Baldur’s Gate waited in uneasy silence, just one night away. While his companions slept, he sat by the extinguished campfire, watching his candle flicker.

They’d escaped a terrible, accursed darkness, one that made Verimir tremble with each step. Darker than cavern or shallow, a darkness that swallowed him whole, a darkness that grew darker still each day that passed. Even his keen darkvision, typically such a comfort, wasn’t enough to keep the shadows at bay.

How long had it been since Verimir had seen moonlight? Days, at least, or perhaps weeks— night and day had been indistinguishable in that place.

His jaw tensed as he stared down at his flickering candle. The flame was creeping down the wick, and Verimir felt dread crawl up his throat at the thought of being left in darkness again.

— “Gods,” he whispered to himself, rubbing his face with his palms. A warrior of Eilistraee, and a damn good archer to boot, a man who had seen Avernus, seen the Shadowfell, who had slain all manner of monstrosities and even an avatar of Myrkul himself— afraid of the dark, like a helpless surface child. A drow afraid of the dark was like a fisherman allergic to fish, a blacksmith too weak to wield their own weapons.

There were footsteps on the ground behind him, and he jolted, nearly knocking over his candle in distress. He looked over his shoulder, his heart hammering.