Chapter Text
The Hammer’s gonna fall
The forge groaned beneath them, ancient gears grinding like the breath of a sleeping god. Lava surged through the channels, casting the chamber in flickering orange light—like veins pulsing beneath the skin of the world. Taveleigha moved with practiced precision; her fingers found the valve, twisted hard, and the hiss of molten rock drowned out everything else.
She didn’t see the blow coming.
She’d just triggered the lava valve, the hiss masking Grym’s charge. Astarion shouted however it was too late. The construct’s arm slammed into her side, and the world fractured. Her body skidded across the stone, scraping toward the edge of the platform, dangerously close to the lava’s reach. Pain bloomed sharp and immediate. Her ribs screamed. Her breath shallow, the heat clawed at her skin, the pain unforgiving Taveleigha tried to move, purely on instinct, defiance, but her limbs betrayed her, it was if her broken ribs had taken control of her body and they refused to move. The forge blurred at the edges, light and shadow dancing like ghosts.
Not stone. Not heat. A different room. Cold. Damp. A gauntlet struck her ribs. The same ribs. The same pain.
“Again. You must endure.” The voice was low, clinical. The speaker’s face blank. Not hidden. Erased. Chains rattled. Her own? Someone else's?
She tried to scream, but the memory wouldn’t let her. It ended as abruptly as it began, ripped away like a page torn from a book she hadn’t finished reading
Then a blur, a figure. Astarion. He was there in seconds, knees hitting stone with a thud. His hands hovered, trembling, not touching. His eyes: wide, and frantic searched her face like he was trying to memorise it.
“Tav…” His voice cracked. “Don’t move. You’re hurt.”
She coughed, blood flecking her lip. “We still have to…”
“No.” His tone was steel. “You don’t have to do anything but breathe.”
She tried again to sit up. He caught her gently, cradling her against his chest. His grip was firm but careful, like she was something sacred.
His hands were gentle. Careful. But somewhere deep inside, her body flinched. Not from him. From memory. A hand once touched her like that, soft, reverent.
“You are chosen.” The words had felt like a blessing. Until the blade followed. She couldn’t see the face. Just the feeling. Cold fingers brushing her cheek. A smile that didn’t reach the eyes.
She blinked, and Astarion’s face came back into focus. Concerned. Real. Grym turned its attention elsewhere, but the heat pressed in, relentless. “You’re not allowed to die in a forge,” he whispered. “It’s too poetic, and I hate poetry.”
Despite the pain, she laughed and then coughed “You love poetry.”
“I love your poetry “he acquiesced “Not this.”
She felt his faint heartbeat against her cheek, uneven. She was still amazed that vampires had heartbeats regardless how irregular the beat was, but still a heartbeat. His scent was ash and blood and something older, something she couldn’t name. His presence wrapped around her like a warding spell. His touch asked for permission, the other never asked.
But Grym didn’t stay distracted for long. The construct’s head swivelled with a grinding click, eyes glowing like twin furnaces. It registered movement; Astarion cradling Taveleigha; and the forge seemed to respond in kind. Gears groaned louder. Lava surged higher in its channels, spitting sparks like fury incarnate.
Astarion’s grip tightened. “We need to move.”
Taveleigha tried to speak, but the pain stole her breath. Grym took a step forward; each footfall a seismic thud that sent tremors through the platform. Its molten core pulsed visibly beneath its armour, heat warping the air around it.
Astarion shifted, positioning himself between her and the construct. His blade was already in hand, but his eyes flicked to the lava, calculating, desperate. Grym raised its arm again.
“No,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Not like this.”
The construct lunged.
Astarion moved fast; inhumanly fast, but not to strike. He scooped Taveleigha into his arms and dove toward the nearest support beam, rolling behind it as Grym’s blow shattered the stone where they’d just been. Debris rained down, heat licking at their heels. Taveleigha gasped, pain flaring white-hot. Her vision blurred. Astarion’s voice was in her ear, low and urgent. “Stay with me. Just a little longer.”
Grym roared, if it could be called that. The sound was mechanical, guttural, like the forge itself was screaming. It turned again, relentless. And still, Astarion didn’t run. He crouched beside her, blood on his cheek, eyes locked on the construct. “I’ll draw it away. You stay hidden.”
She gripped his wrist, weak but insistent. “Don’t.” He looked down at her, really looked, and something shifted in his expression. Not fear. Not rage.
Resolve.
“I’m not letting this forge take you,” he said. “Not when you’ve already survived worse.” Then he stood, blade gleaming, and stepped into the heat.
The forge blazed around him, air shimmering with molten fury. Grym loomed ahead, its massive frame backlit by lava, a silhouette of destruction. Astarion’s blade caught the light, silver against fire, but he didn’t strike. Instead, he turned and shouted, voice slicing through the roar. “Gale! Now!”
Across the chamber, Gale stood poised at the lever, arcane energy crackling at his fingertips. He yanked it down with a grunt, and the forge responded like a living thing.
The hammer dropped.
A deafening clang shook the chamber as the massive forge hammer slammed into Grym’s back. The construct staggered, metal groaning, lava sputtering from its seams. For a moment, just a moment, it was still. Astarion didn’t wait. He was already moving, back to Taveleigha’s side, crouching low, eyes scanning for escape.
But Grym wasn’t done.
With a grinding roar, it rose again slow, deliberate, like the earth itself refusing to die. Its head turned, gears clicking into place. The glow in its eyes reignited, brighter than before.
It had recalibrated.
Taveleigha was still the Prime Target.
“No,” Astarion breathed, realisation hitting like ice.
Grym’s gaze locked onto her broken form. It began to move, each step a quake, each breath a furnace. The construct didn’t care about strategy or vengeance. It was following its directive. She had struck it. She was marked.
Taveleigha tried to push herself up, but her arms trembled. Blood slicked her side. Her vision swam. Astarion stepped in front of her, blade raised, body taut with fury. “You want her?” he snarled. “You’ll have to go through me.”
Grym didn’t hesitate. It charged.
Taveleigha’s breath hitched. Her body refused to move fast enough. Her limbs were lead, her lungs fire. She could feel the forge’s heat licking at her skin, the air thick with ash and inevitability. Astarion stepped in front of her, blade raised, voice low and furious. But Grym didn’t care. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t sentient. It was following its directive.
She reached for Astarion’s cloak, fingers curling weakly into the fabric. “You have to…”
“No,” he said, without turning. “I’m not leaving you.”
Taveleigha braced herself, every nerve screaming. She braced for impact, for pain, for the end. But even through the terror, something else bloomed; faint, defiant. She wasn’t just a target. She was a survivor.
Astarion stood firm, blade raised, but she could see it in his eyes, he wasn’t enough. Not against this. Not alone.
Then the air split.
A guttural scream tore through the forge, primal and furious. A blur of motion; red hair, molten armour, a great sword gleaming like vengeance, intercepted Gym’s blow with a thunderous clang.
Karlach.
She’d thrown herself into the path, feet planted, muscles straining as she met the construct’s strike head-on. Sparks exploded from the clash, heat rippling outward in waves. Grym reeled back a step, its arm forced off-course by sheer brute force. Karlach didn’t flinch. She snarled, eyes blazing, and shoved forward with a roar that echoed off the forge walls. “You don’t touch them!”
Taveleigha stared, breath caught in her throat. Karlach was a wall of fury and fire, her great sword locked against Gym’s arm, molten light dancing across her armour like it belonged to her.
Astarion exhaled sharply, stepping back just enough to shield Taveleigha again. “Remind me never to get on her bad side.”
Karlach twisted her blade, forcing Grym’s arm upward, then slammed the hilt into its chest with a grunt. “Gale! Again!”
Across the chamber, Gale was already moving, arcane light gathering in his hands as he reached for the lever once more.
Taveleigha tried to rise, pain lancing through her ribs. But something in her shifted, not just physically, but emotionally. She wasn’t alone. She wasn’t a target. She was protected.
The hammer fell again.
Grym crumpled under its weight, metal shrieking, lava bursting from its seams like blood. For a breathless second, the forge held its breath. Taveleigha felt the tremor ripple through the stone beneath her, Karlach still braced beside her, Astarion tense and ready.
But Grym rose. Again.
Its joints groaned, its core pulsed, and its eyes reignited with that same unrelenting glow. It didn’t falter. It didn’t hesitate. It simply recalibrated and turned toward her.
Across the chamber, Gale’s voice cracked through the heat.
“Why won’t you die!” he shouted, hands clenched around the lever, arcane light flickering at his fingertips. His voice was raw, rage, fear, helplessness all tangled together. “We’ve hit you with everything!”
Taveleigha twisted, trying to see him. He was separated from them by a stretch of molten stone and broken platforms, isolated on the far side of the forge. The heat shimmered between them, warping his figure like a mirage.
He looked small. Not weak, but alone. His magic sparked around him, wild and unfocused, as if even the Weave couldn’t reach across the divide.
Grym took another step toward her.
Karlach growled, shifting her stance. Astarion’s blade gleamed, ready. But Gale’s voice echoed in her ears, louder than the construct’s steps. She knew that tone. She’d felt it herself, when power wasn’t enough. When brilliance couldn’t bridge the gap between knowing and saving.
She reached out, not with her hand, but with her voice. “Gale,” she rasped. “You’re not alone.”
He froze.
The magic steadied.
And Grym kept coming.
Grym turned toward Gale, recalibrated and relentless.
Karlach didn’t wait. With a snarl, she broke into a sprint, veering left across the fractured platform, her great sword gleaming with heat. Astarion mirrored her, darting right, fluid, fast, a shadow against the forge’s glow. They moved like a storm closing in.
Taveleigha pushed herself upright, breath ragged, pain lancing through her ribs. Her legs trembled, but she followed stumbling forward, one hand pressed to her side, the other reaching for balance against the scorched stone. She couldn’t keep pace. Not with them. But she had to move.
Grym registered the flanking manoeuvre, its head swivelling with a mechanical grind. It paused, just for a beat, calculating. Then it surged forward, ignoring the threats on either side, still locked onto Gale.
Karlach roared, leaping onto a raised platform and launching herself downward, blade arcing toward Grym’s shoulder. The impact rang out like a war drum, staggering the construct just enough.
Astarion was already behind it, daggers flashing, slicing at exposed joints with surgical precision. “You’re not the only one who can play with fire,” he muttered, dodging a retaliatory swing.
Taveleigha reached the edge of the central platform, breath hitching. The heat was unbearable. Her vision blurred. But she saw Gale, hands raised, magic swirling, eyes wide with both terror and resolve.
And she saw Grym, still moving, still burning, still coming. She gritted her teeth and kept going. Her Magic Missile struck true. Grym reeled, gears grinding, molten core flaring. It staggered backward just enough. Just far enough. The hammer loomed above, primed and waiting. She could see it now: the perfect angle, the final blow.
She shouted, voice hoarse. “Gale! The lever, again!”
But before Gale could move, the forge erupted.
Molten mephit’s burst from the lava channels, shrieking and winged, their bodies dripping fire. One slammed into Gale mid-step, claws raking across his shoulder. He cried out, stumbling, his hand flailed for the lever, caught it. The hammer fell.
And missed.
It crashed into the stone beside Grym, sending up a geyser of sparks and steam. The construct twisted, recalibrated, and roared. The quake came fast, a seismic pulse that knocked Karlach to one knee, sent Astarion sprawling, and nearly threw Taveleigha off the platform.
She caught herself, barely. Her ribs screamed. Her magic flickered.
Grym spun. Its eyes locked onto her again.
She was Prime Target.
Taveleigha didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, hands raised, magic sparking. Her body was broken, her breath shallow; but she was ready. If this was the moment, she would face it.
Astarion saw her move. And something in him snapped. “No,” he growled, voice low and sharp. “Don’t you dare.”
She turned, startled. “We need to finish this…”
“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” His eyes were wild, furious. “You’re lining yourself up. You’re giving it a clean shot. You want to be the one who ends it, even if it ends you.” She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
Astarion stepped closer, blade trembling in his grip. “You reckless, infuriating creature. You think this is noble? You think I want to watch you die for us? That it makes you strong. It doesn’t. It makes you reckless. It makes you…” His voice cracked. “It makes you leave.”
The mephit’s shrieked overhead. Grym advanced.
Taveleigha’s heart pounded. “I’m not trying to leave.”
“You always say that” he whispered. “But you keep standing in front of the fire.”
She looked at him then. And in his eyes, behind the rage, she saw it: fear. Not of Grym. Not of death. Of losing her.
And yet she still stood tall. If she died protecting these people, people who just a few weeks ago were strangers she would at least be happy that they survived. Her body screamed in protest, ribs aching, blood slick on her side, but she didn’t flinch. Grym loomed ahead, molten and monstrous, its gaze locked onto her like a curse. Behind her, Astarion’s voice was still raw, still trembling. “You always do this,” he said, low and furious. “You throw yourself into the fire and call it bravery.”
“Don’t you dare—” His voice cracked. He’s on his knees before she hits the ground.
He presses his forehead to hers, trembling. “I’ve died enough. I won’t lose you too.”
She didn’t look at him. “It’s not bravery. It’s necessity.”
He stepped closer, eyes burning. “No. It’s martyrdom. And I’m sick of watching you bleed for everyone but yourself.” Before she could answer, Karlach’s voice cut through the forge like a war horn. “Not now, you two!” she bellowed, swinging her great sword at a diving mephit. “Lovers’ tiff after the lava monster’s dead!”
Astarion blinked, startled. Taveleigha almost laughed. Gale, across the chamber, was already moving. He ducked a mephit’s claw, spun, and reached for the lever. His hand slammed it down with a grunt, and this time the lava surged.
Grym stepped into the flow, its armour glowing red-hot, steam hissing from its joints. The forge hammer loomed above, primed and waiting.
Taveleigha raised her hand again, magic sparking. “Now!”
Gale didn’t hesitate.
The hammer fell.
It struck Grym square in the chest with a deafening clang, driving the construct to its knees. Lava burst from its seams, gears shrieked, and the glow in its eyes flickered.
Karlach was already charging, blade raised. “I’ve had enough of you!”
She slammed her great sword into Gym’s exposed core, just as Gale unleashed a final arcane blast. The construct convulsed, once, twice and then collapsed, molten light dimming.
The mephit’s shrieked, scattering. Karlach turned, eyes blazing. “Gale! Left!”
He spun, casting a wide arc of ice that engulfed two mephit’s mid-flight. Karlach leapt, cleaving through another with a roar. The last tried to flee, but Astarion was faster, his dagger catching it mid-air.
Silence fell.
She lay still, breath shallow, ribs aching. The forge was quiet for now. But inside her, something stirred. A memory, not of pain, but of preparation. She was kneeling. Hands bound. A circle drawn around her in ash.
“Sacrifice is the path to strength.” The voice again. Blank-faced. Familiar. She had wanted to believe it. Had tried to. But the ritual ended in blood. Hers. She didn’t remember the aftermath. Just the sound of footsteps leaving. And the feeling that she had failed some test she never agreed to take.
The forge hissed, cooling. The hammer hung still. Grym lay broken. Taveleigha exhaled, knees buckling. Astarion caught her before she fell, arms wrapping around her with something too fierce to name. Karlach wiped her blade on her armour, grinning. “Now that’s teamwork.”
Gale slumped against the lever, panting. “I hate lava.”
Their voices felt distant. Like echoes from a world she hadn’t quite returned to. She didn’t know what the ritual had been for. Only that it had left her hollow. Marked. And now, in the quiet aftermath of battle, the emptiness stirred again, hungry, familiar. She leaned into Astarion’s chest, breath shallow. “You were right,” she murmured. He didn’t answer. Just held her tighter.
The forge was quiet. Not silent, never silent, but the roar had faded to a low, exhausted hiss. Lava still pulsed through the channels, but slower now, like the forge itself was catching its breath. Grym lay broken, its molten core dimmed, its limbs twisted in final defiance.
Taveleigha sagged against Astarion’s chest, her body trembling. Every breath was a knife. Her magic was spent. Her fingers twitched with residual energy, but it was fading fast. Karlach stood over Grym’s remains, blade resting on her shoulder, chest heaving. “Well,” she muttered, “that sucked.”
Gale slumped further down the lever, robes scorched, hair singed, eyes wide with lingering adrenaline. “I think I inhaled lava.”
A mephit twitched nearby. Karlach didn’t hesitate; she stomped it with a grunt. “Not today, fire pigeon.” Taveleigha tried to laugh, but it came out as a wheeze. Astarion shifted, lowering her gently to the stone. His hands hovered again, always hovering, never quite touching unless he had to.
She looked up at him. “You’re angry.” He didn’t deny it.
“You were going to die,” he said, voice low, tight. “And you were fine with it.”
“I wasn’t fine,” she whispered. “I was ready.”
“That’s worse.”
She blinked. “You don’t understand.”
“I do,” he snapped. “Too well. I’ve lived in that place. The one where pain feels like purpose. Where sacrifice feels like control.” His voice cracked. “And I hate watching you stand there.”
She reached for him, fingers brushing his wrist. “I wasn’t trying to leave you.”
He looked down at her hand. “But you didn’t try to stay.” The words hung between them, heavier than the forge’s heat.
Karlach glanced over, sensing the shift. “Oi. You two gonna kiss or kill each other? Because I vote kiss. But maybe after we patch up the walking corpse.”
Gale raised a hand weakly. “I second that. Also, someone please tell me I didn’t hallucinate the fire pigeons.”
Taveleigha smiled, just barely. “You didn’t.” Astarion didn’t smile. But he didn’t pull away, either.
Taveleigha sat cross-legged on her bedroll, the canvas walls of her tent dimly lit by the fire outside. Shadowheart’s healing magic still hummed faintly beneath her skin, cool, steady but her ribs ached with every breath. The bruises would fade. The memory wouldn’t. She stared at her hands. They trembled slightly, not from pain, but from everything she hadn’t said.
Outside, Karlach’s laughter echoed near the fire. Gale muttered something about “fire pigeons” and “lava trauma.” The camp was alive again, wounded, but breathing.
The tent flap shifted. Astarion stood in the entrance, silhouetted by firelight. His posture was casual, too casual, but his eyes betrayed him. They searched her face like they were bracing for impact. “You’re awake,” he said.
She nodded. “Shadowheart’s good at what she does.”
He stepped inside, slow and deliberate, and sat across from her without asking. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just looked at her, she watched as his eyes ticked across her hairline, her nose, her lips, the freckles on her checks, and then finally he sighed “You scared me,”.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.” He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. “But you did it anyway.”
She looked down. “I wasn’t trying to be noble.”
“No,” he interrupted. “You were trying to be necessary.” Astarion looked down, then away. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before. “I used to think survival meant staying ahead of pain. Outrunning it. Outlasting it.”
She watched him, breath slow. “But you…” He shook his head. “You walk into it. You let it burn through you like it’s the only way to feel real.”
Taveleigha swallowed. “Sometimes it is.”
“You don’t have to understand. I won’t make you.” She faltered, gathered her breath. “But I won’t force you to stay.” She kept her eyes downcast watching as her fingers picked at a loose thread on her thin blanket, she then glanced up at him.
He met her gaze then, and something in his expression cracked open, less fury, more fragility. “I don’t know how to be near that. Not without wanting to pull you back. Or push you away.” The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it was thick with everything unsaid. Astarion’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking to her hand, still resting near his. Then he reached out, hesitated, and let his fingers brush hers. “I don’t know what this is,” he said. “What I’m feeling. It’s messy. And inconvenient. And I hate it.”
She smiled, just barely. “You don’t hate it.”
“I hate how much I feel it.” He looked at her then, and something in his expression softened. “I don’t know how to be near someone who walks into fire like it’s a promise.”
“I don’t know how to be near someone who wants to pull me out of it.” She met his gaze. He leaned in, forehead resting lightly against hers.
“You’re infuriating.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“And yet here we are.”
Her hand rose to his cheek, thumb grazing the edge of a scar. “You didn’t run.”
“I couldn’t,” he whispered. “Not from you.”
For a moment, they stayed like that, no forge, no fight, no fire. Just breath and skin and the quiet ache of being seen.
They stayed like that, forehead to forehead, breath syncing slowly, hands resting between them. No promises. No declarations. Just presence.
Outside, the fire crackled. The world kept turning.
The canvas walls of the tent glowed faintly, shadows shifting inside. From her place near the fire, Karlach didn’t need to hear the words to know what was happening. She’d seen it in the forge, the way Astarion’s fury had cracked into fear, the way Taveleigha had stood like she was ready to burn. Now they were quiet. And that quiet meant something.
Karlach didn’t interrupt. She just watched.
The forge was behind them, but Karlach still felt it in her bones.
She sat cross-legged by the fire, armour half-unbuckled, great sword resting against a log like a sleeping beast. Her muscles ached in that good way; earned pain, not wasted. The mephit’s were gone. Grym was scrap. And her friends were alive.
Mostly.
She glanced toward Taveleigha’s tent again. The flap had shifted earlier, Astarion slipping inside like a shadow with too much weight behind his eyes. Karlach hadn’t moved. Hadn’t called out. She knew better. She’d seen the way Tav had stood in the forge; magic sparking, ribs broken, eyes steady. She’d seen the way Astarion had looked at her, like he was watching someone walk into fire and couldn’t decide whether to follow or scream.
Karlach had wanted to do both.
Instead, she’d shouted the only thing she could: “Not now, lovers’ tiff later!”
It had worked.
Now the camp was quiet. Gale was scribbling something arcane into a journal nearby, muttering about “lava trauma” and “fire pigeons.” Shadowheart was sharpening a blade with that serene intensity Karlach admired and feared in equal measure.
“She’s got that look. The one you get when you’ve died inside more than once.” Karlach muttered to Gale, keeping her voice low
“And yet she keeps choosing the fire.” He responded unsure of their sorcerer friend, but aware that she had been through so much already, always willing to step through fire for each and every one of them
“Yeah. But maybe this time, someone pulled her out.” Karlach glanced back at the tent, She didn’t know what was happening in there. Maybe they were kissing. Maybe crying. Maybe just sitting in silence. But what she did know was that whatever this group was, whatever the relationship between the vampire and the sorcerer, it mattered. And because of that she would fight for it. Just like she always did.
The fire outside had burned low, casting long shadows against the canvas walls of Taveleigha’s tent. The camp was quiet now, truly quiet. Even Gale’s muttering had ceased, and Shadowheart’s blade lay untouched beside her bedroll. Taveleigha lay curled beneath her blanket, her breath slow, her ribs aching in a way that felt almost nostalgic now, like the forge had left its signature behind.
Astarion lay beside her, one arm folded beneath his head, the other tracing idle patterns on the fabric between them. Neither of them spoke for a long time. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was deliberate. Like they were both afraid to break whatever spell had settled over the tent.
Then, from somewhere outside, a snore erupted; long, guttural, and vaguely triumphant.
Taveleigha blinked. “Was that…?”
Astarion smirked. “Karlach. Definitely Karlach.”
Another snore followed, this one ending in a muttered, “Take that, you lava bastard.”
Taveleigha stifled a laugh, wincing as her ribs protested. “She’s still fighting Grym in her dreams.”
“She’s winning. Loudly.” They both chuckled, and the sound felt strange, like laughter had forgotten how to live in their throats and was relearning it now. Astarion turned toward her, his voice softer. “You know, I used to think nights like this were wasted. Too quiet. Too… honest.”
“And now?”
He reached out, fingers brushing her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw. His touch was featherlight, reverent. Then, with a breath held between them, he leaned in and kissed her gentle, careful, like he wasn’t sure if it would break her or bind him. She closed her eyes, letting the moment settle. Letting him stay.
Outside, Karlach snored again, this time with a victorious grunt.
Astarion pulled back just enough to whisper, “I think she just decapitated a lava mephit.”
Taveleigha smiled, eyes still closed. “Good. Someone should.”
Astarion turned slightly, his gaze catching hers in the dim light. “You should be asleep.”
“So should you.”
“Yes, well.” He gestured vaguely. “I’m not very good at rest.” She studied him, his pale skin touched by firelight, the faint crease between his brows. “You’re thinking.”
“I’m always thinking. It’s a terrible habit.”
“What about?”
He hesitated. “You. The forge. The way you stood there like you were daring it to break you.”
She looked away. “It almost did.”
“But it didn’t.” His voice was quiet. “And I still don’t know if that terrifies me or makes me want to kiss you.” She laughed softly, then winced. “Careful. I’m still bruised.”
“I’ll be gentle,” he said, mock solemn. “For once.”
They lay there, forehead to forehead, the night pressing close but not heavy. No declarations. No promises. Just presence. And Karlach’s snores, like a war drum in the distance, keeping time.