The flickering light from the campfire cast long shadows on the forest floor, creating dancing patterns that did little to calm Sylas's restless mind. He sat apart from the others, his back to a gnarled tree, his eyes fixed on the flames as they licked the darkened sky. Around him, the soft sounds of the forest at night whispered through the trees—the rustling of leaves, the distant cry of an owl—but to Sylas, it felt as though the silence of the Underdark still clung to him like a second skin.
It had been hours since the battle with Varian, and yet, the memory lingered like a fresh wound. Sylas could still feel the weight of Moonshadow in his hand, the slickness of Varian's blood as it splattered across the forest floor. He could still hear the final rasp of breath as his former brother-in-arms fell to his knees, defeated and broken.
But it wasn't Varian's death that haunted him now.
Sylas closed his eyes, but instead of finding peace, he saw faces—dozens of them. The faces of those he had killed in Lolth's name, back when he was nothing more than a weapon for his house, a tool for the Spider Queen's malice. Some of them had been enemies, warriors from rival houses or surface-dwellers unlucky enough to cross his path. But others… others had been innocents, caught in the webs of intrigue and violence that spun endlessly in the Underdark. He had been their executioner, their silent end in the darkness.
And now, they haunted him.
"You're thinking of them again, aren't you?"
Sylas opened his eyes at the sound of Althar's voice. The older knight had approached quietly, though Sylas's senses had picked up his presence long before he spoke. Althar stood at the edge of the firelight, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he gazed at Sylas with a look of quiet understanding.
"They don't go away," Sylas said softly, his voice barely louder than the crackling of the fire. "No matter how much time passes."
Althar sighed and moved closer, sitting down beside Sylas on the rough ground. He pulled a small whetstone from his belt and began running it along the edge of his blade, the rhythmic scraping sound oddly soothing.
"They never do," Althar said, his tone matter-of-fact. "The faces, the memories—they stay with you. But that's the price we pay for what we've done. It's not about forgetting, Sylas. It's about learning to live with it."
Sylas shook his head, his jaw clenched. "I spent years killing for a cause I didn't believe in. I didn't even question it. I just… followed orders. Now, even when I try to do something good, it feels like I'm still that same person. The same monster."
Althar stopped sharpening his blade and looked at Sylas, his gaze steady but not unkind. "You're not a monster, Xarann. Not anymore."
"How can you be so sure?" Sylas muttered, his voice thick with bitterness. "You didn't see the things I did."
"No," Althar admitted, his voice calm. "But I've seen the things you've done since. I've seen you fight to protect those who can't defend themselves. I've seen you risk your life to help people who don't even know your name. That's not the work of a monster."
Sylas's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white. "It doesn't feel like enough."
Althar was silent for a moment, as if considering his next words carefully. The fire crackled between them, and the night seemed to grow stiller, the forest holding its breath.
"Redemption isn't a reward, Sylas," Althar said finally. "It's a path. One that you walk every day, knowing you'll never truly outrun your past. But that's what makes it worth fighting for. You're not trying to erase what you've done—you're trying to balance it. To tip the scales toward something better."
Sylas stared into the fire, the flames dancing in his silver eyes. "And what if the scales never balance? What if it's not enough?"
Althar's hand rested on his shoulder, firm but not forceful. "Then you keep walking the path. That's all any of us can do."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of Sylas's guilt sat heavily on his chest, but Althar's words, though simple, held a quiet truth that Sylas couldn't ignore. Redemption wasn't something that could be earned in a single act, or even a lifetime of acts. It was something you fought for, every day, no matter how hard the fight became.
Before Sylas could respond, the sound of footsteps approaching the camp reached his ears. He turned his head just as one of the Sentinel scouts appeared at the edge of the firelight, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the flames.
"Sir Althar, Sylas," the scout called out, her voice low but urgent. "The council has called for you. There's been a development."
Althar rose smoothly to his feet, sheathing his blade with practiced ease. He glanced at Sylas, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of something like concern in his eyes.
"We'll talk more later," Althar said quietly before turning to follow the scout. "Come. The mission comes first."
Sylas stood, sheathing Moonshadow as he did so, and fell into step beside Althar as they made their way through the forest toward the council's meeting place. The night was cool, the air fresh and clean—a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the Underdark that still clung to Sylas's memory. But as he walked, he couldn't shake the feeling that the shadows of his past were creeping ever closer, threatening to swallow him whole if he let his guard down.
They arrived at the council chamber, a large stone structure nestled deep within the heart of the forest. The building was ancient, its walls covered in moss and vines, but it radiated a quiet power—a testament to the strength of Eilistraee's Sentinels, who had made this forest their home.
Inside, the council members were already gathered around a large stone table, their expressions grim. Captain Ilvara, the leader of the Sentinels, stood at the head of the table, her sharp eyes scanning the room as Sylas and Althar entered.
"Thank you for coming," Ilvara said, her voice steady but laced with tension. "We have a situation that requires immediate attention."
Sylas and Althar took their places around the table, and the scout who had fetched them quickly departed, closing the heavy wooden doors behind her.
Ilvara wasted no time. "Our scouts have reported increased activity from the drow of House Xorlarrin. They've been spotted in surface towns, gathering information and establishing contacts with certain… unsavory individuals."
Althar's brow furrowed. "Surface towns? The drow rarely venture that far above ground unless they have a specific target in mind."
"Exactly," Ilvara replied, her eyes narrowing. "We believe House Xorlarrin is forming an alliance with surface-dwellers—nobles who are dissatisfied with their current rulers. They're planning something, something big. And we need to know what it is."
Sylas's stomach tightened at the mention of his old house. The name Xorlarrin was a painful reminder of the life he had left behind, the family he had abandoned. He had spent years trying to forget them, to distance himself from their cruelty. But it seemed the past had a way of catching up to him, no matter how far he ran.
"We need more information," Ilvara continued. "But that will require someone to infiltrate House Xorlarrin. Someone who knows the Underdark, knows how they think."
Sylas's heart began to race. He knew where this was going. Before anyone else could speak, he stepped forward.
"I'll go."
The room fell silent. Althar glanced at Sylas, concern flickering in his eyes, but he didn't say anything. Ilvara, however, fixed Sylas with a piercing gaze.
"Are you sure, Xarann?" she asked. "Returning to the Underdark isn't something to take lightly. You know better than anyone what that place does to people."
"I know," Sylas replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. "But I know Xorlarrin. I know how they operate, how they think. If anyone can get close enough to learn what they're planning, it's me."
Ilvara regarded him for a long moment, her sharp gaze searching his face. Then, slowly, she nodded.
"Very well," she said. "You'll lead the team. But be warned, Sylas—the Underdark has a way of pulling you back in. Stay vigilant."
Sylas met her gaze, his jaw set in determination. "I will."
As the council began discussing the details of the mission, Sylas felt the weight of his decision settle on his shoulders. He had chosen this path, and there was no turning back now. The Underdark awaited him once more, its dark tendrils reaching for him from the depths.
But this time, he wouldn't be going as a servant of Lolth. He would go as a Knight of Eilistraee—a beacon of light in the shadows.
At least, that's what he told himself