Mine

For a long time, there was only darkness. Not in an absence of light, but in the presence of shadows. Shadows that comforted and caressed like velvet. And somewhere within these shadows, Aelthar dreamed. He did not age. He did not hunger. He simply was. And through it all, he felt her - Shar. Her voice curled in his thoughts like smoke, threading through half-lucid visions. Her hands guided him through realms of shadow, away from the prying gaze of Hell. Away from Asmodeus

The Lord of the Ninth had tried to claim his due. Had counted the days, marked the deal. But Shar had hidden Aelthar away beyond time and reach, into her deepest shadows where even devils could not follow. Nothing could pierce the veil she wrapped around him. He was gone, and Asmodeus could do nothing but wait.

Two years passed. And all that time, Shar searched. For Asmodeus’s true form. Not the mask he wore in Nessus, but the one none dared name. The Serpent’s Coil. It was a myth buried in forbidden ink, hidden in places even fiends feared to look. None who shared knowledge of its existence, both of the form itself and where it allegedly came from, lived for more than a day. And still, Shar found it.

With the knowledge of the Lord of the Ninth’s true form finally in hand, Shar released Aelthar from hiding. This was not a secret Asmodeus could afford to ignore. And so, Asmodeus, bound by the weight of what Shar had uncovered, opened a gate to Nessus. And Aelthar stepped through.

No mortal should walk in the Ninth. Aelthar was alone, save for the shadows that curled around him like loyal hounds. The Iron City of Dis gave way to black marble halls, to cold air scented faintly of ash and sulfur. And at the heart of it all, waiting on a throne of scorched bone and gold, sat the Lord of Lies.

Asmodeus did not rise.

“You come bearing secrets,” he said, voice smoother than silk and dangerous.

Aelthar met his gaze without flinching.

“You come bearing a broken contract,” he replied.

The conversation that followed was quiet. Both parties were measured and polite, but their words were terrifying in their weight. Asmodeus played a hundred angles at once. Aelthar held only one card - but it was enough.

“She knows where it is,” he said. “And she will not keep it to herself forever.”

Asmodeus’s expression didn’t change. But the chamber darkened subtly, the air thickening as the true tension surfaced. And finally, the offer was made.

“Freedom,” Aelthar said. “The pact broken. My soul untouched.”

“And the memory,” Asmodeus countered, “stripped from her mind, as if it never existed. Irrecoverable. Or the deal stands, and your soul is mine.”

Aelthar felt Shar’s presence surge in the back of his mind. It was a cold feeling, and he felt her subtle wrath as well. But then it quieted, and without a word, she gave up the memory. And with that, the bond was undone.

Aelthar was free.

Four Years Later

The temple rose from the mountainside. Filled with windowless, shadowed halls where whispers curled around obsidian columns, and candlelight flickered violet and strange. It was never meant to be a sanctuary. But they came nonetheless. There were those who had been abandoned. Those for whom the light had nothing left to offer. Aelthar recognized parts of himself in many of the new faces. And to those who would listen, Aelthar did not preach. No, he taught.

The Shadow Weave, that which had been locked away until Mystra died, flowed through him. It was forbidden, yes, but not corrupt. Not inherently. He showed his followers how to shape it and how to control it. How to use their pain to shape their magic rather than be ruled by it.

Sometimes, when the halls fell quiet and the last candle burned low, Aelthar would sit alone in the sanctum and think of his family back in Epithon, and of those he had once stood beside.

Arani. Thalia. Alexei.

It had been six years since the last battle, where they stood together at the edge of oblivion. Since Shar had saved him from Tharizdun’s grasp, much like she later did with Asmodeus. He did not know where his companions were now. He hadn’t sought them out. Not yet. But he missed them.

More than that, he wanted them to see what he’d built. Not for validation - he no longer needed that - but to show them. That what he had created here was not evil. He had created a space from darkness, for those the light had abandoned. A place where the lost didn’t have to be alone. And he hoped, faintly and quietly, that they might understand.

It was undeniably a temple to Shar. Her name was spoken in reverence, and her presence was woven into the halls and statues. But Aelthar was its teacher. And that meant it bore his mark. He didn’t change Shar’s dogma, but he interpreted it. Yes, she was a goddess of loss, of secrets and of darkness, but darkness didn’t have to mean cruelty. Not here, not under his guidance. The world may consider Shar an evil goddess, but his following didn’t have to be.

And still, sometimes, in the heart of the temple, he felt her. It was the brush of a cold hand on his shoulder. A whisper against the back of his mind. A murmur of mine. He was never alone.

Until the sky split open. Light tore down from the heavens, splitting the roof of the sanctuary open with a deafening crack. The ground trembled under the force, and candles died one by one as divine presence flooded into the chamber. Four figures descended through the breach in the ceiling, wings outstretched, radiant and terrible.

Two were cloaked in the golden light - armor polished to a mirror-like brightness, swords already drawn. The other two shone with Azuth’s silver-blue fire, their eyes glowing with arcane intensity and with runes carved into their skin like scripture. They touched down without a sound, and then spoke as one

“Aelthar, Aspect of Shar. You have corrupted the Weave, spread forbidden power, and drawn others into your darkness. By decree of our gods, we are here to put an end to this. You will be restrained and imprisoned. Come willingly”

Aelthar did not speak. He stood calmly beneath the shattered roof, shadows curling around his boots like smoke, his gaze fixed on the four Solars. For a moment, the Solars didn’t move, perhaps expecting compliance. When Aelthar still did not respond, they stepped forward. Chains of radiant light lashed outward from their hands, golden and silver threads meant to bind him.

And then Aelthar moved. The shadows roiled out, and the room fell into chaos. The light struggled to reach the corners as the Shadow Weave surged like a tide breaking free. From the cracks in the stone floor and the folds of darkness, beasts of shadow tore into the world, called forward by Aelthar’s dragonmark.

Before the Solars could fully advance, others rushed to stand between them. Dozens of initiates, acolytes, and quiet souls who had come to this place seeking something more than what the world offered. They had not trained for war. Most had never seen true battle, but still, they stood with Aelthar. Not because he asked them to, but because he had given them something no one else had - purpose. They fought with shadow-imbued blades, unfinished spells, and trembling courage. Some shouted his name. Others simply screamed.

The Solars responded with discipline. They moved to avoid killing blows where possible. But restraint only lasts so long. A blast of divine fire missed its mark and shattered a pillar, and two initiates were caught in the rubble of it. A blade meant for Aelthar slashed through a defender instead. The temple trembled with the fight between the shadows and the radiant light of the solars.

And Aelthar, in the heart of it all, fought like a storm of shadows. He channeled the Shadow Weave through his body, casting and shielding in the same breath. Shadows coiled around him like armor, his summons striking from every direction, but still, it wasn’t enough. Between spellcasting, Aelthar reached desperately into his robes and pulled free a cracked sending stone.

“Arani. Thalia. Alexei. Please.”

No response came, so he tried another. And another. Even a sending spell, powered by the Shadow Weave got no response. The Solars had sealed the temple, meaning no message escaped. And no help would come.

Aelthar unleashed a final, desperate wave of power, tearing through the Weave like a scream. One of the Solars was struck down by the summoned shadows, its form vanishing in a burst of silver flame. But even as he managed to kill and send one back to the celestial plane, it would cost him everything.

In the short moment he took to recompose himself, divine chains struck, reinforced by both gods’ authority, snaring Aelthar. His arms locked. His breath caught. The shadows around him thrashed like wounded animals. His followers cried out - some tried to run to him, others collapsed from wounds or fatigue. Aelthar tried to speak, tried to fight still, but he simply couldn’t. And so, the remaining Solars stepped forward, raising their weapons in quiet, solemn victory. And Aelthar was taken.

They brought him to a prison that no shadow could touch. A sphere of pure radiant light. A prison with no dusk, no night and no shadow. No Shar. He was alone. The gods called it necessary. Yet somewhere, far beyond the reach of that light, in a place where shadows ruled, a goddess raged.

The Wake of Light

Twelve years. That was how long the light had burned. It was not warm, not cruel. It simply was. There were no shadows there, not even the ones cast by memory. There were no days and no nights. There was only illumination.

Aelthar had not aged. Not truly. But time had worn on his thoughts like water on stone. He spoke to himself now, and to walls that gave no answer. Sometimes, he sang. Other times, he wept. But mostly, he waited. There were no dreams in the prison of light, but he made them anyway, shaped them from the scraps of a mind unraveling at the edges. He dreamed of candlelit halls and velvet dark. Of quiet voices in the shadows. Of Shar. But she never came. Not there. Not in that light. Not even she could reach him there.

Sometimes, he saw the others - Arani, Thalia, Alexei, Mika - in flickers, like faces drawn on the inside of his eyelids. He forgot who died, who left, who stayed. Sometimes, he forgot his own name. And sometimes, he screamed, not in pain, but in refusal. In defiance of light that could not be touched, of silence that could not be broken. Until that day.

The light shivered. Didn’t flicker, didn’t dim - no, it shivered. Aelthar blinked, and as he opened his eyes again, a new shape existed. A figure, robed and calm, standing in the heart of the chamber. His cloak was layered, black as void on red as blood. His face was serene, almost kind. But his eyes shimmered like oil on water, and something in his shadow curled the wrong way.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Aelthar rasped, his voice like dried leaves.

“Neither are you,” the man replied.

Aelthar swayed forward. “Who are you?”

The stranger tilted his head, the way a man might when looking at a puzzle missing just one piece.

“I have many names,” he said. “But the one you need is this - I walk in Cyric’s wake. I carry his words. I shape his will.” He smiled. “I am his aspect.”

Aelthar frowned faintly. “Cyric… That name. It sounds familiar.”

The aspect said nothing.

Aelthar recoiled. “Why would he send anyone for me?”

“Because it’s time.”

The aspect stepped towards the edge of the sphere. The light shivered around him, much like it did when the stranger had appeared. His hand touched the wall of the sphere, and cracks bloomed like frost beneath his palm. And just like that, the prison broke. Aelthar fell to his knees, gasping. The light peeled away, and with it, something returned. A warmth that wasn’t warmth. A presence behind his thoughts. She did not speak in words, but her presence coiled around him like a coat pulled tight in winter. After twelve years, the darkness finally breathed again.

They did not speak much as they traveled. There were no roads where they went, only paths those who did not wish to be seen walked. The aspect moved with quiet purpose. Aelthar followed, the feel of shadow returning slowly to his skin. It was a while before Aelthar broke the silence.

“Why now?”

The aspect glanced back. “Because the world is changing. Threads long dormant have begun to stir. The Weave stirs in its sleep. And our gods are watching.”

He gestured toward a spire of silver-veined stone, its surface glowing faintly with magic, rising high enough to pierce the clouds.

“We’re taking something from one of the gods who caged you. In that tower, Azuth left his Staff.”

They did not take the spire by storm. They slipped between the shadows, past the sentinels who forgot to look the right way. Aelthar was not whole, not yet, but the shadows answered him again. And the aspect - Cyric’s agent - moved like a man who was never meant to be seen.

In the heart of the spire was the reliquary. Guarded by arcane wards, wrapped in runes with whispered warnings. Floating at the center was a staff - simple at first glance, but unmistakable. It had a shaft of polished obsidian, etched with a spiraling script that seemed to rewrite itself when not looked at directly. At its head, a blue flame sat suspended in crystal, flickering not with fire, but with pure magic.

The Staff of Azuth.

Aelthar stepped forward and closed his hand around the staff. Shar’s voice, cold and clear, blossomed in his mind.

She told him everything.

Of Antael, and the journey they shared. Of Cyric’s betrayal—how he turned on his brother and left him for dead. Of Ghazan’tor. Of the Cyrinishad. Of Kerelan, keeping Antael safe and bringing him back. Of Agnese. Of the mad god whispering scripture to himself atop a silent throne. Of Twilight. And of what was to come.

Aelthar did not move. He did not scream. He simply breathed. Once. Twice.

“Do not strike yet,” Shar told him. “Let the game play out. Let the pieces fall. Finish this task. Deliver the staff. And when the time is right…”

The shadows curled around his fingers, threading around the stolen artifact.

“Then you may have your revenge.”