#starsofnyx

Jaheira’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of the man standing before her — it was impossible. It had to be impossible. Yet there he was, moving toward her with a gait so familiar it sent shivers down her spine. Her hands trembled, betraying the poise she desperately clung to, as her mind struggled to reconcile the sight.

The resemblance was uncanny — unforgivingly so. Every line of his face, every movement, mirrored Khalid, as he might have been, had he lived to see her age. It was as though time itself had conspired to play a cruel trick, dredging up a ghost that should have remained buried.

She barely heard the murmurs of the saloon around her, the clinking of glasses and low conversation fading to a dull hum. Her focus locked on the man striding toward her, his eyes meeting hers with a steady intensity that sent her heart into a spiral.

And then he spoke. His voice delivered the final blow. He said his name.

Khalid.

The room seemed to spin. A cold sweat broke across her skin, her knees threatening to give way beneath her. Jaheira’s hand shot out, gripping the edge of the table for support. Her lips parted, but no sound came; her breath felt trapped in her chest.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. And yet, here he was, standing before her. Too much. It was too much.

Khalid?

Jaheira's vision blurred, the room dissolving into a haze as her heart hammered wildly in her chest. Her grip on the table slipped, fingers trembling too violently to hold on. A cold wave of nausea rolled through her, and the sound of the man’s voice echoed distantly, warped and unreal. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps, her body betraying her attempts to steady herself. And then, as if her legs could no longer bear the weight of her spiraling thoughts, they buckled. The world tilted sharply, the ground rushing up to meet her as darkness overtook her senses.

𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬. // @starsofnyx

Viconia was sitting next to Lyra at some function. Maybe a touch to close but who could blame her? She had been watching these nobles schmooze up to her love, and was feeling possessive over it.

It was supposed to be a stealth mission. A quick in-and-out, a bit of eavesdropping on some robed lunatics in the fetid depths of the sewers, then back to the surface with their secrets in hand. Simple. Efficient. But, of course, things went sideways. The Bhaalists had sharper senses — or perhaps better luck — than anticipated, and now Mizora and Carmilla were cornered by a mob of snarling, dagger-wielding fanatics.

Mizora’s pulse quickened, her now mortal body betraying her once again with its frantic reminders of danger. Pathetic, she thought, though the tremble in her hands as she summoned the teleportation spell felt less like power and more like desperation. She grasped the infernal words, molding them into the fabric of reality, only for the magic to twist in her grasp. Something cracked — not like glass but like lightning splitting a tree — and the spell unraveled into chaos.

The air shimmered violently, colors she couldn’t name bursting like fireworks around them. Her skin tingled, bones feeling momentarily weightless before snapping into a different alignment. The sewer tunnel warped; the looming cultists stretched and blurred like figures in a fever dream. Mizora hit the ground with a soft thud, her limbs… smaller. Her vision sharper. Her ears swiveled instinctively to catch the hissed curses of their would-be captors.

Grazzt's cock, not now!

She tried to speak, only for a startled, indignant meow to escape her lips.

She glanced to her side. Carmilla, equally feline and fur-covered, blinked at her with wide, yellow eyes. But instead of a diminutive form, the universe just had to play favourites. While she was reduced to a sleek but utterly ordinary housecat, Carmilla’s transformation had bestowed her with the form of a shadowy panther, all sleek muscle and menacing grace. The vampire practically radiated predatory elegance, even in this ridiculous predicament.

Because of course the world was unfair like this.

For a moment, the only sound was the dripping of water in the sewer and the confused meows of the cultists — equally turned into cats.

Then, realizing the gift this absurd transformation had afforded them, Mizora’s tail flicked with determination. If the universe insisted on mocking her, she would make it regret the effort.

Mizora launched herself at the nearest cultist-turned-cat with a feral yowl, claws swiping wildly. The unfortunate tabby barely had time to hiss before she was on him, a blur of fur and fury. She landed one good scratch on his nose, reveling in his startled screech, before another cultist-cat tackled her from the side. And then another. And another. Suddenly, she was a writhing ball of feline chaos, buried beneath a swarm of hissing, spitting furballs. She managed to bite someone’s tail — whose, she had no idea — but was rewarded with a particularly vicious paw to the ear. “This,” she thought as she fought off a tortoiseshell with an unsettlingly homicidal gleam in its eyes, “might just be the stupidest way I’ve ever died.”

"Help me!" she yowled at Carmilla, her meow tinged with desperation as she swiped at yet another clawed assailant. She could only hope the vampire-turned-feline would grasp the urgency.

Jaheira sat on the veranda, turning her Harper pin over in her hand, brooding. The very same veranda where she and Morena had shared so many heartfelt conversations, yet now she sat alone, the distant crash of waves and the crisp autumn breeze her only companions. Things with Halaster were getting worse and worse, and each passing day she grew more and more convinced that staying here was a mistake. Trouble followed her wherever she went — it always had.

The decision settled heavy in her chest, like a stone sinking into deep waters. She heard Morena’s familiar footsteps approaching and looked up, her expression grave. “I cannot stay here any longer.” Her voice was firm, no frills or pleasantries to soften the blow. No point in dressing up the truth, after all. “I… I invite trouble, Morena. By staying, I’m putting you at risk — risk you shouldn’t have to bear.”

Jaheira knelt before the statue of Lyra, the dim candlelight flickering against her tear-streaked face. The Stormshore Tabernacle was quiet at this hour, save for the distant crash of waves against the shore. Her chest ached with the weight of longing, a saudade so deep it felt carved into her bones.

She placed her offering at the statue's feet: a golden scale, balanced with a single feather on one side and a golden earring on the other — one of Lyra's many gifts to her, when she still walked among mortals. A fitting tribute, she hoped, for a goddess of justice. One to honour her fairness, mercy, and retribution alike, while still having Jaheira's personal touch to it. Her love.

Even though she wasn't a woman of liturgy, she had done this before: made her offerings, whispered her prayers, cried and left in silence. But just this once, she prayed for Lyra to hear her.

Her fingers clenched against the cold stone of Lyra's ankle, even though she knew she wasn't supposed to do it. No one clinged to the statues while they pray, but she did. She bowed her head, tears slipping freely now.

"I go to war," she murmured in Elvish, voice raw with grief and determination. "To face Ketheric Thorm and his Absolute farse. And if there is any justice left in this world, let my children be safe. Let them live. Let them never know the pain of loss as I have."

The silence after felt deafening. But still, Jaheira stayed, forehead pressed to the altar, whispering the name of the woman she had loved so dearly.

Lyra is getting some big news @starsofnyx

Jaheira sat by the hearth, her hands folded tightly in her lap as she watched the flames flicker and dance, casting shadows along the stone walls. Her fingers trembled as she pressed one hand against her lower abdomen, murmuring the incantation for Detect Life under her breath. The magic rippled through her body like a gentle tide, warm and all-encompassing. And then she felt it — small, faint, but unmistakably still there. A heartbeat. A tiny, rhythmic pulse fluttering within her womb.

She froze, the sensation leaving her breathless, just like it did the very first time she felt it. It was impossible. It had to be. Her hand stayed rooted there, her thoughts spinning in a storm of disbelief and fragile hope. She was sterile. Always had been, as far back as she could remember, and her current age didn't help her in the slightest. Her pregnancies, brief and tragic, had been little more than cruel reminders of that fact. Some of them were bloody, others painful, and some were over before they could even truly begin. She had stopped hoping long ago, burying those dreams deep under layers of pragmatism and survival.

But now... now there was this.

Her lips parted as she stared at nothing, the hearth’s warmth suddenly feeling like too much. Was it a mistake? A cruel trick of her aging body? Or was it real? She didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or bury the knowledge deep down where it couldn’t hurt her. A life was growing inside her — fragile, vulnerable, a flicker of light in the darkness she’d grown so accustomed to.

A part of her, the part that had learned to armor herself against loss, whispered not to hope. Not to let her heart rise, only to have it shattered again. Yet another part of her — small, insistent, and terrifyingly tender — prayed that this time, it would be different. That this time, she would have a chance.

Her eyes flicked to the door as her nerves redoubled. Lyra might be still at her meeting, and Jaheira felt an aching need for her presence, for her steadying words. Would Lyra even believe her? Did she believe herself? Her hand lingered on her abdomen, as if the simple act of feeling that faint, impossible heartbeat might anchor her to the present.

The door creaked in the distance, and her heart leapt in time with the tiny pulse she now knew was there. Jaheira bit her lip so hard she tasted the faint, metallic tang of blood.

Should she tell Lyra? Could she? The idea alone made her stomach churn. What if this hope crumbled as quickly as it had appeared? Would she burden Lyra with that same fragile hope only to see it snuffed out? She took a deep, shaky breath, trying to steady herself, but the moment the door creaked open and Lyra stepped inside, all her composure fled.

Jaheira shot to her feet, her movements restless and nervous. She began pacing, her bare feet scuffing the wooden floor as she circled the other woman like it was some dangerous predator she had yet to name. "Lyra, hm..." Words danced on the tip of her tongue, but none of them felt right. How could she possibly explain this? How could she share something so wondrous and terrifying in equal measure? She glanced at Lyra, her heart pounding, and opened her mouth — then closed it again, unsure if she should leap or hold the secret close just a little longer.

She stopped mid-step, her hands trembling slightly as she clenched them at her sides. No more pacing. No more circling. Jaheira swallowed hard, her voice catching in her throat as she forced herself to speak.

“I—” She hesitated, took a deep breath, and tried again, her words tumbling out unbidden. “There’s… something you need to know.”

She looked down, one hand drifting to her stomach as though to steady herself — or to feel the faint heartbeat again, as if it might ground her in some way. “I… I’m pregnant.” She said, her voice quiet, trembling. “I don’t know how. I mean, we both know how, but— Argh! It shouldn’t be possible, not for me, not after everything, but—” Her words faltered, and her shoulders slumped as she met Lyra’s eyes, her own filled with a mix of fear and wonder.

“I couldn’t keep this from you,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “You deserve to know. I just… I don’t know what this means, or what will happen. But I had to tell you.”

Usually, Harpers don't reach outside their local Holds for help, but it seemed that the situation in Waterdeep had grown so dire that reinforcements became a necessity. When word reached Jaheira, she knew she couldn’t spare additional resources to aid the Harpers in the city — not after they had already sent some of their best to fight alongside her in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Gale, the newest Harper recruit in the city, had graciously offered her the use of his family’s home, sparing her the hassle of finding accommodations in an unfamiliar city — or even, resorting to sleeping on the streets in an animal form. It was a thoughtful gesture of him, one she welcomed with genuine relief.

And Morena, Gale's mother, had been an exceptional hostess. She was exactly what Jaheira expected from a woman who had raised one of the most brilliant scholars of Waterdeep: elegant, poised, wits sharp as a blade, and perfectly eloquent. Impeccably polite, too, which only made Jaheira feel more like a feral opossum by comparison. She found herself scrambling to recall every lesson from her years navigating Baldurian high society during her marriage to Abdel Adrian, trying to keep pace with Morena's quiet refinement.

Not that Jaheira thought herself inferior — far from it. But Morena had a way of staring, like she could strip you down to your barest truths with a single glance. It was a bit... unnerving. And Jaheira, despite her confidence, didn’t want to risk souring a potentially important connection in Waterdeep with a careless misstep.

As expected from a druid, she had never felt at ease in luxurious surroundings; gilded halls and opulent furnishings only served to remind her of the divide between the powerful and the forgotten. But this household was different from its neighbours. Morena's home, though undeniably elegant and perched in a prime location within the Sea Ward, held a unique charm. It stood atop a hill, with an unobstructed view of the ocean, rising above the grandeur of its surroundings with an unpretentious warmth. It felt lived in — books stacked on tables, soft chairs worn just right, and the faint aroma of spiced tea lingering in the air.

And everywhere Jaheira turned, there were plants — thriving, vibrant, and lovingly tended. They spilled from terracotta pots on window sills, hung in woven baskets from the ceilings, and nestled in carved wooden planters along the halls. Some bore colorful blossoms, while others were hardy ferns or leafy vines curling around the handrails. The care put into them was unmistakable.

It was nothing like the ostentatious manors that surrounded it, which seemed more like museums than homes. Here, Jaheira felt comfortable. Cozy. She couldn't help but think about her own home back in Baldur's Gate: spacious enough for a bustling family, yet alive with the warmth of life, joy, and gentle attention.

Since her arrival, not a single day had passed without a chatter on the veranda — or in the living room when the weather decided to misbehave. At first, it was Gale who drew them into conversation, talking about their time together in Baldur’s Gate. But soon enough, Morena and Jaheira found themselves seeking one another out for evening talks, even when Gale wasn't present. And, by the gods, bards had a knack for pulling people into conversation, didn’t they? Morena was no exception.

"You know, from all the battlefields I've been to, motherhood was the toughest one. No one prepared me for that. Above all swords and spells, nothing — nothing — compares to the terror of a toddler armed with a stick and a terrible sense of balance." She snorted, waving her cup for emphasis. Today’s drink was wine, though it could have been the most bitter ale in all Faerûn, and Jaheira wouldn’t have minded. The conversations with Morena had a way of twisting and turning in directions she never expected, and that unpredictability made her cherish it all the more. "I once spent four hours in a tree because little Fig wanted to play 'hero rescuing the princess.' Except the princess was a cat. And I was the bloody cat."

"And don’t get me started on Rion," Jaheira continued, leaning in as though sharing a grave secret. "That girl could command a battalion before she could walk. 'Mama, march!' she'd say, and gods help me, I’d do it — half the household would. I was leading a rebellion and didn’t even know it."

She paused, her grin softening into something warmer, more vulnerable. "Ah, but gods, they’ve made me who I am. Taught me more than any druid circle or Harper mission ever could. They’re my greatest adventure, even if I’ve wanted to strangle them at least once a week."

Jaheira tilted her head, studying Morena for a few seconds. “And what about you? Any family mishaps you care to share? Funny moments, perhaps? Although…” She allowed herself a chuckle. “Gale always struck me as a sweet, well-behaved boy. Surely he was the picture of perfection growing up, in comparison to my crew of feral cubs?"

Jaheira froze, her mind grinding to a halt at Khalid’s innocent question. Whatever had occupied her thoughts a moment ago vanished, replaced by him. Kissing him. Holding him. Tasting him. Gods, biting him. The thought of Khalid unraveling beneath her hands, pinned as she had her way with him, sent a sharp jolt through her. His hands on her body, his body pressed flush against hers — focus, woman! She blinked rapidly, forcing herself back into the present, pretending she hadn’t just been staring at him like a wolf sizing up its prey. Clearing her throat, she shifted her weight, leaning deliberately over the map spread across the table.

“I was... setting a course for Baldur’s Gate,” she said, her tone as steady as she could manage. Her finger traced the river, anchoring her thoughts on the parchment. She dared a glance at him, then back to the map, hoping her face didn’t betray the wildfire still raging in her mind. “If we follow this route, we could reach the city in three days. Perhaps less, if luck favours us.”