That night, they made camp in a collapsed watchtower. Shadowheart took first watch, her voice a low murmur as she prayed to a goddess who no longer answered. Astarion pretended to read a book he’d stolen from a thrall. Wyll practiced a parry against a phantom. And Lae’zel sat apart, whetting her greatsword’s edge with a stone that had seen better centuries.
Later, when the others slept, Lae’zel stood watch alone. Her fingers brushed the crimson cord on the hilt. She did not remove it. baldur 39-s gate 3
For a long moment, Lae’zel said nothing. Then, almost too quiet: “It is… inefficient. To fight with a single point of failure. A second blade is not sentiment. It is tactics.” That night, they made camp in a collapsed watchtower
“You are a soldier of Avernus,” Lae’zel said at last. “Not a smith. Not a quartermaster.” Wyll practiced a parry against a phantom
“Tch. You fight like a ghustil ’s apprentice, Karlach. But you give gifts like a kith’rak .” She resettled her greatsword across her back. “When we reach the creche, I will tell the inquisitor that you are… acceptable.”
The shadow-cursed lands clung to the soles of their boots like the memory of a scream. Even with the Moonlantern’s frail glow, the air felt thick—half rot, half regret. Karlach walked at the rear, her engine a low, warm thrum against the cold. She was watching Lae’zel.
No. Two points of victory.