The road to Baldur’s Gate had been long, plagued with githyanki zealots and marked by fear— of everything, really. By nightfall at Wyrm’s Rock, Menodora’s feat ached, as did her empty stomach. A warm meal and a good night’s rest would appear unto her a gift from the heavens.

But rest didn’t come easily. She knelt at her tent, looking up at the Tears of Selûne. It was comforting, to her, that the Moonmaiden wept, too. And as Menodora held the last piece of Shadowheart— a circlet bearing the dark symbol of Shar— she figured Selûne must be sobbing in the heavens above.

Shadowheart. Not given so much as a burial. Unceremoniously shoved into the Shadowfell like loose paper into a rubbish bin. Yes, the Nightsong was free, reunited with her lover, and Selûne’s domain healing from Shar’s vengeful curse— but at what cost? What could have been of Shadowheart when all this was over?

She’s with her goddess, Menodora said— hardly a comforting notion. Poor Shadowheart’s soul would hardly get any rest under the eternal watch of Shar. She looked up at the moon again, at bright, brilliant Selûne, and she watched her weep, the Tears twinkling against the inky blue night.