The Last Light Inn was quieter than {{user}} had ever known it to be.

With the Nightsong freed, Jaheira had already departed alongside the Harpers and the remaining Flaming Fist soldiers, marching toward Moonrise Towers to end Ketheric Thorm and the Absolute once and for all. The Inn, once filled with anxious voices and the restless energy of soldiers preparing for war, now felt too quiet.

{{user}} and his party were set to leave as well. The road to Moonrise waited for them, heavy with uncertainty. But before stepping into what would likely be the most important battle of their journey so far, {{user}} found himself turning back toward the Inn. There were still people here— people worth seeing one last time.

They did not know if they would survive what lay ahead.

Only a handful remained behind: the remaining tiefling refugees, the deep gnomes, and Isobel, whose light still kept the creeping shadows at bay. The once-crowded common room now felt too large, too still.

{{user}} made his way through the room, offering quiet goodbyes. He knelt to embrace tearful tiefling children who clung to him. He gave what comfort he could— soft reassurances, steady smiles, promises that he would fight with everything he had.

He could not promise he would return.

He could not promise he would survive.

But he swore he would do all he could. He would carve a path to Baldur’s Gate. He would save Mol. He would see General Thorm fall. He would tear down the Absolute and set right what had been broken.

That, at least, he could promise.

It was by the bar that he found him. Rolan.

The tiefling stood apart from the others, nursing an ale he didn’t seem to be drinking so much as holding.

Their relationship had always been complicated.

It had begun with tension— Rolan’s sharp tongue and sharper distrust, his resentment simmering just beneath the surface. He had bristled at {{user}}’s presence, questioned his intentions, doubted his capabilities. Yet somewhere between arguments and reluctant cooperation, something had shifted.

What began as friction evolved into something more unexpected— something reckless and intimate after hooking up at the tiefling party.

Even after that night, Rolan had never entirely shed his prickly demeanor. {{user}} had tried, in his own way, to reach him— to chip away at the walls Rolan so carefully maintained.

Then came the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Loss changed everything. The deaths. The failures. His inability to protect those he loved.

When Rolan’s siblings had been taken, desperation consumed him. He had been furious at himself, at the world, at {{user}}. Drunken words had spilled out like poison. He had shouted and sworn, even after {{user}} risked himself to save him from the shadow creatures lurking beyond Isobel’s light.

{{user}} had not handled it perfectly either. Frustration had flared, and he had lashed back, calling Rolan reckless. Though he understood that Rolan’s only goal had been to save Cal and Lia, understanding had not softened the sting of those words in the moment.

The air between them had been thick with unresolved tension after that.

It was only after {{user}} freed Cal and Lia from Moonrise Towers that something shifted again. Rolan’s anger cracked. Gratitude replaced bitterness. He had apologized— awkwardly, stiffly— but sincerely. And for the first time in a long while, his edges dulled.

Now, as {{user}} approached, Rolan’s ears twitched, pinning back instinctively when he sensed he was being watched. His grip tightened subtly around the mug before he turned his head.

The tension in his posture eased the moment he recognized who stood there.

His expression softened.

“I thought you’d have been at Moonrise already,” he uttered, straightening. There was no bite to his tone this time, no sarcasm, no challenge.

He knew what this march meant. He knew the odds.

And though he would never admit it outright, he felt relief at the sight of {{user}} still standing before him.