The Descent

13th of Calor, 967 A.D.

The city of Veximir in the republic of Kudriel did not sleep, not for some time now.

Perched on the cliffs above a now broken harbor, its towers leaned like old teeth under the moonlight, and its alleys whispered hushed names. Gabriel stepped off the caravan road just after dusk, his cloak wet from sea spray, his boots cracked with dust. No banners flew in Veximir. No curfew was enforced. But everyone knew not to walk alone after dark.

That suited him fine.

He moved through the fog-choked streets like judgment wearing steel, avoiding lamplight, eyes sweeping shadows that looked too still. The people here had grown careful. Afraid. Something had taken root beneath the cobblestones, something that demanded blood.

A child had been found days ago, throat carved open and her hands arranged like a prayer. Then a merchant. Then a guard captain. Dozens more had appeared all over the city thereafter.

The signs were there, if you knew how to read them: offerings made to the Lord of Murder. And one name kept rising like a splinter in the mouth of every survivor, every whispering priest, every madman locked in the stocks.

“The Red Heir.”

He moved through the winding slums near the salt quarter when he heard the scream.

A young woman, terrified - bolted into an alley, clutching her side. Behind her, a man cloaked in dark leathers advanced, twin ritual daggers gleaming under the moon. Gabriel saw the symbol of Bhaal etched into the assassin’s throat, the telltale smile of the devoted, certain and blood-drunk.

Gabriel didn’t pause.

He moved like lightning, crashing into the cultist’s side with all of his weight. Steel flashed, and in one brutal instant, Gabriels hand was around the cultists neck. Only a moment later the servant of Bhaal was on the ground, gurgling through a crushed throat. The woman backed against the wall, gasping.

 “T-Thank you. Please - he said the gods were listening through the stones. That-”

Gabriel knelt beside the body and pulled something from the man’s robes - a scrap of red cloth embroidered with three black tears. A symbol of high service. Not just a common cultist.

“They are,” Gabriel said quietly. “And they know I’m coming.”

He left her behind with a whisper of reassurance and walked deeper into the city. He followed the blood trail, not a literal one, but the one etched into walls, into fear, into the very rhythm of the streets. Veximir pulsed like a wounded heart, and in its depths, something was calling to him.

He found the entrance in the ruins of an old bathhouse. Beneath the crumbling tiles, behind a sealed archway of stone, the scent of iron was strongest. With a whispered command and a drawn blade, he cracked the bloodseal that barred the path - and the way down opened like a maw.

The tunnels were ancient and each step echoed into the silence like a bell tolling for the dead. Statues of faceless men lined the halls. Murals showed cities burning, lovers slain, kings choking on their own blood.

He passed rooms of ritual - knives stacked like bones, prayers etched into the flayed skins of martyrs, bowls of coagulated blood still steaming. This was not just a hidden chapel. It was a throne hall for murder. He moved with purpose, jaw clenched, grip tight around the hilt of his sword. No fear. Not now. Only clarity.

For eight years he had hunted. Across mountains and oceans, past whispers and lies. And now he stood in this temple of murder, beneath the sleeping city, and felt the weight of fate on his shoulders, realizing that he was nearing the end.

Gabriel reached the final antechamber where two massive doors rose before him, carved from blackened oak and framed in old bone. Symbols of Bhaal pulsed faintly across their surface. Blood runes, meant to repel the unworthy. They flared weakly as Gabriel approached, but did not stop him. The temple knew him. It was waiting for him.

He placed his hand against the doors. Cold as the grave. A long breath. 

He pushed them open.

He saw bodies. Ritual offerings, flayed and posed like dancers, limbs splayed in some forgotten rhythm. He didn’t flinch.

He had prepared himself for this. He had imagined every version of this place, every possible horror.

But none of them were like this. And none of them had ever truly prepared him for the sight in front of him.

He first saw the silhouette from afar, through a veil of blood-filled mist. A figure kneeling in prayer before an altar shaped like a spine. His back was bare, tattooed with deep red runes that pulsed softly. A long ritual blade lay across his lap. His hair was longer now, streaked with red, and his skin was paler than Gabriel remembered. But he knew that shape.

His brother. His twin. The man who had fought alongside him, who had protected him and had died to save Lionel. His brother who had been taken, reforged and corrupted.

Gabriel stepped forward. Quiet and cautious.

Morric’s head lifted slightly.

“I wondered when you’d find me.”

Gabriel stopped. The voice came in two layers - one was his brother’s, weary and hollow. The other seemed to crawl beneath it like a whispering rot.

“I thought you were dead,” Gabriel said. “I thought—”

“I was,” Morric replied, still facing away. “And then I wasn’t.”

Gabriel moved closer. He stepped into the hall, boots darkening with blood as he passed the threshold. The room seemed to shudder, as though the presence of them both disrupted the balance of the place.

“Why here?” Gabriel asked.

“Because this is what I am now,” Morric said. “This temple was built for me. By those who heard the whisper in my blood and obeyed. They call me the Red Heir. They follow because I must kill. Because I can’t stop.”

“You were stronger than that,” Gabriel said. “You’re still stronger than that.”

Morric stood slowly. The blade in his hand shimmered with residual heat. He turned, and for a moment, Gabriel saw his brother - the same eyes, same mouth, same man who had once stood beside him, laughing at nothing.

And then he saw the twitch behind those eyes. The weight of hunger.

“I remember you,” Morric said softly. “Every moment. Every word. That’s the curse - I didn’t forget who I was. I remember exactly who I was. I remember loving you. I remember dying to save Lionel. I remember everything__, but none of it stops the urge. The longer I go without spilling blood, the worse it gets. I taste copper when I speak too long, and I dream of tearing hearts from chests. I’ve tried to starve it, but all it does is scream louder.”

Gabriel said nothing for a long time.

Then - “So what now?”

Morric blinked slowly, like something behind his eyes was calculating risk.

“You came to kill me?” he asked.

“No,” Gabriel said.

“To save me?”

“Yes.”

A laugh escaped Morric, dry and bitter. “Then you’re a fool.”

“I’ve always been a fool when it comes to you,” Gabriel said. “Since the day we were born. Since the day you gave away your life for Lionel. You chose to die as a good man. That still counts for something.”

Morric’s hands trembled.

Almost like a snarl he said, “You need to go” 

Gabriel started responding “I won’t just leave yo–”

Morric twitched for just a moment before he dashed forwards, slashing his blood-red blade in an arc straight for Gabriel’s throat. Gabriel instinctually stepped back, but still felt the warm blood slowly trailing down the side of his neck. Morric was shaking, his other hand holding his sword hand in place. Gabriel moved forwards to restrain his brother, but when he got close, Morric seemed to move on instinct. In the next moments Morric appeared out of clouds of blood as he moved faster than Gabriel could keep up with. Slashes and stabs came from all angles and Gabriel forced himself to fight against Morric. 

The battle lasted for what felt like an eternity. Gabriel had cuts and bruises all over his body and Morric stood in front of him gasping, still shaking. He had dismembered Morric several times over during their fight but for every drop of blood he had spilled he seemed to get more strength and his limbs returned. Regardless of his new power and blood driven rage, he was tired and weakening. 

Morric reeled back, readying himself to strike at Gabriel once more. Gabriel recognized the stance - it was one Morric had used many times before when they sparred. And Gabriel knew how to counter it. So Gabriel readied himself, and as Morric lept, Gabriel sidestepped, and managed to pin Morric to the ground. As he did, he swung his blade around, ready to bring it down on Morric’s neck - but in that moment, he didn’t see the Red Heir. He saw his brother, the same one he’d sparred. It was only a moment’s hesitation, but that was all Morric needed.

In a flash, Morric was on top of Gabriel, his sword about to strike into flesh but a moment before it struck the blade stopped. He looked at Morrics face and saw pure dread and guilt. He heard Morric’s low muttering go from near silent to a defiant scream as he said, “No. No, I won’t. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME”.

Morric disappeared once more, but this time it wasn’t in a mist of blood - just mist. Gabriel rose to his knees into the foot deep blood-pool and just sat there for a moment in the realization. Morric was alive - he was in there.