The river flowed on, indifferent to the destructive horrors I had briefly unleashed upon the unsuspecting clouds miles above, or the impossible statues of metastable ice now gleaming like captured starlight upon its banks. I turned away from the remnants of my magical explorations, the sheer, effortless scale of the power humming beneath my skin leaving a strange, unsettling residue in my thoughts – a cocktail of exhilaration and a profound, bone-deep unease.

  The fabric of reality itself now felt to me. Pliable. The natural laws were mere suggestions I could contemptuously disregard. It was a terrifying freedom, the kind that whispered temptations of godhood while simultaneously reminding me of the crushing weight of consequence should my control — or mental health — ever falter.

  I could now commit omnicide with a casual thought… and damn if it wasn’t a heady feeling.

  My steps crunched softly on the path leading back towards the camp, the mundane sounds of the Grove – birdsong, rustling leaves, the distant murmur of the river – gradually filtering back into my awareness, displacing the memories of roaring flames and crackling lightning. The immediate thrill of testing my limits faded, replaced by the more pressing, practical concerns that had been gnawing at me since our arrival.

  The mind-flayer tadpoles.

  Those insidious passengers nestled behind our eyes, ticking time bombs threatening a fate far worse than mere death. In the game, the main cast of characters was protected thanks to the artifact Shadowheart was carrying – or, more precisely, thanks to the psychic powers of the Githkanki Prince Orpheus and the enigmatic, independent mindflayer, the Emperor, who resided inside the Astral pocket within. However, disturbingly, my experiences with the current timeline, or maybe even Universe, weren’t quite the same as what I’ve seen in the game – thus, relying upon plot armor to get us through unscathed felt like playing dice with oblivion.

  No, I couldn’t afford to wait. I had the power, the skills, the knowledge – fragmented though it might be – and, therefore, the responsibility to fix this. I needed to , to experiment, to find a way to excise these things safely, permanently, before they could twist my companions into monstrous reflections of the Illithid horror. The thought of Karlach, Gale, Astarion, Lae'zel, or – gods forbid -- Shadowheart, succumbing to that fate… was intolerable.

  As I walked, another, more primal awareness stirred within me, -- a subtle, insistent ache that has been steadily growing in the back of my mind, which I hadn’t consciously allowed myself to register amidst the chaos of the past few days.

  .

  Not the mundane need for sustenance – my enormous stockpile and the Horn of Plenty Lliira gifted us could satisfy that endlessly – but a deeper, more fundamental craving.

  I had an uncomfortable realization. My Skyrim character, Harald Alrek, was a Vampire Lord, an immortal creature borne of Molag Bal’s unholy blood, with a… liquid diet.

  Yet, since awakening in this world, I hadn’t even attempted to feed upon blood. Not even a drop.

  The thrill of survival, the constant crises, the sheer novelty of my existence… had, perhaps, masked the need, suppressed the instinct. But now, in this moment of relative quiet, after I’ve had the chance for introspection, the thirst surfaced to the forefront of my mind with a vengeance. It was a low thrum beneath my skin, a dryness in my throat that I knew no mere water or wine could quench.

  I became painfully aware that I possessed several carafes of fresh, untainted human blood tucked away in the confines of my absurd, physics-defying inventory space. Why hadn’t I thought to try some sooner?

  Hesitantly, almost guiltily, I reached into that inner space with a flicker of thought. My fingers closed around cool glass. I drew forth a crystal carafe, its contents a deep, rich crimson, swirling invitingly within.

  Most humans would have been disgusted by the sight. Revolted at the prospect of drinking such a thing.

  I’ve had another uncomfortable realization that I could no longer pretend to be human.

  The sight alone sent a jolt of anticipation through me, sharp and electric. The , faint but distinct even through the stoppered glass made my mouth water and my fangs ache with a sudden, sharp longing.

  Finding a secluded spot beneath a thick-canopied oak, well-hidden from the camp’s view, I uncorked the carafe. The aroma intensified, flooding my senses, primal and overwhelming. It felt like… homecoming. Like remembering a forgotten part of myself.

  I lifted the carafe to my lips, tilting it slowly. The first drop touched my tongue, and the world exploded. It wasn’t mere taste; it was a symphony of sensation, a cascade of pure life force flooding my being.

  Imagine, if you will, spending years trapped in a lightless dungeon, bones aching with cold, lungs starved of fresh air, only to be suddenly thrust into the warmth of the midday sun, the scent of wildflowers filling your senses, the sound of birdsong washing over you.

  Imagine holding your breath until your chest burned, lungs screaming, vision tunneling… only to finally gasp in a lungful of cool, clean mountain air.

  Imagine a lifetime lived in near-silence, in a world devoid of melody, only to hear music for the very first time – a complex harmony that speaks directly to the soul, bypassing reason, igniting feelings you never knew existed.

  It was all of that… and .

  The blood flowed down my throat, warm and impossibly rich, each swallow sending waves of pure, ecstatic energy radiating through my entire body. It wasn’t just quenching a thirst; it was… me. Filling a void I hadn’t consciously realized was there.

  My senses sharpened dramatically – the colors of the forest became impossibly vibrant, the sounds clearer, the scents intoxicatingly complex. I felt more than I had been moments before. The lingering psychological fatigue I wasn’t even consciously registering vanished, replaced by a boundless alertness and vitality. The lingering headache from my failed Conjuration attempts dissolved into nothingness.

  I drained the carafe in moments, the rich liquid vanishing with alarming speed, leaving only a lingering warmth and a profound sense of… rightness.

  This was what I was to feel. This was the true privilege of a Vampire Lord, fully awakened.

  The craving, however, was not sated. It was merely… whetted. The first taste had only intensified the thirst; merely teased a deep, primal need. Almost without conscious thought, I summoned two more carafes from my inventory, uncorking them almost simultaneously, using telekinesis to seize the crimson bounty within and transport it directly into my waiting open mouth.

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  It occurred to me that this pleasure… was just too profound, too… fundamental to deny myself any longer. This wasn’t a mere indulgence; it felt like an essential act. Like breathing. Like .

  As I drank deeply from the new batch of blood, a sliver of rational thought pierced through the haze of bliss.

  The others.

  How would they react? Astarion would definitely understand… would probably be envious, in fact.

  But, what about Karlach? Gale? Alfira? Lae’zel? And… Shadowheart?

  Would they see me as a monster? A predator hiding amongst them? The potential for misunderstanding, for fear and revulsion, was immense.

  I finished the second carafe, then the third, the crimson tide washing away the anxiety, leaving only the pure, fierce joy of satiation. I realized, with a growing sense of calm detachment, that I simply couldn’t bring myself to care what the others thought about my dietary choices – I was what I was, and I refused to hide that part of myself any longer. The group… would just have to learn to deal with it.

  And, as for the future source of my supply? I was sure I could find suitable… candidates.

  Shaking off the lingering intensity of the bloodlust – now sated, leaving behind a calm alertness and heightened senses – I made my way back to the campsite.

  The others were scattered around the lavish setup I’d conjured. Alfira was softly strumming her lute near the cliffside, lost in melody. Gale was indeed reading. Astarion was… polishing his enchanted boots? Karlach and Sylvie seemed to be engaged in some kind of playful wrestling match near the edge of the campsite, their laughter bright. Lae’zel was attempting to meditate, though her rigid posture suggested limited success.

  And Shadowheart… was gone.

  A flicker of unease went through me. I scanned the camp again, then extended my senses using Detect Life, dialed back to a reasonable sensitivity this time.

  There she was – her aura, that confusing storm of shadow and nascent light, was moving rapidly towards the camp from the direction of the river cliffs where she’d been brooding earlier. Moving with purpose. Moving… fast.

  I was just getting ready to settle into an armchair near the empty research desk I’d set up in my main tent, intending to finally start tackling the tadpole problem, perhaps sketching out some theories… when she arrived.

  Shadowheart didn’t just walk into the camp; she

  into it. A hurricane given form, those newly-revealed forest-green eyes of hers were blazing with a terrifying, raw fury – and they locked onto me instantly. Her dark hair whipped around her face, unbound. Wild. Her hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists at her sides, her entire body vibrating with a barely contained fury.

  Before I could even form a word, she was upon me.

  "!"

  The word was torn from her throat, a ragged sound, half-sob, half-accusation.

  "What the have you done to me?!"

  Her hand lashed out, connecting with my cheek in a slap that cracked through my tent’s quiet ambiance like a thunderclap. The force of it was surprising, fueled by sheer, desperate anger. It didn’t me, of course – physically, little could – and I made it a point to move my head with the blow to avoid hurting her… but the shock of it, the raw of the act from , rooted me to the spot.

  The others froze.

  Karlach and Sylvie stopped mid-tumble. Gale looked up from his book, aghast. Astarion’s smirk vanished, replaced by wide-eyed surprise. Lae’zel actually flinched.

  Shadowheart stood before me, chest heaving, tears now streaming freely down her face, mixing with the rage in her eyes.

  “My ,” she choked out, pressing her hands to her temples as if trying to hold her skull together. “The memories… the … That music… You attacked Her! Attacked !

  She gestured wildly, incoherently.

  “I tried to pray! To ask for Her guidance, Her comfort… and it felt… wrong! Revolting! Like poison! I felt ! She’s all I ! All I ! And you…

  Her voice broke, ragged with anguish.

  “Why?! Why me?! What do you from me? Am I just some… some for you to play with? Some experiment? You

  You knew! You knew from the beginning…”

  The accusation hung heavy in the air, thick with the weight of her shattered reality. Her anger wasn’t logical, I knew that. It was the desperate lashing out of someone whose entire world had just imploded, whose identity had been revealed as a potential lie, whose only source of comfort and meaning – her faith in Shar – had been violently ripped away, leaving behind a terrifying void. She was grieving the loss of herself, the loss of her certainty, and, like a cornered animal, she was now lashing out at the perceived source of her pain.

  Me.

  She lunged again, her fists pounding against my chest, the blows more desperate than calculated, a storm of helplessness lashing out at the nearest target. I let her hit me, my hands at my sides, knowing she needed this—needed to let it out, even if I was the one taking the brunt.

  “Whyyyyy?” she screamed again, her voice cracking, the fury gradually dissolving into raw, heart-wrenching sobs. She stumbled back, her legs seeming to give way beneath her.

  “Why… why is this happening… I don’t understand… I don’t know who I am anymore…”

  Her anger collapsed entirely then, replaced by a wave of utter, devastating helplessness. She sank to her knees upon the fluffy Khajit-made rug, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with uncontrollable sobs that tore through the quiet clearing. Her voice was a broken whisper.

  “I don’t understand,” she choked out. “I don’t understand…”

  I hadn’t intended this, hadn’t foreseen the violent collision between my enchantments and Shar’s deep-rooted influence. But the road to hell is paved with good intentions. The result of my handiwork was here, kneeling before me. Utterly broken.

  And I had no idea how to even begin picking up the pieces.

  But, I knew I had to try. The eyes of the others were on me, questioning, concerned. I ignored them, my focus solely on the trembling figure crumpled on the ground.

  I approached her gently, kneeling on the rich carpet beside her, the fluffy Khajit rug soft beneath my knees. Her sobs were quieter now, but no less heart-wrenching, punctuated by ragged gasps for breath.

  Without a word, I reached out, my hands hesitant for a fraction of a second before I gently pulled her towards me, enveloping her in a hug. Her body was small, fragile in my arms, trembling like a cornered fawn. She stiffened instantly, a choked gasp escaping her lips, her hands coming up to push weakly against my chest. A muffled protest, thick with tears.

  I held her firmly, but gently, not forcing, just… offering presence. Offering solidity in the hurricane that was her mind. Offering the simple, unspoken comfort of contact when words failed. I rested my cheek against the crown of her head, her dark hair soft against my skin, smelling faintly of the river and something uniquely hers, something shadowed and complex.

  For a long moment, she remained rigid, resisting, her sobs still shaking her frame. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the tension began to seep out of her. The fight drained away, replaced by an exhaustion so profound it seemed to weigh her down. Her hands, no longer pushing, hesitantly crept upwards, clutching at the fabric of my silk shirt. Her grip tightened, becoming fiercely, desperately strong, as if she were drowning and I was the only solid thing left in a churning sea. She buried her face against my chest, and the sobs returned, raw and unrestrained, the sound muffled against me.

  I held her, rocking gently, letting her cry it out. Time stretched, marked only by the rhythm of her ragged breaths and the steady beat of my own unnaturally powerful heart. The sounds of the camp faded. There were only the two of us, caught in this bubble of raw grief and fragile connection.

  Eventually, the storm began to pass.

  Her sobs subsided into shuddering breaths. The desperate grip on my silk shirt loosened slightly, though she didn’t pull away. She remained tucked against me, drawing a shaky breath, then another. The trembling lessened.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she stirred, pulling back just enough to look up at me. Her face was ravaged by tears, her green eyes now red-rimmed and swollen, but the wild fury was gone, replaced by a raw, aching vulnerability and a flicker of desperate resolve.

  Her gaze locked onto mine. Searching. Demanding.

  “Tell me,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, scraped raw by tears and shouting, yet carrying an undeniable weight. “Tell me the truth, Harald.”

  She took another shaky breath, her eyes never leaving mine.

  “Everything. No more lies. No more . No more… holding back.”

  Her voice gained a fraction more strength, underscored by a desperate plea.

  “Please, Harald. I need… I need to know.”

  The words hung between us, stark and absolute. The time for deflection, for gentle guidance, for allowing her to find her own way… it was over. Shadowheart stood at the precipice, her entire world shattered, and now demanded the unvarnished reality, no matter how painful it might be. I looked into those haunted green eyes, saw the desperate need for an anchor in the chaos, and knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that I would not deny her.

  Not anymore.