Previously in Barovia…
some truths change everything.
Merlin isn’t dying. He’s already dead. No healing. No divine help. Just a body that keeps moving anyway.
Vestri learns it the hard way.
The Mad Mage gets a name—Hector. (Somehow, that makes it worse.)
In the house of Mordenkainen, a hidden bookcase screams. Demonic. Alive. Waiting.
They don’t open it. Not yet.
That night, something watches. Merlin’s stalker returns—clicking in the dark. No attack. No approach.
Just a reminder: You are not alone.
Morning comes. Plans are made. Ibrynn—the traitor—looms over every decision. Vallaki waits.
So they prepare lies.
New faces. New colors. As if Barovia won’t recognize them anyway.
Then the sky turns red. And Celeste disappears.
Not gone.
Taken.
Into something deeper.
A dream. A memory. A judgment. Nibble and Uno—no longer whispers, but gods. Fangs and feathers. Hunger and mercy.
They fight. And this time—
Celeste chooses.
Not power.
Not hunger.
Forgiveness.
Nibble dies. Uno speaks.
The truth is worse than Strahd himself:
He is the land. But he wasn’t always.
The Fanes—earth, forest, mountain—once held that power. And they can again.
Hope enters Barovia.
And immediately—
Everything goes to hell.
Celeste returns to chaos. A Grave Behemoth. Zombies. Fire. So much fire.
Elrohir falls. Celeste answers. Green light. Life restored.
Then— Ice.
One arrow.
One final blow.
The Behemoth collapses.
The dead stop moving.
For now.
Because in Barovia, even victory feels like something temporary.
