried as Shieldhaven came into view.

                “Yes?”

                “I…you’re a good person, you know that?”

                He turned fully toward her. “Lia?”

                “You didn’t have to take on escorting all of us to the Gate,” she began. “You didn’t have to protect all of us. You could have walked away like a lot of the others did.”

                “Walking away wasn’t an option.”

                She held up a hand. “Let me finish. If I don’t say this now,” she warned him, “I never will.” She drew in a breath. “You could have walked away again after the Shadow Cursed Lands. You could have left all of this behind you. You didn’t have to adopt the kids. But, even with all that pain, and even with the distrust…you were still there for us.” She paused. “Thank you,” she said sincerely.

                That made Zevlor stop in his tracks. He turned to face her. “Thank you, Lia,” he returned quietly. It must have been difficult for her to say; he wasn’t going to take the admission lightly.

                She coughed politely. “Should we join the others?” she asked instead.

                It took a little searching, but they found the group not in the manor’s dining room but rather in the room that Zevlor and Mavari were sharing—and not at the table in there, either. Instead, Mavari was settled on one of the couches, with Mol and Mattis on either side of her; Kefkar and Ranveer were on the opposite couch. Cerys was seated quietly in one of the chairs. Spread out on the coffee table were platters of food. Each Tiefling had a plate of food on their lap they were eating from, except for his wife. Someone had kindly brought an ottoman for her to prop her feet on as she kicked back, balancing her plate of food on top of her belly.

                “You must have worked up an appetite this morning,” he commented idly. “Might you have enough food for two more?”

                “By all means, love.” Mavari gestured toward the spread. “We got enough to share.”

                “Mama didn’t know what she was hungry for,” Mirkon supplied. He was happily munching on a piece of fried fish.

                “That sounds correct.” His wife made an indignant noise in her throat; he leaned in to kiss her atop her forehead. He placed a hand on Mol’s shoulder in quiet acknowledgement before he moved around the couch to kneel next to his adopted son. “Mirkon,” he began quietly. “I apologize for raising my voice at you yesterday.”

                “That’s okay, Papa,” Mirkon responded, seeming unfazed. “Mama said you were scared. I forgive you.”

                That easily, huh? It seemed…very convenient. “I’m glad,” he murmured. Zevlor ran his hand over Mirkon’s forehead, where the beginning bumps of his adult horns were starting.

                “And,” Mirkon continued, chomping on a fry, “Mama went to my old house and called the big guy on Mom and Dad.”

                And there it was. He should have known she wouldn’t leave well enough alone. Zevlor shot his wife a look, exasperated. “Mavari,” he scolded.

                “Zevlor,” she responded, an edge of warning to her voice.

                “Mirkon,” Mirkon sang, not wanting to be left out.

                “…we’ll talk about this later, love,” Zevlor grumbled.

                “Eat your lunch,” she groused, shoving a pickle in her mouth.

                Though he missed Silfy and Mattis’s company—Samara and Minerva had taken them and had yet to return—the lunch with the rest of his family and their retinue was sorely needed—and over far too soon for his liking. He had enjoyed his conversation with Kefkar and Ranveer, learning about their past adventuring experiences, and was sorry to have to leave it.

                Walking behind the couch, he placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder. She tipped her head back and reached for his face, pulling him down into a proper kiss—polite, although perhaps lingering a touch longer than what was appropriate in front of company. Given their circumstances, he’d allow it. “Don’t start any more fights,” he murmured toward her.

                “I notice you didn’t say anything about finishing fights,” she teased.

                He brushed a thumb on her cheek. “Don’t do that, either.” Straightening, he turned toward Cerys. “Will you be joining me this afternoon, Lieutenant?”

                She sat up straighter in her chair. “Yes, sir.” Cerys exchanged a quick glance with Lia before she stood.

                “We’ll be back this evening,” Zevlor told the group. “Perhaps we might do something as a family.”                He saw Mirkon immediately perk up and—surprisingly—Mol straightening with interest. Smiling, he left the room, Cerys quickly in tow. As they moved away from the room, he could hear pleasant conversation and laughter ringing through the air, and his heart felt lighter for it.

                But it was back to business. He glanced to Cerys once they were out of earshot. “What do you know of the situation with my wife?”

                “From what Ranveer and Kefkar said, sir,” she began, “she went back to give Mirkon’s birth parents a piece of her mind. The two of them were…difficult.”

                …ah. “I think I can fill in the rest.” Mavari would not have reacted well to it and would have thrown her weight around.

                “As a fair warning, Zevlor,” Cerys noted, “she did make it known she was your wife.”

                He paused. That was not like Mavari. “That is likely to make things more difficult, depending on whether or not they choose to report this.” She was silent for long enough that he glanced over to check on her. “Cerys?”

                “Apologies, sir.” She sighed. “You know I went to visit my father this morning.”

                The change in topic took him by surprise, but he nodded. “And?” he asked gently.

                “He said Elturel wasn’t safe for us,” she began, “which we already knew, but he insisted I get out of the city as soon as possible.”

                Warning bells were going off in Zevlor’s head. “What does he know?”

                “He wouldn’t say.” She frowned. “But I…” Her eyes swiveled toward him. “…We have the Teleport scrolls in case things go south, but Rolan told Lia to contact him via Sending Stone if things go really south. He has some concern about the scrolls going off target.”

                Now Zevlor looked at her sharply. “A Teleport spell can only carry eight additional people along with its caster.”

                “I know, sir.”

                “There’s twelve of us.” She didn’t answer. Zevlor drew in a breath. He knew well which eight Rolan would save, and he was wholly unwilling to leave the adventurers to an unknown fate. But… “Knowing we have Rolan on standby, perhaps we can use this to our advantage.”

                “How do you mean, sir?”

                “Having an accomplished wizard in one’s corner is always an advantage, particularly if they are not expected.” Gods. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Perhaps Cerys’s father had a point. “I’ll speak with Wyll and see how much longer he expects the trip to last. If nothing else, we can perhaps get the children and Mavari home safely.” After them, well, it would be a question of which of their guards would stay in Elturel with him. Kefkar, perhaps.

                Cerys nodded quietly. “What have I missed thus far?”

                The rest of the walk was spent filling in his lieutenant on the conversations had that morning. In the time that they’ve spent working together, Zevlor had grown fond of the former scout. Though she would never replace Tilses—no one ever could—he found her insight thoughtful and her company pleasant. Having her along on this trip was proving a sound decision.

                They returned to High Hall shortly before the lunch break was over. But, rather than lead him to the room where they had been meeting, the servants redirected him. Zevlor glanced at Cerys before following. As they movd, he realized where they were headed. He hadn’t been there often in his time as a Hellrider—only once or twice, perhaps—but he knew the way to the High Observer’s office very well. He thinned his lips but followed.

                Once they arrived, he was not surprised to see the Grayspire standing behind his desk, and—he shouldn’t have been surprised to see General Quil. And, yet… Zevlor glanced around the space. “Where is the Grand Duke?”

                “I requested to speak with you privately, Commander.” the High Observer inclined his head ever so slightly toward Cerys. “I would have preferred it alone.”

                “Lieutenant Cerys is an invaluable ally,” Zevlor responded levelly. “I trust her with my life and my privacy.”

                “Permit the lieutenant to stay, High Observer,” General Quil spoke quietly. “I have no quarrel with this.”

                Grayspire’s eyes lingered on her for a long time before nodding. “Very well.” He took his seat and gestured for the others to do so, as well. Zevlor carefully lowered himself as Cerys stood against the wall nearby. He could practically felt her nerves firing. “I had manners I wished to discuss as Elturians.”

                “Former Elturians,” Zevlor corrected mildly. He felt Faera’s eyes on him, but his own did not leave Grayspire’s. He knew the General would not approve of the boldness and didn’t care.

                Grayspire observed him, expression unreadable, before he nodded. “Tell me, Zevlor. I’ve heard rumor but not the full story. I want to know how your group managed to settle in Baldur’s Gate.”

                “We didn’t have much of a choice, sir,” Zevlor retorted flatly. “You gave the order for us to leave. Baldur’s Gate is the closest city.” Grayspire didn’t respond. He lifted his chin. “We made due, but many innocent, untrained civilians died trying to get to safety, High Observer. Their deaths are on your head.” Again, Grayspire didn’t respond. Zevlor clenched his fists. “You have nothing to say for yourself? Children died thanks to your order!”

                “Certain decisions must be made to ensure the safety of the majority, Commander.” Grayspire’s voice was cold. “You’re aware of this.”

                “High Observer,” General Quil cut in, frowning. Zevlor willed himself to relax his hands. He was ready to throw a punch at the man, and Faera’s interruption drew him back to himself. She turned toward Zevlor. “The consequences of the order are regrettable. Of course we do not take word of Elturian deaths lightly.”

                So now we’re Elturian, when it’s convenient to you? He bit back his words.

                “The Grand Duke mentioned a Tiefling district being set up in Baldur’s Gate,” she began. “Small Sun, is it?”

                He eyed the General. “Those of us who survived had grown close on the journey. We wished to remain near each other. The Grand Dukes advocated on our behalf, and we were granted our own home in the Gate.”

                “Things are going well there, then?”

                “General,” Zevlor frowned, “why is this relevant?”

                “You’ve done great work in Baldur’s Gate, Commander,” began Quil. “The Grand Duke Ravengard spoke very highly of you and what you’ve accomplished. We are in sore need of similar here.”

                “My people need me in the Gate,” he argued. “I cannot abandon them.” Again, his mind supplied, but he squashed that voice.

                “And we need you here.” Quil’s voice was calm, gentle. “Our forces could use someone with your leadership capabilities. Bring us back to, well…some semblance of order. Honor.”

                He shot her a frustrated look. “Tieflings are still banned in the city,” he noted flatly. “Are you planning on reversing that decision?” The General looked toward Grayspire, whose eyes, impassive, remained on Zevlor. He placed a hand on his leg and tapped a claw against his knee, willing himself not to lose patience. “You stripped me of my title personally, High Observer. Now, years later, you want to reinstate me into the chain of command? You want me to fight alongisde other Hellriders, many of whom likely foster an anti-Tiefling sentiment? You want me in a city that hates my people for the nature of our birth?” He paused. “Forgive me for finding this entire situation ludicrous.”

                “Your talent far outweighs the circumstances of your birth, Zevlor,” Grayspire noted.

                What in the hells is that supposed to mean? He opened his mouth to react when the door opened behind them. Standing there was Ludreth Glin, looking a little sheepish.

                “My apologies, High Observer, General, Commander.” Glin’s eyes fell on Cerys briefly, curiously, before turning away. “Business to attend to that kept me over long, you know…”

                “Glin.” The High Observer nodded to the General. Quil stood, gesturing for Glin to take her seat. Grateful, the man took it, withdrawing a handkerchief from his breast pocket to dab at his brow. “Any news?”

                “Everything is going according to plan, High Observer.” Glin turned toward Zevlor, offering a bright smile. “We would like to host a dinner at Shieldhaven Manor tomorrow night in your honor, Commander. Introduce you and that lovely wife of yours to some of Elturel’s elite.”

                He eyed them. “…Why?”

                Glin’s eyes widened. “Why, to give you connections in the city, of course! You will be accepting the offer, won’t you?” At the tense silence, he shifted. “…won’t you?” he questioned, sounding less certain.

                “The Commander is considering his options, Ludreth,” Quil supplied.

                “…ah.” Glin shifted awkwardly. “In any event, I hope that you might be able to join us.”

                Zevlor felt Cerys’s eyes on the back of his head. He knew what she was thinking, and he didn’t disagree, but…what else was he able to do? “…very well. Tomorrow night.”

                “Wonderful.” Glin clapped his hands. “It will be a night to remember.”

                That was precisely what worried him.

Chapter Text

                “And you played so beautifully into the plan. Idiots. You should never have come here.”

                The mood around the kids was low after Mirkon’s disappearance. Silfy had cried when she heard her dad’s raised voice through the wall, and Samara had felt bad for all of them. Every member of the family had been scared, they were not handling it the best way. Even so, she was eager to find some way to soothe the pain, somehow.

                The next morning, at breakfast, Mavari mentioned taking Mol and Mirkon out. Samara sat up straighter. This was perfect! She bounced her feet a little as she beamed at Silfy. “You want to go on an adventure?” she asked.

                “An adventure?” Silfy repeated, hesitant.

                “Yeah! You too, Mattis.” Samara shot the twelve-year-old a wide grin. “Let’s go on a scavenger hunt!”

                “A scavenger hunt?” Silfy perked up.

                “A scavenger hunt?” Mattis made a face.

                “I think it sounds fun,” chimed in Minerva.

                “Yeah, sure, I’ll go.”

                Minerva winked at Samara, who winked back. “Okay!” Her brain was working quickly. “Let’s finish breakfast and then we can start.”

                Within short order, the group was on their way into town. Silfy had her hand in Samara’s, while Mattis padded alongside Minerva behind them. “What’s the first thing on the list?” she chirped to the cleric.

                “The first thing,” Samara began grandly, “is something pink.”

                Silfy gasped. “I love pink!”

                “Me, too!”

                In the park, they were able to find a pink peony bush, and, with Minerva’s quick knife work, cut off a pretty bloom. Silfy tucked it in her shirt, a big smile on her face. “What’s next?”

                “Next…” Oh, boy. Samara had to think fast—making all of this up on the fly was hard work. “Next is something made of wood.”

                “There’s a woodcarver nearby,” Mattis offered. He seemed to have warmed to the idea of the game. “He puts scraps outside his front door for people to use. We used to take it for kindling during the descent.”

                “Perfect!” Samara clapped her hands together. “Lead the way!”

                After they picked up a discarded whittling project, they went off in search of new things: something blue (a handkerchief), something sweet (a chocolate treat), something delicious (sandwiches at a cozy cafe), something fun (an abandoned yo-yo). Samara felt herself get lighter as they went, happy that the kids seemed to be enjoying themselves. Her moment was disrupted when she felt Minerva’s hand on her shoulder.

                “Be aware,” the gray Tiefling whispered to her, “we’re being watched.”

                Only after she mentioned that did Samara realize the rogue was right. Wary looks, distrusting stares, and some Elturians resting hands on their weapons. They were not wanted in the city, and she realized with a sinking feeling that her day of whimsy might have only put the kids in more danger.

                “Let’s get back to the manor,” she offered, trying to sound cheerful. “I bet your mom would love to see what we’ve found.”

                “Yeah!” Silfy agreed.

                She allowed the siblings to walk ahead of them, slowing enough to walk in step with her teammate. “Thanks,” the cleric murmured to Minerva. Minerva mutely nodded and kept her eyes scanning the area, hands subtly on her daggers.

                The meeting with Grayspire, Quil, and Glin set him on edge. He and Cerys walked back to the manor in silence. Roughly halfway to where they were headed, his lieutenant drew in a slow breath as though to speak, but she stopped herself. “Speak freely, Cerys.” His voice was low but firm.

                “This feels like a trap, sir,” she said bluntly.

                He shut his eyes. “Undoubtedly,” he agreed. He could hear the subtle shift of her armor. Zevlor opened his eyes and turned his head toward her. “And your take on their offer?”

                Cerys bristled very visibly before she remembered they were likely being watched. She willed herself to relax. “I don’t trust it. It feels like there’s an ulterior motive behind it.”

                He made a noise of confirmation in his throat. “I would…” He paused, glancing around them. “…prefer not to be made an example, whether for good or bad.”

                “Zevlor.” She had dropped his title altogether. That made Zevlor look her fully in the face. Cerys’s expression was a mixture of disbelief and concern. “You aren’t seriously considering it, are you?”

                “No,” he reassured her, “but it sounds as though I have little choice but to entertain them.” He held up a hand to still her response. “When we return, I wish to spend time with my wife. Then I want to spend time with my family. Can I rely on you to inform the guards of the situation?”

                “Yes, sir.”

                He nodded slowly. “You should all take the night to yourselves,” he continued. “Enjoy it.”

                “Commander,” she spoke sharply. “We can’t leave you unguarded.”

                He shut his eyes again. “We’ll use Glyph of Warding spells on the entrances. Should anything happen, you’ll know immediately.”

                “I…”

                “Enough, Cerys.”

                She fell silent.

                When he entered the room, Mavari immediately knew something was wrong. When he dismissed Cerys and Lia, the feeling sank further. And, when he kissed her like he needed her to breathe, she knew he was about to give her some bad news.

                But he didn’t want to talk just yet, and she wasn’t ready to hear what he had to say. Instead, they gave into the moment and tumbled into bed. Only after the two of them exhausted themselves and Zevlor curled around her back did Mavari find her voice. “What happened?” she asked quietly.

                His hand pressed lightly to her stomach. She covered it with her own. “The High Observer requested a meeting with General Quil and myself,” he began slowly. “Wyll was not present. Grayspire wasn’t overly happy Cerys was there, either, but I insisted she stay.”

                “Good,” she murmured. Zevlor appeared to be fine, but, well, she had no way of knowing he was for sure. A part of her questioned if he might not have been without Cerys’s presence.

                “They want me back in the ranks.”

                Mavari jolted. “They what?”

                “They’ve heard about what we’re accomplishing in Baldur’s Gate,” he murmured, tracing circles on her stomach. “They want someone in command who can bring back a sense of honor, so they say.”

                “So they should find one here,” she argued, her hand tightening around his. “They don’t need you.”

                “I agree.” She felt him bury his nose in her hair. “The High Observer won’t take any responsibility for his orders, either. He had nothing to say when I brought up how many of our people died…and, of course, there was nothing about reversing the decision regarding Tieflings in the city.”

                “Of course not,” she grumbled. “So they want you to come back here and abandon your family to make their lives easier?”

                “I don’t know if that’s worse or you being here and having to watch your backs every waking second,” Zevlor sighed. “At least you’d be safe in the Gate.”

                “Safe but never allowed to see you? I don’t think so, Zevlor.”

                He didn’t respond. Instead, she felt his claws dent her stomach lightly before he remembered himself. “There’s more,” he continued. “They want the two of us to attend a dinner here tomorrow night. I’m the guest of honor. Supposedly they want to introduce us to Elturel’s elite.” His voice was dripping with disgust.

                “They’re really pushing this on you.” He hummed in agreement. “I don’t like this at all.”

                “Nor do I.” He wrapped around her tighter. “If I could, I’d send you and the kids away tonight.”

                “The kids we may be able to save”—except for their daughter growing inside her, which made her feel sick—“but it sounds like I’m stuck.”

                “And, unfortunately, it’ll flag their attention if we do anything too early.”

                “And we have no way of knowing if the scrolls will get us where we need them to…so we could be sending the kids somewhere dangerous.”

                He kissed her cheek and shifted into a seated position. “There may be a way,” he began.

                Mavari blinked. She carefully started to sit up, gladly accepting his assistance in doing so. “What do you mean?”

                “Rolan.”

                Oh, right. “Lia mentioned a sending stone but didn’t elaborate. I assumed it was for visiting their mother’s grave…”

                She watched her husband inhale slowly before exhaling. “He gave it to her to in case things got rough. He wanted to have a more reliable means of teleporting to safety than the scrolls.”

                She could put the pieces together, and she didn’t like the picture they were creating. “So who is being left behind to die, Zevlor? Or to use scrolls and end up the hells know where?”

                Zevlor reached a hand around her to rest on the other side of her body, leaning in to kiss her temple. “I don’t know,” he answered. She suspected he was lying; this wasn’t a detail he wouldn’t have thought through several times over. “Nor do I know if us having an emergency exit will have a negative effect on Wyll. But it is something to consider.”

                Mavari didn’t like any of this. She took in a slow breath. “Zevlor, I…if this is…” She couldn’t even bring herself to say the words. She didn’t even want to think of this. “I want to spend our last night together as a family.”

                “I agree,” he responded quietly, giving her a light squeeze.

                Mattis wasn’t an idiot.

                When their group had returned, the old man and Mavari were having “private time.” They never had private time during the day. Afterward, they insisted that all twelve of them have dinner in their suite together. And then they were told that the family was going to spend the night in his parents’ suite.

                Mirkon and Silfy were thrilled. They immediately scrambled to sit on either side of their adopted mother on the couch, chattering at her happily. Mattis, on the other hand, looked around the room. Zevlor, Samara, and Kefkar were casting spells at the windows. He watched as the trio moved toward the door, Samara leaving, but Zevlor quietly conferring with Kefkar and Cerys. After a moment, the two of them left, too. Zevlor locked the door behind them before he sat down on the opposite couch.

                Mattis exchanged glances with Mol. Mol thinned her lips but shook her head at him. Silently, she headed toward the seating area to settle in next to Zevlor. “Hand me those cards, Mirkon.” The younger boy had been struggling with shuffling a deck of playing cards and was all to happy to let Mol take over. She expertly began to shuffle at a rapid pace. Her eyes slid toward Zevlor with a smirk. “Bet I can beat you at War.”

                The older Tiefling raised his eyebrows at her, amused. “Is that so? Perhaps after we’ve played a few games all of us can play as a family first.”

                “You’re on.”

                “There’s a lanceboard set in the room, too,” Mavari pointed out. “You’ve been wanting to play for a while, right?”

                “Lanceboard.” Mol’s eyes lit up. “Now there’s an idea.” Finishing her shuffling, she looked at the occupants of the other couch. “Now. What game are we playing?”

                “Let’s play Rat Slap!” cheered Mirkon.

                “Let’s play Go Fish!” insisted Silfy.

                “How about Crazy Eights?” Mol offered instead.

                Reluctantly, Mattis found his way to the couch. He sat down and leaned into Zevlor, tapping his shoulder. The man bent his ear toward his son. “What’s really going on?” he whispered.

                For a moment, his adopted father looked…very tired. But that moment quickly passed. “It’s been some time since we had a nice evening with just the family,” he responded, offering a warm smile to Mattis. “Let’s enjoy ourselves, all right?”

                He didn’t believe him for one second. He knew better. Mol knew better, too. He caught her eye, but, once he had, Mol scowled at him. Whatever was going on, it looked like she, too, was trying to keep up the façade for the kids.

                He hated when the adults did this, but…fine. For his little sister and brother’s sake, he’d play along.

                “Is this a good idea?” Lia asked, frowning.

                Cerys glanced at her and shook her head. “Zevlor’s orders.” Agree or not, they had to follow what the Commander said. She watched as Kefkar finished the Glyph of Warding spell on the door and stepped back. “I don’t like it any more than you, but—” She hesitated, glancing around the hallway. “Let’s get into the other room before we discuss, yeah?”

                The group shuffled into the adjacent room, the one that they had been using as their own headquarters throughout the trip. Inside, Ranveer was already uncorking a bottle and pouring glasses for each member. Minerva was seated on the floor, sharpening her daggers. Samara had turned a chair around and propped her arms along the back, chin on her forearms. The three of them glanced up as they were joined by the other half of the guard before turning back to what they were doing.

                Cerys cleared her throat. “We’ve been given the night off,” she started. She watched as the adventurers all started to stand and shook her head. “I know, I don’t like it either.” Trying to keep her voice neutral, she continued: “The Commander and his wife have been invited to a private dinner held downstairs tomorrow. The High Observer and Elturel’s finest are supposed to be in attendance.”

                “That’s not necessarily a bad thing, right?” Even as she asked, looking to the others for affirmation, Samara sounded like she was trying to convince herself. “…Right?”

                “You weren’t at the meetings,” Lia commented. “You didn’t hear the way Grayspire spoke to Zevlor.” She sank into a chair, accepting the glass that Ranveer pressed into her hand. “There’s no way that someone doesn’t come for the Commander’s head.”

                “Zevlor won’t leave, either,” Kefkar surmised, brow knitting. “So we’ll take the kids and Mavari and get out.”

                “Mavari needs to attend the dinner, too,” Cerys pointed out, sighing.

                “We’re just going to let a pregnant woman walk into a situation where she and the baby are in danger?” For the entire trip, Minerva had been measured, calm. Now, a hint of steel edged her tone. Her look toward the lieutenant was as sharp as the dagger in her hands.

                Cerys and Lia exchanged a look. “We have a secret weapon,” Lia offered.

                As Ranveer distributed the drinks, Cerys quietly began to inform the adventurers of what she knew. And, together, the six of them devised a strategy to make sure that every single one of their charges—even the bullheaded man who’d insist he be left behind—made it out alive.

Chapter Text

                Cerys felt like this was a death knell.

                The six guards had spent hours combing over the plan to save the family, and, in the end, she was afraid it wasn’t enough. The priority was the children, of course, but the likelihood of them losing Zevlor and Mavari wasn’t low enough for Cerys’s liking. Knowing she was directly responsible for their parents’ lives did not help her stress levels.

                She glanced over to Lia, walking silently beside her and behind the married couple. If everything went south, they had their emergency plan, but…

                Her eyes fell on Zevlor and Mavari. He was wearing his armor, polished and gleaming; she had on a dark blue gown, simple and elegant. She had looped her arm through his and walked close to her husband.

                “Love,” Zevlor began quietly. Cerys could scarcely make out what he was saying. “Mavari.”

                His wife paused, looking up at him. “Zevlor?” she responded tentatively.

                His hand covered hers. “Our child’s name…” He stopped, turning toward her. “Tilith. I choose the name Tilith.”

                Cerys watched as a myriad of emotions chased across Mavari’s face. He won’t tell me the name, she had laughed on their way to Elturel. He says I’ll find out when she’s born. “Tilith,” she repeated softly. She gave a watery smile to her husband. “It’s a beautiful name.”

                And, in that moment, Cerys realized that the Commander knew he wouldn’t survived the dinner. She opened her mouth to speak when Zevlor beat her to it.

                “Cerys, Lia.” Zevlor turned his orange eyes toward them, expression unreadable. “Listen to me. If we fall, don’t try to avenge us. Use one of the Teleport scrolls and get back to Baldur’s Gate immediately.”

                “But, sir,” she began.

                “That’s a direct order, Cerys,” he spoke quietly, brokering no argument. “Come. Let’s show them how proud we Tieflings are.”

                He and Mavari faced forward again, the latter, briefly, hugging his arm tighter. Lia and Cerys exchanged worried looks again and followed their charges.

                The dagger’s handle danced between her fingers nervously. They had gone over the plan several times the night before, and, although she never was one to drink much, a part of her was worried that maybe she had forgotten something. Minerva knew there was a high probability they’d need to make a swift exit—how couldn’t she?—but knowing that and having to deal with it were two entirely different things.

                Mavari was counting on them to protect her babies. Even if she weren’t being compensated for it, Minerva would lay down her life for her friend and her family. Between the original exile from Elturel, what the Cassalanters had pulled in Waterdeep, and the way she had been personally treated by bigots, she was determined to do whatever she could to keep her kin safe.

                “Are we about ready to go?” she asked Samara. The albino Tiefling was hopping from foot to foot, the nervous energy radiating off her in waves.

                “Just about,” Samara confirmed. “We’re just waiting for the girls to finish getting ready.”

                “Good.” Minerva breathed a sigh of relief. The sooner they could leave, the better. She turned in time to see Mirkon and Mattis trot up and frowned. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “You’re supposed to be packing your things.”

                “Something in the room smelled funny,” Mirkon complained. “We went to find Ranveer to see if he could sniff out whatever it was as a wolf!”

                Minerva looked to Ranveer, jogging up behind the boys. He gave a helpless shrug. “What…kind of funny?” she asked.

                “Like rotten eggs,” Mattis complained.

                She was about to scold them to get back to packing when she started to fit the pieces together, and—

                BOOM.

                It didn’t matter how many stately functions they attended as a couple—Mavari never would get used to being introduced formally. Having all eyes on her made her nervous. Still, she was somewhat used to it by now, and so she put on a charming smile, playing her role as the wife of the Commander flawlessly.

                Tilith was active, no doubt reacting to her mother’s nerves. She briefly, subconsciously, placed a hand low on her belly. She desperately hoped they’d survive this so that they could meet their daughter, but—

                No. She wasn’t going to entertain that right now. She had to focus.

                The room was packed with fancily dressed people she hadn’t seen before—almost entirely human, strangely enough. The exceptions were their retinue and, of course, General Quil. Quil was wearing what must have been her Hellrider armor, scanning the room with a frown on her face. Her mouth was moving, presumably speaking with the High Observer and a very young, waifish looking woman. Her eyes fell on the Tieflings. She nodded toward them, drawing Grayspire’s attention. He, dressed in fine robes, turned in their direction and smiled. He crossed the room to them. The woman with him had to practically run to keep up with his large strides.

                “Commander,” he greeted, holding out his hand to shake Zevlor’s. Once he had released it, he next reached for Mavari’s hand, kissing her knuckles. “And your lovely wife. Welcome. Glad to have you join us.”

Mavari found herself very badly wanting to slap him. She refrained for her husband’s sake.

“My wife, Gwendolyn,” he introduced, gesturing to the woman.

                “A pleasure to meet you,” she whispered, giving a curtsey. Politely, Mavari returned it.

                “A pleasure, Lady Gwendolyn.” Zevlor nodded to her respectfully before his eyes turned toward Grayspire, frowning. “She is…quite young, High Observer.”

                “Why, Zevlor!” Grayspire lifted his eyebrows. “I thought you of all people would understand marrying young.”

                Her husband stiffened beside her. Mavari could not help herself. She turned toward Grayspire and gave him the most charming smile she could muster. “Why, High Observer, certainly you can agree that there is a difference between a twenty-year age gap and a forty-year one?”

                Oh, the teeth in his smile back to her were vicious. Grayspire had not liked that. “Charming,” he said between clenched teeth. “I wasn’t aware you would be bringing guards.” The man nodded toward Cerys and Lia. “Do you not trust us in your home?”

                “I would prefer to be safe in the place where we’re staying while we’re away from home,” Zevlor replied curtly. “Our guards stay.”

                There was that fierce smile again. “Very well, although we are not providing food for them.”

                “I wouldn’t imagine you would,” Zevlor remarked dryly. She squeezed his arm. It seemed neither of them were willing to play timid. Good.

                “Very well.” Grayspire gestured toward the room. “Go on. Make your introductions. We will be having dinner shortly.” The Grayspires excused themselves in short order.

                “Prick,” Lia whispered under her breath. Mavari cleared her throat to hide her amusement, but her attention was quickly drawn toward the retreating Grayspires. Gwendolyn turned back toward her. The way she flashed Mavari a look of worry…

                But they didn’t have long before two more people approached them. “Ah, our esteemed guests!” gushed Ludreth Glin. “So good to have you join us. My wife, Alandra.”

                “A pleasure,” Alandra practically purred, holding her hand out toward Zevlor. He hesitated a fraction of a second before he dipped his head low to kiss the offered hand. Her stomach twisted, but Tilith’s foot pressing against her reminded her of the stakes. “I would love the opportunity to speak with you, Commander.”

                “And I you, Lady Mavari.” Ludreth held an arm toward her. “May I?”

                Feeling the panic burble in her chest, Mavari shot a look to Zevlor. They held each other’s gaze for a moment before he slowly nodded. “Very well,” he agreed. “Let’s talk.”

                “Wonderful,” Alandra enthused, dragging him off. Mavari cautiously took Ludreth’s arm as he led her to a loveseat. She cautiously lowered herself onto, unsure of how comfortable she should get.

                “I wanted to discuss your future in Elturel,” Ludreth began, settling in beside her.

                As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Mavari knew she and her husband had been separated for a reason.

                It was like the world was moving in slow motion as smoke billowed into the hallways. Heat rose. Flames started to lick the walls. Whatever fleeting moment of panic Kefkar had was replaced by the stark realization that Mol and her sister were stuck inside the room.

                "Where the fuck is the source of this fire!?” Kefkar demanded.

                “Silfy?” Their cleric sounded panicked “…SILFY!”

                The sound of coughing emanated through the door. “I can’t breathe!” Silfy’s panicked voice whimpered.

                “Hold on, baby girl, we’re getting you out of there.”

                Mattis was already trying the door. “The door’s jammed!”

                “Then kick the damn thing open!” Mol’s coughing voice barked.

                Hearing her spurned Kefkar into action. “Step back, Mattis,” he commanded.

                “Hurry!”

                Kefkar took a couple steps head start before kicking the door near the handle. It splintered beneath his foot, the door swinging open. Immediately, the two girls came rushing out. Silfy was in tears as Samara gathered her in her arms. Mol frowned at the guards. “What in the hells is happening?” she demanded.

                “It was a set up,” Minerva growled. “We should have left yesterday.”

                “Hurry,” Samara insisted, “use the scroll!”

                Mol took one look at all of them before taking off down the hallway. “Hey!” Kefkar bolted after her. “Mol!”

                “Come on! We have to go save them!”

                “You’re not going anywhere but home,” he barked at her.

                “We can’t just leave them to die!” she yelled. “They’re our family!”

                “Our priority is the children, Kefkar,” Minerva reminded him as she jogged after the paladin. But one look at her face made him realize that she felt the same way he did: If they could save the entire family, it was worth trying.

                So Kefkar drew in a breath. “Stick together, and don’t do anything stupid.”

                Zevlor watched as Ludreth escorted his wife to a love seat, but he didn’t have much time to contemplate it. Alandra was dragging him to one side of the room. He noticed with quiet alarm how much distance was being put between him and his wife, but, blessedly, he was still able to see her. He met Mavari’s eyes across the room briefly, and she gave an almost imperceptive nod.

                Lia was there with her. Cerys was with him. It was a small comfort to know they had their backs covered even apart, although he didn’t much like his pregnant wife being so far from him.

                “Might I get you something to drink, Commander?” Alandra purred at him. “You strike me as a firebrandy man.”

                He wasn’t. It was whiskey for liquor; otherwise, he stuck with ale and wine. But Zevlor lifted his chin slightly. “I gave up alcohol in solidarity with my wife during her pregnancy,” he lied smoothly.

                Alandra paused. “Oh?” She sounded…disdainful. “A shame. Well, no matter.” She placed a hand on his upper chest and smiled at him. “I am told that you’ve been offered your old post here in Elturel. You are taking it, are you not?”

                “That has yet to be determined, Lady Glin.” He badly wanted to look anywhere but at her. He badly wanted to swat her hand off him, too.

                “Oh, do consider it.” She traced a slow circle on his chest. “Elturel would do well with a man of your…considerable stature.”

                “Elturel seemed to manage just fine without me,” he argued. Zevlor had little desire to play nicely with the nobles more than was necessary. That included pretending like what had happened to the Tieflings wasn’t an issue.

                “Well.” Alandra placed her other hand on his chest now. “We certainly could use you and your…considerable talents now.”

                He took a step back, enough that her hands fell away. “Lady Glin,” he began. “Your husband is not a military man. I fail to see why this is such a matter of import to you.”

                “Why, Zevlor,” she began, eyes widening in feigned surprise. “I should think my interest is obvious.”

                “Lady Glin, please refrain from touching me again.”

                “Oh, I think you’re going to let me,” she reprimanded, a cold smile playing on her lips. Her hands slid around him, one at his waist and the other at his neck. His eyes immediately shot over to where his wife sat—Master Glin’s hand on her cheek and the other on her hip. Their eyes locked in shared, mutual horror for a moment. Then, snarling, they simultaneously pushed the Glins away. Immediately, they started toward one another.

                “Dal’goth,” Alandra shouted, and both Tieflings froze momentarily. That name was…

                “Enough,” Grayspire commanded, stepping forward. He looked between Ludreth and Alandra, annoyed. Then, his eyes fell on Zevlor. “Commander, what is the meaning of this?”

                “Would you care to ask Master and Lady Glin instead, in that same accusatory tone?” Zevlor snapped.

                “On the contrary,” Grayspire remarked coolly. “They are acting on my orders.”

                “You ordered them to hit on a married, expecting couple?” Mavari glared at him. “What logic is there behind that?”

                “Oh, it’s quite simple, my dear.” Grayspire was not a man known for smiling, but the cold smile on his face was chilling. “Everyone needs a convenient scapegoat.”

                A screech pierced the air. General Quil shouted, startled, as her conversation partner suddenly transformed. In his place was a massive demon, one claw at her throat as her hand hovered over her longsword’s hilt. Zevlor jumped back as Alandra’s form exploded into another demon beside him. He heard Mavari’s cry of surprise, but a hand shot out to grab his face, preventing him from seeing what was happening.

                “What in the Nine Hells—” Quil was shouting.

                “On the contrary, my dear General,” Grayspire smirked. “The Hells have very little to do with this. Although, I will say, not nothing.”

                 “Strong stench of demon,” Mavari murmured. “Of course.”

                “What is the meaning of this?” Zevlor demanded.

                “Oh, Commander.” Grayspire, hands clasped behind his back, started to walk toward him. “The devils like to claim that they’re the tacticians, they’re the ones with plans and failsafes, but they belie that demons have our own intelligence. Oh, I’ll grant you, your General Grayspire fought valiantly in the Blood War”—Zevlor’s blood ran cold—“but it was all too easy to kill him and take his place. And, when he fell…” The man chuckled darkly. “Well, it was all too easy to then replace others with our ranks, wouldn’t you say, Glin?”

                “Of course, Master Dal’goth,” the demon posing as Glin responded, his voice an amused, throaty growl.

                “All this time,” Faera murmured. “The appointment to High Observer. Exiling the Tieflings. Cracking down on laws in the city. All of that was the work of demons?”

                “The order for us to leave,” Zevlor recalled, eyes on Dal’goth. “You roused a strong anti-devil sentiment in the city so that you could hide in plain sight. If devils weren’t permitted in the city, you’d have less competition in your rise for power. And you saw Tieflings as a threat.”

                “Your Infernal ancestry is a problem.” Dal’goth inclined his head. “Would your progenitors use you to get to us? Possibly. The mortals, certainly, had no way of knowing. Sowing a little discomfort, claiming that you were lying in wait to cause another descent? It was child’s play.”

                “Why?” Lia demanded. Her arrow was nocked and aimed at Glin’s head. “Why are you doing this?”

                “It’s quite simple, my dear.” Dal’goth’s lips twisted. “The Abyss needs souls, and Elturel’s are prime for the picking.”

                Everyone needs a convenient scapegoat. “You brought us here to put the blame on us,” Zevlor realized. “If I were to agree to your proposition, you’d have someone to take the fall if your plan failed, and someone to publicly execute to gain favor. If we didn’t, you’d kill us and still pin the blame on us.”

                “And you played so beautifully into the plan.” Laughter burbled from his lips. “Idiots. You should never have come here.”

                “You can’t do this,” Mavari argued. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”
                “No?” Dal’goth raised his brow. “I hear the Commander’s wife called upon her demon patron to attack innocent civilians.” Mavari stiffened. “Truly, you didn’t think this through, my dear.”

                Zevlor swore silently. He knew Mavari’s impulsiveness would get the better of her. “Grand Duke Ravengard will not stand for this,” he began.

                “Certainly, he will have no choice if the Tieflings were revealed to be traitors all along,” Dal’goth smirked. “What do you say, Commander? Do you choose to die now, or will you play along to maybe have the chance to meet your child?”

                The illusion of choice, but his answer was obvious. And he knew going into this they only had one option, did he not? Zevlor snarled at Dal’goth. “I will never serve a demon.”

                “Have it your way.” Dal’goth lifted a hand. All around him, the guests exploded into demonic forms with horrendous screams.

                All but two: General Quil and pretty little Gwendolyn.

                “No!” Gwendolyn yelled, sprinting toward Mavari. She dived toward the woman as Glin’s claws swiped downward, shielding his wife’s body right as Lia loosened her arrow into the demon’s skull.

                “Cerys!” he yelled, drawing his longsword.

                It was time to fight for their lives.

                Lia didn’t like the smell of this situation one bit.

                From Grayspire disliking that they had brought guards, to Mavari and Zevlor getting separated, something smelled funny in the air. And then the way that Glin was whispering to her friend—the way he touched her thigh—watching Mavari’s face turn simultaneously angry and concerned—had Lia growing more and more furious.

                “I don’t like where this is going, Cerys,” Lia warned through their group sending stone. Rolan had created a version of the traditional sending stone years ago that could be discretely hidden behind the ear. It connected to multiple stones rather than simply two. Grabbing a bag was a necessity before they left, and it allowed the two of them to be in contact discretely.

                “Keep an eye on them,” Cerys ordered. Across the room, she saw her lieutenant’s lips thin as Glin’s wife placed her hands on Zevlor’s chest.

                But both husband and wife had enough (thank the gods), and they started toward each other. “Dal’goth!” Alandra screamed, and Lia froze. Abyssal. Anyone who had spent time in Avernus during the descent could recognize the sound of it. Cerys swore in her ear. “This whole thing was a damn trap from the beginning.”

                “Fucking pricks,” Lia growled, nocking an arrow. “I knew it.”

                “Kick their asses?”

                “Kick their asses.”

                The arrow loosened, finding purchase through Glin’s eyeball. Lia felt satisfied as the demon fell to the ground, convulsing. But he was one of far too many. “Mavari!” Lia snapped, kicking over a table. That would work as a makeshift barricade. “Take shelter! Now!”

                She looked like she wanted to argue but thought better of it. The Tiefling grabbed Gwendolyn and ducked behind the table. Lia slid in front of it, nocking another arrow. She looked around the room. Five, ten, twenty… There were more demons here than the three of them could conceivably take down on their own, even if Mavari supplemented them with magic. She couldn’t count Quil as an ally—not in this.

                So, this was it, then. This was how they died. She could only hope that the others managed to get the kids out, and—

                “Mama!” cried a very familiar childish voice.

                Shit.

                Ranveer didn’t register what was happening fast enough to call out a warning. He watched Zevlor turn to the sound of his youngest, alarmed, giving the demon opportunity to tear its claws down his back. But the Commander grit his teeth and slashed with his sword in retaliation.

                “Children, come here!” Mavari commanded, standing just long enough to beckon them behind the table.

                Mirkon hesitated. “Go!” Ranveer barked. The boy nodded and scrambled after his siblings. As for him? Well…it was time for him to do what he had been craving since he got to Elturel in the first place, and especially after meeting his little buddy’s biological parents.

                His eyes glowed golden. Flexing his arms, he widened his stance and let out a loud roar as his bones extended, body growing larger, feathers growing from red skin—

                —Hungry. Angry. Time to hunt.

                “Mama!” Silfy cried again, running to her mother. Mavari immediately welcomed the girl into her arms, hugging tightly to her chest. Mol noticed that Mavari was pale and—she had never seen the warlock look so scared before.

                “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “We had the Teleport scrolls for a reason!”

                “Our rooms were trapped,” Mol answered bitterly. “And,” she added defiantly, “we weren’t about to leave you to die.”

                “So, you made the decision to die with us instead,” Mavari grumbled just as bitterly. Mol saw Silfy tighten her embrace around her adoptive mother. The woman was blunt but not wrong.

                Mol took in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “You’re my family,” she said authoritatively. “You’re not allowed to die.”

                Her mother figure gave her an unreadable look before a blast jerked the table. The kids yelped in surprise, but Mol was on her feet, shooting off an Eldritch Blast at the demon who cast the spell at them before ducking back down.

                “Who are you?” Mattis demanded, looking toward the scrawny human woman beside his mother.

                “I…” Her eyes welled with tears. “I’m sorry,” she said, now addressing Mavari. “I should have warned you…”

                Cavalry had arrived in the form of the four adventurers. And what a sight they were. Ranveer, transformed into an Owlbear, mowing down his opponents. Samara providing some much-needed support to the group with her clerical powers, simultaneously fending off attacks with her sword. Kefkar charging in with powerful smites, bolstered by Minerva’s sneak attacks for added damage. Cerys could have wept with relief if not for the fact that they brought the children into danger when they were supposed to be halfway to Baldur’s Gate by now.

                “Lia!” she yelled, barely managing to dodge a claw attack. “Now’s a good time for a little extra assistance!”

                Lia faltered a little, distracted enough to give a demon an opening to sling a spell. The table barrier behind her rocked with the force of it behind. She hissed as the kids screamed. Shortly after, Mol popped up to rocket off a cantrip in retaliation. But Cerys saw Lia touching the sending stone in her pocket and assumed that she was calling for backup.

                “Zevlor, watch your six!” Cerys yelled, throwing a dagger. Zevlor had turned just in time to see a demon rear backward, a knife impaled in its neck. He nodded and slashed at said demon, blood spraying his armor.

                Her eyes fell on General Quil. The elf woman was struggling as two demons bored down on her. For a moment, Cerys faltered, wondering if she should offer help, but—

                —no. Her dad had made it very clear where Elturel stood on Tieflings. Her responsibility was to her kin; Quil was on her own. And, with more demons coming in to replace their brethren, the Tieflings were losing.

                Suddenly, an arcane circle started forming on the ground, sigils filling in along its borders. Her heart skipped a beat. Her kin might get out of this alive yet.

                If she were in a better mental state, she might laugh at her brother’s flashy entrance. The swirl of purple magic, the way he extended his hands gracefully, head held high as though demanding others to behold him. But, right now, all she could feel was relief.

                “Rolan!” Lia called. “Get Mavari and the kids, and get out.”

                Rolan turned toward her voice, then took in the room around him. “…No,” he responded firmly. “I cannot leave my kin to die.”

                “You’re our way out,” she argued. “You need to take the others and leave.”

                He shook his head. “Not without doing everything in my power to save as many of you as I can.” Rolan suddenly tensed. “Lia, watch out!”

                With no warning, a heavy weight to her side sent her crashing to the ground. Dal’goth stood above her, sneering, before his attention turned to the table. He was coming for Mavari and the kids.

                “Should have warned me what?” Mavari snapped. She should have been gentler. Her children were surrounding her, and this woman looked like she was a breath away from tears. But she was sick of this trip and every godsdamned person being out to hurt them.

                “I knew what they were planning from the beginning,” Gwendolyn whispered. “I tried to sneak out the first night, to come tell you, but my husb—but Dal’goth found me. He told me he’d kill me if I said anything, and I…”

                The anger flared in her. They could have avoided this after the first night!? But, as quickly as it flared, she pushed it down. She reminded herself that this woman was no adventurer, and it was very likely that her marriage was very likely not something she wanted. Mavari forced herself to breathe. “Does he have any weaknesses?” she asked instead, choosing to redirect her anger toward something productive.

                “He—”

                Slam.

                The children screamed again as the table barricade was ripped from them. Dal’goth sneered down at her. “You make it so easy for me to destroy everything Zevlor loves in one fell swoop.” He lifted his claws to swipe down, but something stopped him.

                A flurry of purple energy and feathers announced Urich’s arrival. Clutching Dal’goth’s hand in his, he rose to his full height. His impressive wings flared out behind him, partially shielding the Tiefling family. “I don’t think so,” he purred dangerously.

                “Ah, the lickspittle.” Dal’goth sneered. “You’re hardly worth my time.”

                “Too bad.” Urich smirked. “You aren’t getting to the little crow or her hatchlings on my watch.”

                “Then I’ll just have to kill you first and them after.” Dal’goth snarled at him and readied an attack.

                Suddenly, a golden dome encased the Tieflings and Gwendolyn. Mavari watched as Rolan (when in the hells did he get here?) shifted his attention elsewhere. The Globe of Invulnerability would protect them for now, but…

                She gritted her teeth. “Mirkon, come here,” she commanded. “Everyone stay close to me.”

                “Zevlor!” Cerys yelled. “Your wife!”

                This time, he knew better than to let his focus shift too quickly. The longsword buried itself in the demon’s throat before slicing upward, bisecting its head. Only then did he look toward where his wife was crouched. Immediately, he registered two things: The appearance of her patron, and Dal’goth being too close to his family for comfort.

                The bastard’s presence was not a surprise—he would protect her no matter what—but the implication of why he showed up made him grit his teeth. His wife was in too much danger for the incubus not to intervene. And, in that moment, he knew he must do everything in his power to get to his family.

                “Watch my back!” he barked to Cerys. He charged ahead, eyes locked on the demon that killed Grayspire, the fiend who was behind all of this. He trusted Cerys to follow and confirmed it seeing an arrow whiz past his head and through a demon’s shoulder blade.

                A demon intercepted his path with a loud roar. Before he could react, Kefkar’s greatsword, glowing with radiant energy, descended upon it, followed by a blur of black and gray. The fiend was dispatched with enough time that Zevlor didn’t even break his stride. Behind him, armored footfalls moved in rapid succession, signaling Kefkar joining the procession. He couldn’t hear her, but his assumption was that Minerva, too, was behind him.

                “Cut down anyone you can!” Cerys ordered. “Do not let anything get in the Commander’s way!”

                An owlbear screeched overhead before landing hard on another approaching foe. Ranveer’s beak ripped into the demon before he turned, blood dropping from his face, to gallop behind the group. A warmth filled his limbs, soothing what wounds he had already incurred, before he heard Samara call to them. She was flying along behind them, as well.

                Three more demons jumped in the way. “Ignis!” One, two, three huge fireballs slammed into each of their chests, sending them spiraling. Rolan quickly hopped into line.

                Seven Tieflings strong, they made their way across the room. Urich’s red eyes slid in their direction, and he offered a smirk. “The broken bird’s got some fight left in him yet, huh? Good. I—” The incubus’s words were choked off as Dal’goth got a hand around his throat. He let out a low, guttural curse; effortlessly, he was tossed out of the way like a rag doll. Upon landing, Urich’s body disappeared in a cloud of black feathers. And Dal’goth turned, sneering at the group of Tieflings.

                “Is that all your allies have to offer me?” the demon snarked. “Weak, Commander. Worthless.”

                “Look around you, Dal’goth,” argued Zevlor, dropping into a readied stance. “Your fellows have fallen to our swords and spells.”

                The demon’s eyes flicked to the room at large before returning to Zevlor. “No matter,” he responded lightly. “It’s not as though you will be leaving here alive.” Dal’goth briefly glanced to the Globe, still keeping the family safe. “You know…I had hoped to leave you for last, let you bask in the screams of your brats and your bitch—”

                Whatever he was about to say was instantly cut off with a Searing Smite. Dal’goth hissed low and growled something in Abyssal. “You will regret that, paladin.” He flicked a hand; several bodies thudded to the floor. He must have used a spell to knock his allies off balance. “This fight is between us.”

                “With pleasure,” Zevlor growled, charging forward.

                Sword hit claws. Claws found purchase in exposed skin. Sword buried itself in demon hide. They exchanged blows back and forth, falling into the familiar rhythm of battle. Zevlor quickly reminded himself that demons, unlike devils, were not nearly so predictable in their tactics, and so he kept light on his feet, ready to pivot at a moment’s notice. His eyes remained vigilant for an opening to strike, and—

                “Gideon!” screamed Gwendolyn, sounding frightened.

                There. That was enough of a distraction to expose the demon’s neck, and his sword arched through the air. Seconds later, the demon’s head landed unceremoniously at Lia’s feet where she had just managed to stand.

                “Fucking prick,” she grumbled, kicking the head hard. It went flying, beaning another fiend and dazing it long enough for Rolan to incinerate that one, too.

                Kefkar watched the head’s trajectory before turning to his comrades, lifting his sword in the air. “For our kin!” he called.

                “For our kin!” they rallied, punctuated by owlbear Ranveer’s whistling. They charged into the fray to dispatch the remaining demons.

                “Go,” Cerys said sharply to Zevlor.

                Grateful, Zevlor nodded to her, letting his sword clatter to the ground. He fell to his knees in front of his wife, wrapping her in a tight embrace. The paladin peppered her face with almost desperate kisses as she leaned into his chest, hands resting on his breastplate. When his kids crowded in closer, he pulled them in an embrace, as well. “Are you all right?” he asked, adrenaline still high. “Is anyone hurt?”

                “No, Papa,” Mirkon chirped. “We’re all fine.”

                His shoulder sagged with relief. “Good.”

                “Zevlor,” General Quil began. She approached tentatively, sounding overwhelmed. “I had no idea about—”

                “Faera, my friend,” Zevlor cut in. “Respectfully, I don’t want to hear another damned word.” His eyes turned toward the entrance as Grand Duke Wyll and his Fists came charging into the room.

                “What the hells is happening?” Wyll demanded. “Half the manor is on fire, and—” He looked around the room, watching as the guard easily dispatched the remaining enemies. “Demons.”

                “It’s a…long story, Your Excellency,” began Mavari.

                “We’re leaving,” Zevlor said curtly. “Immediately.”

Chapter Text

                It was impressive how quickly they could get the airship packed and prepared for departure when they set their minds to it. Then again, when most of what they’d need to pack was either used or destroyed, it simplified things.

                Wyll had allowed the Tieflings use of his wing to freshen up prior to the journey. In the meantime, he spoke with General Quil in low voices. Zevlor had registered her nervous body language versus Wyll’s stern demeanor and decided it was a discussion for later.

                As soon as the airship took off, the children, blessedly, retired early. A part of him was suspicious of their lack of mischief, but he was more so relieved to know that they’d be safe for the night. He was sure they would be up to their antics the next day.

                “Let’s go to bed,” Mavari whispered to him, sounding every bit as exhausted as he felt.

                He couldn’t argue with that. Kissing her cheek, he led her to their quarters.

                “I’m going to stay up for a while with the others,” Lia commented, jerking a thumb toward the drinking adventurers. “You can use the room.”

                “I…” Cerys looked confused. “I beg your pardon?”

                “You can use,” Lia repeated slowly, “the room.” When her lieutenant still catch on, Lia rolled her eyes and bumped her hip hard against Cerys’s. She stumbled into someone, only realizing once an arm wrapped around her that it belonged to Rolan.

                “Ro—”

                He didn’t give her a moment to respond before his lips were pressed against her temple tenderly. Cerys could only freeze in surprise. “I don’t want to argue,” he began quietly. “I want to be with you. I don’t care if all we do is talk, or drink, or stare at each other. I just…I need to convince myself you’re safe.”

                That…was surprisingly vulnerable for him. She looked to him, considering, before covering his hand with hers. “Talk over drinks,” she conceded slowly, “and then we can see where things lead.”

                He gave her a tiny smile and nodded. She squeezed his hand before leading him to the room, nabbing a bottle of Arabellan Dry on the way.

                The next day, Wyll informed Zevlor of his conversation with General Quil. Elturel would have to repair itself yet again. The demons had wiped out many of their nobles, as well as other political leaders. Faera generally considered that to be a good thing, although it did present its own set of issues. Still, she was ready to step into the High Observer role and hoped, once things had settled, she could speak with Wyll about a potential alliance. “Next time,” he informed the Commander, “she can come to us.”

                Zevlor couldn’t argue with that. For now, he was simply happy to be returning home. He longed to sit in his garden with a book, and to cook in his own kitchen, and to help his wife nest in anticipation of their daughter’s arrival.

                Their daughter, Tilith, named for two of the strongest women he had the pleasure of knowing—Tilses, the Hellrider who was practically a daughter to him, and Lilith, the hero of the Gate. Tilith would have quite the story awaiting her when she was old enough, but…well, that was a concern many years down the line. For now, he was overwhelmingly grateful that his family had survived, and he was eager for the day he could hold his daughter in his arms.