The air was heavy, familiar in an unsettling way. You stepped deeper into the shadows, where your eyes struggled to adjust. The heart of you rebelled against the dark, against the cold weight of stone underfoot. Too different, too harsh, like those webs of thought, the ones that crawl in your brain. The itch that flickers at the edges of consciousness. Then the glow of the lanterns returned—faint and eerie, casting their light on the endless caverns and twisted architecture of Menzoberranzan. The Underdark.

Why had you left the sun? Why run from the light above? Minthara. She dragged you down, a compromise of sorts—no sun, but you had her. And now, somehow, this was home. Wasn't it?

The large chamber flickered in the glow of torches and enchanted lights. Curtains hung lazily over soft pillows and lounges, with servants moving about, heads bowed. The hierarchy Minthara had once mentioned during those long nights by the campfire, it now unfurled before you, real and palpable.

And you were here, no Orin, no tadpole wriggling in your mind, just her—and the Underdark.

Minthara's eyes tracked you from a distance as you moved through the chamber, your dress flowing perfectly over your frame, the deep cut down your back revealing the coiled strength of your muscles. There was a hunger in her gaze. It was still strange for you, though maybe not for her—maybe not for the other Lolth-sworn drow. They looked at you like you were some prized relic, a hero, maybe. A killer, certainly. But which side of you were they waiting to see?

Minthara’s expression darkened as she saw another drow moving closer to you, their interest unmistakable. The click of her boots echoed, a sharp, deliberate sound in the silence—a warning. She was coming.

Before the drow could speak to you, she stepped between you and them, voice low but lethal. "Touch her, and I’ll feed you to the spiders myself."