The Arcane Vanguard found themselves atop a desolate mountain, standing in the ruins of an ancient monastery. Only one thing remained untouched by time—the proud, pristine statue of Talos. Below, a keep stood in the distance, nestled among unnervingly peaceful fields of wildflowers. As they began their descent, something shifted—a flicker in their connection to the Weave, an unsettling familiarity they had not felt since their first journey together. Then, a small iridescent bird materialized before Merla, its voice whispering in desperation:
“I need your help, mageling. The Weave… it’s faltering. It’s Mys—”
Before it could finish, the bird vanished.
Approaching the keep, the group found no warriors, no cultists—only halfling children playing in fields and a drowsy tiefling standing guard. The doors stood wide open. Inside, the ancient stonework was in the midst of slow repairs. They were greeted by an older woman and a halfling man offering food, but as the conversation turned, their warm hospitality cooled.
“You should speak with the Lady,” said Donna, gesturing toward the stables.
At the back of the keep, amidst the scent of hay and manure, they met Lady Myrana—a striking woman with deep black skin, electric-blue streaks in her graying curls, and eyes that crackled with stormlight. Though she offered them rest, there was an undeniable weight in her words.
Sayah and Romark each sought private counsel with her, but her patience was as unshakable as the coming storm. When Romark pressed, she revealed a vision—a floating city, the shimmering sea below, and a robed man called Karsus. She warned of his creation, of its power to end the world itself. And then her voice turned sharp:
“Renounce your faith in Lathander. Swear to Talos, and you and your friends will live. You have until dawn.”
The group reeled. They scoured their minds for another way, but the bitter truth settled in: they were trapped. As Romark knelt in prayer, he was transported to a tranquil lakeside, where the Morninglord himself sat watching the sunrise. Lathander spoke plainly:
“You are chosen, Romark. Each of you. Myrana is powerful—Talos’ chosen. And she will kill you come morning.”
The others, one by one, sought guidance from the gods. Merla was whisked to a cosmic expanse where Mysryl, goddess of the Weave, revealed that magic itself was unraveling. Tyr found himself in the forge-halls of Moradin, the Soul Forger, who could offer no aid, but solemnly promised to watch over him. Each returned, carrying the weight of divine purpose.
As night fell, so did the storm. The keep offered little comfort—just five simple bedrolls and the knowledge that at dawn, they would fight for their lives.
Then came the morning.
The storm raged overhead, drowning the light of dawn. In the courtyard, Myrana waited alone, clad in elegant storm-slicked scale armor, gripping a silver staff crackling with lightning. Her voice cut through the rain.
“So, you’ve chosen to die.”
The battle began in a storm of lightning and thunder. Myrana was swift, relentless, calling down the fury of Talos himself. As the heavens rumbled, it was as if gods clashed above them. Then, with a piercing roar of agony, Myrana’s form began to shift—
Her armor stretched. Her body grew. Wings unfurled.
Before them stood a blue dragon.
The fight turned desperate. Wisp fell. Romark followed. The remaining few, bloodied and barely standing, struck with every ounce of strength they had left. Finally—with one last, defiant blow, Myrana fell.
The clouds parted. The storm was over.
As the dust settled, the people of the keep emerged, stunned—not only by the battle but by the revelation that their leader had been a dragon. As Tyr harvested parts from the fallen beast, Romark stood tall and declared Talos a false god, calling the people to Lathander’s light.
One by one, they knelt.
The Arcane Vanguard caught their breath, the weight of what they had done settling on them. They had slain a dragon. They had won.
But what came next?