ROTR Session 16

As the candle of hope falters,

The Sentinels were marched in a ragged line, still bound, shuffling step by step toward the temple chamber under the jagged threat of Goblin horsechoppers. The goblins leered, their foreheads daubed with a crude third red eye—smeared in the blood of the day’s slaughter. Those not driving the prisoners forward slammed the butts of their weapons against the stone floor in rhythm, stomping a brutal cadence as they chanted a single name with shrill fervor:
“Lamashtu! Lamashtu!”
The Sentinels were forced to their knees before the profaned altar—before Nualia and her snarling Yeth Hound, before the towering effigy of the Mother of Monsters, whose twin flaming kukris blazed like heretics' torches in the gloom. Behind them loomed Chief Ripnugget astride his giant gecko, his Goblin commandos hunched and jittering with anticipation.

  Without so much as a glance at the captives, Nualia began to speak—her voice a reverent, dreadful hymn:
“O Lamashtu,
Jackal-Womb of Endless Spawn,
Feather-Crowned Queen who mothers monstrosity,
I kneel amid kindling and blood, and offer flame.

These are your sacrifices—squirming and screaming,
Their soft flesh burns as testament.
Their suffering is my hymn.
Their agony, my incense.

I give you their breath as smoke.
I give you their bones as charcoal.
I give you their fear to fatten your glory.
Twist them in your womb of flame.
Unmake them, as you unmade me.

O Lamashtu, tear away what remains of my mortal form.
Replace it with your mark—horn, claw, and Shadow.
I was never meant to be whole, only holy in your name.
I burn these offerings that I may be reborn again.

Lead me now to your Chosen—Malfeshnekor,
The ancient beast, bound in stone and rage.
Let my blood call to his.
Let my devotion unbind him.
Let us together bear your storm to the world above.

In fire, I shed what is weak.
In ash, I rise monstrous.
Mother of Monsters, claim your daughter.
Make me terrible in your image.

As the candle of hope falters, your inferno shall set the land ablaze.”

  She lit a long, unadorned red candle upon the altar. Its flame flickered to life with a hiss, casting long shadows that danced across the walls like spirits in torment. The Sentinels watched in tense silence—Rabie, Vannrik, Cletus, and Jinx. They strained against their bindings, desperation gnawing at the edges of their composure.
The Jadwiga stiffened with barely-contained panic.
The Varisian held steady, defiant, his fury buried but burning.
The Tiefling stayed focused—failure was not an option.
The Gnome's thoughts spiraled through frantic calculations, clawing for a plan.

Jinx glanced back at the goblins, considering—maybe a spell, a charm, a whisper of control. But before the thought took shape, a clawed hand clamped around his chin and twisted his gaze forward. Nualia’s pale eyes bore into his, and into the unnatural third eye upon his brow.
"You were born with Lamashtu's blessing, this… deformity. But you have squandered it."
She lingered, inspecting the Gnome’s features , studious, envious.
"You have lived so many years and left no spawn. I will take your mother’s gift, and give it to mine."
Jinx’s thoughts turned inward.
"Well, I've never really been in touch with Mother. She left me years ago. I was looking for her."
Nualia rose, lips curling into a venomous smile.
"Trust me, you will meet mother soon."

She stepped to Rabie next, her brow furrowed as if connecting dots in a memory.
"The last I saw you, you were a guardsman… until yesterday. I saw the vision of Erilyum’s runewell. I have felt what you felt."
Her head tilted.
"I can't help but feel that our wrath flows from the same well."
She let the weight of her words hang before leaning in. Though she feigned a whisper, her voice rang clear.
"Do your friends know that you're a murderer?"
Rabie didn’t flinch.
"What I did before was nothing. I’m here to stop you, and I will."
Her smile widened, cruel and knowing, as she continued her walk.

  She stopped in front of Vannrik, gently dragging one black, taloned finger beneath the Jadwiga’s chin.
Her tone was dismissive "I don’t do pretty boys anymore. The last one betrayed me. Now he lies in a ditch somewhere in Magnimar. Throat sliced."
Vannrik voiced a retort.
"You're not really my type anyway," he said. But Nualia didn’t linger for a reply.

She moved to the last in line.
"I'm thinking to save you for last," she murmured, resting an angelic hand on Cletus’ horns.
"We could create beautiful things together."
Cletus held her gaze, summoning every scrap of composure he could muster. His eyes flicked to the candle. The first droplet of wax had begun to fall.


  “I find it so hard to believe that a simple girl from Sandpoint would become so devoted to Lamashtu. I still can’t believe I’m here,” Cletus said, his voice weak from blood loss and pain.
At the mention of the village, Nualia winced. The name alone seemed enough to boil her hatred.
“Sandpoint,” she spat. “Where I was Tobyn’s pet freak? Paraded in front of his peasants?”
She shook her head, struggling to restrain her rising fury.
Her eyes fell on Cletus—his ashen skin, the curling horns, the eyes that betrayed his infernal lineage. Cambion. Pitborn. Tiefling.
“I also cannot believe that you are here. Sitting on that side of the altar. I can’t believe the world has been kinder to you than it has to me.”
Before Cletus could muster a reply, a new voice broke through the tension.

  “Ripnugget,” Vannrik called out, trying not to move too suddenly under so many watching eyes. “Come on. You’re obviously the superior being here.” His voice was laced with desperation, poorly masked by bravado. “We should ditch Nualia and work for you. Don’t you think?”
The Goblin chief perked up atop his giant gecko. He glanced at his gathered horde, then at the looming statue of Lamashtu. His bulbous eyes narrowed as he looked down at the pale Human.
“I cannot see you leading me to any glorious Goblin purpose,” he said flatly. “Only Lamashtu can do that.”
Vannrik bit his lip, words dying in his throat.

He turned his head toward Cletus. The tiefling was slumped, his head swaying loosely from shoulder to shoulder. His violet eyes, hazy and unfocused, were fixed on the stone floor. As he began muttering, the language that passed his cracked lips was guttural—brimstone made breath. Chtonian. The tongue of the Abyss.
“Lamashtu, Lamashtu... I bring to you flesh—my mortal Human form, my demonic flesh. And within me, the spark of angels. Free me from this mortal shell. Free your servant. Let death be my beginning, Great Mother.”
Nualia crouched in front of him, lifting his chin with the hooked tip of a clawed finger, drawing his eyes to hers.
“Soon, soon,” she said, almost tenderly. “Like I said: the world cannot have been kinder to you than it has to me.” Her gaze was both inviting and absolute. “Who kneels before the altar of Lamashtu?”
Cletus met her gaze, something fierce behind the daze.
“Someone worthy of her grace.”
The corners of Nualia’s lips curled into a pleased smile. There was potential in him, and willingness.
The others watched as she rose to her full height, but Cletus looked across the dim chamber toward them. Just for a moment—was that a wink?

Jinx exhaled loudly, drawing the room’s attention. “Let’s be honest,” the Gnome began, casually. “You’ve already seen that I’ve been blessed by Mother.”
Nualia was on him in moments, traversing the altar's length with lithe grace. In just a few strides, she stood before him.
“And as you know,” Jinx continued smoothly, “I did some fortune readings for your stepdad. I read for Jervis too—before he committed all those murders. I see things. I know things. I’m the seer of Sandpoint now. So, since I’m blessed by Mother... let me read your fortune before I die. Let me show you your true future.”
Nualia leaned in close, as one must when addressing a Gnome. Her tone was flat, her expression contemptuous.
“Do you know what my problem is with you?” she asked.
“You’ve spent decades bearing Mother’s gift. But we were placed on this earth to rut, to fuck, and to spawn the children who will one day overcome us. And you have failed to do that.”
She studied his third eye for a moment longer. “But I sense you understand now. Since you’re offering to step into the fire willingly.” She smirked. “I haven’t yet decided if I’ll pluck my fortune from your cards... or pluck it from your eye.”
“You’d harm Mother’s gift?” Jinx interjected, lifting a brow. “Bold move. But hey—your choice.”
Her expression didn’t change. The words hadn’t stung, but something in his calm gave her pause. She turned to go but hesitated mid-step.
“You read the future of Jervis Stoot. And of fa—” She corrected herself. “—Tobyn. Right?”
“Yes, I did,” Jinx said to her back.
“And where are they now?”
“They are where they’re supposed to be. Just as I am.”

  His answer echoed in her thoughts as she turned to Rabie—who was rising slightly against his bonds, spine straightening.
“I will not kneel before this false god,” he declared, his voice resolute.
Nualia turned to the Goblin chieftain and gave a curt nod.
Immediately, several goblins surged forward, pressing their weapons to Rabie’s back. Their blades pricked through the fabric of his cloak, drawing small beads of blood. Nualia’s grip on her sword tightened as rage coursed through her. Her knuckles whitened, fighting the urge to strike down the blasphemer on the spot.
She glanced at the candle. A full ring of molten wax now circled its base.
The Aasimar closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, steadying herself.
Soon.
Vannrik stared at the candle. Time was running out. Sweat beaded on his brow.
“Nualia,” he said, his voice earnest, “we’re capable people. I’m an infinite source of water and ice. Jinx over there can tell the future. Rabie’s a good spellcaster. And Cletus—well, I’m sure you can think of more than a few uses for him.” He straightened his shoulders, summoning whatever pride he had left. “Wouldn’t it be better to keep us alive than to kill us? We can be useful to you.”
Nualia gave a broad, amused smile and shook her luscious white hair. It shimmered as if mocking him.
“Oh, but I don’t need you to be useful,” she said sweetly. “I need you to be a good sacrifice to Lamashtu.”
She gestured toward the flames.
“I’ll get what I need from the smoke of your burned corpses.”

The mention of fire set Jinx thinking. His fingers twitched idly.
“You know,” he said, “you’re pretty fascinating. I always wondered—how did you pull off burning the church and make it out while everyone believed you were burned yourself?”
He tilted his head. "I never quite found that out through my readings. Although I knew you weren't there. you deceived the whole town, but deveicing Jinx is another matter. So tell me please, how did you do that?" Nualia paused mid-stride. Her eyes drifted to the statue of Lamashtu, to the red flames dancing on the kukri.
“All I had to do was use the fire that was already there,” she said at last. “And make sure I was the first one out before anyone realized the fire had even started.”
A grin threatened the edge of her flawless lips.
“Of course… I barricaded the door of dear Father Tobyn before I left. And that’s all it took.”
“So you didn’t start the fire?”
“Oh yes, I did.” She paused. A wrinkle of confusion crossed her brow.
“Well… no,” she admitted slowly.
“You didn’t?” Jinx asked, tone probing. “You had an accomplice?”
Nualia shook her head, slow and deliberate. “Not quite.”
She turned to face him fully. “You know… I’ve seen you before. When I was a child. You were already there. I’m sure you saw me too—foundling on the cathedral steps.” She sighed, softer now. “Everyone was so proud of Father Tobyn when he took in the orphaned girl. His adopted daughter.”
Her voice hardened. “But perhaps you lived too far from Sandpoint to hear the whispers. To see the pestering of the peasants. I was only six when people asked for strands of my hair—to brew tea, to ward off warts. Asked me to…” she trailed off, bitterness mounting. “So many humiliating requests. I was just a child. And even when I grew into adulthood, nothing changed.”
She took a breath, deeper, steadier.
“That was until I met Delek. A Varisian traveler. The only one who treated me like a person. But we both knew Father wouldn’t approve—so we met in secret, in the smugglers’ tunnels beneath the town. And for a little while, all was well with the world."
Her voice cracked, barely audible:
"I was thankful to whatever gods my father had taught me to worship. That there was at least one, who saw me as a person."
She looked away, jaw clenched.
“And then… he gave me his seed. I was no longer Delek’s little angel. I was a slut. A harlot. He fled because he knew that perhaps my dear father Ezekien could be wrathful. And when my father found out he only shamed me further. "
Her voice trembled.
“He imprisoned me in the church. Forced me to endure nightly lectures. Forced me—physically forced me—to pray to Desna for forgiveness.” Her hands balled into fists.
“Day by day. Month by month. All that was left in me was hate.”
A long silence.
“Until one day, something… snapped. Or maybe a veil lifted. I wasn’t the same anymore.”
She raised her head slowly, almost as if reliving the moment.
“I started hearing things. Gossips in the cathedral. About the Chopper. That his spree had begun. Good for them, I thought.”
She looked back at the Gnome.
“I was a mother once., Jinx”
Her voice softened into something almost reverent.
“I carried a baby for seven months. But he came too soon. I took my time with him. Counted the toes. All twelve. The tiny hands. The little fangs.”
Her smile twisted. “I was a mother for eighteen minutes.”
Her gaze turned cold.
“That’s when they came to take him from me. That’s when Father lit the fire. To burn my son. The same fire I would use to burn him.”
Her breath trembled as she exhaled.
“I was in shock. I drifted—comatose, lost—until the smoke of my burning child reached me in my dreams. Until Lamashtu showed me how to remove this—”
She yanked a tangled lock of white hair from her scalp with a clawed hand, tearing skin and drawing blood.
“—curse. This taint!”
She hurled the bloody clump to the stone floor.
“So I locked my father’s door. And I set the cathedral ablaze… with his fire, and mine.”
Nualia stood still, exhaling at last. Her voice no longer trembled.
Just truth now. Just ash.
“I understand,” Jinx said, carefully.

“You were just a child, seeking recognition,” Cletus said in the common tongue, his voice carrying from the far end of the line of sacrifices. “Seeking justice. Why waste your time with this cult of Lamashtu? I don’t understand.”
He leaned forward slightly, horns catching the firelight.
“What will this destruction do for you? You should have sought another life years ago—far away from here. You don’t belong in this place anymore. You’ll never find satisfaction here. Maybe… maybe I even feel sorry for you, somewhere deep down.”
Nualia moved swiftly, seathing her blade. She grabbed the tiefling by the horns with both hands, yanking his head to face hers, her pale eyes burning.
“You misunderstand,” she said, her voice calm, unsettlingly so. “Perhaps it’s born of your own mistreatment. But if there’s one place where you can be accepted, it is in Lamashtu’s embrace.”
“She is the one who freed me from my shackles. She is the one who whispers in my ear and guides my steps.”
“Was she the one who lit the fire through your hand?” Cletus asked.
“She helped me avenge my son,” Nualia said. “And yes, she gave me the strength to do it.”
Cletus didn’t flinch, his anger slowly being replaced with pity. “Do you see your future entirely devoted to her will? Will nothing remain of Nualia while you give all of yourself to this... goddess? Do you mean it?”
She looked down at the tiefling, her grip loosening.
“Yes,” she said. “I am ready to become better.”

Despite the prodding of the Horsechoppers, Rabie tried to rise. His struggle earned him a hateful glare from Nualia. At once, the goblins hooked around his bound legs and swept him to the floor. The witch landed with a thud, but Rabie did not give in. Bound as he was, he fought to get up again.
Nualia’s eyes flashed with fire.
“I am not afraid,” Rabie said, meeting her gaze.
The goblins jumped on him, wrestling him back down. But all eyes were now on Rabie.
“Quick,” Vannrik thought. He wriggled his arms, subtly, testing the bindings for any give. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jinx doing the same. The candle’s light was low—too low.
Cletus, watching it all unfold, shifted his attention to Nualia. He spoke again, voice measured.
“Before this all ends, I ask one small favor.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“My ring,” he said. “The one your minions took from me. It’s only fitting—very befitting of a follower of Lamashtu—to wear it as I witness her work.”
Nualia frowned, something in the request didn't seem right. She glanced toward the northern corner, where the Goblin singer was fumbling through the prisoners’ belongings.
“Find me all their rings,” she ordered.

  “Kret… Kret,” Rabie muttered to the goblins clutching at him. “Calm. Calm.” They loosened their grip slightly, allowing him to rise to his knees. Blood was on his lips. He called to the Aasimar:
“Nualia.”
Her head turned—slow, deliberate, cold.
“What did you say?” Her voice sliced through the air, sharp as a blade. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added with a mocking tilt of her head:
“Murderer?”
Silence fell, thick and heavy. The fire is hot. It burned hot enough to burn Rabie's delusions. The lies he told himself crumbled to embers. Death was near. Rabie would face it, acknowledging what he was.
“Yes,” he said, steady and unflinching. “I am.”
Nualia smiled—slow and cruel—as she began to saunter toward him, boots echoing softly against the stone.
    Rabie didn’t shrink from her. “Nualia,” he continued, voice firm. “It doesn’t matter what you suffered. You are making a mistake.”
He inhaled. “I am not squirming. I am not screaming. If you want my soft flesh—take it.”
With a sudden jerk, he bit down hard on his tongue—severing the tip. Blood filled his mouth as he spat the tip of his tongue on her armored boot.
Her face twisted in fury.
Rabie looked up, undaunted. “I suffer my agony in silence. The god you serve is nothing. A deceiver.”
"I am here with my friends to correct your mistakes. Sandpoint is stronger than your god. You use these goblins as slaves for your false idols. Their friends, children and wives are being slaughtered by people loyal to Sandpoint “
He nodded toward the statue. “ Even as we stand here before this statue of falsehood wasting time on these frivolous attempts at honoring a god which is worth nothing.”
“Sandpoint is protected. By my master. And by me.”
He raised his voice, defiant, prophetic.
“Your hatred for it means nothing. His four wings fly above your god. You grovel in this pit while he is everywhere. Even here—in your unholiest of places.”
“I am Rabie. I am him. And I am here.”
His voice dropped to a growl.
“And it doesn’t matter if you kill me or my friends. For my four-winged master will not stop. Another Rabie will come if I die. It will never stop. "
He leaned forward, whispering venomously.
"The raven that will come for you will always be flying high, picking at your eyes, until you are dead.”
“I propose this,” Rabie said, voice calm now, eerie in its composure.
“Let us go. Renounce your ways. Release the goblins.”
“Or you fight us in fair combat and prove that this god Lamashtu, which is nothing more than a pedestal to be spat upon, an idol built on the backs of those who grovel before her, is better than my god, guided by eternal winds. ”
“Either way, today will mark the end of your foul half-life, one way or another.”
His eyes burned into hers.
"It’s how you choose to be remembered. I for one, welcome blood, welcome death and welcome fire. I will eventually come out on top. And you will lie before me."
He spat once more.
“In this life—or the next.”

  Nualia’s angelic features twisted beneath the weight of her seething rage. Her jaw locked tight, and her knuckles blanched around the hilt of her drawn blade. She would not suffer such insolence.
With a savage thrust, the falchion plunged into Rabie’s belly.
He groaned—low and guttural—the only sound he allowed himself. Blood spilled in ribbons through the rope binds, eager to stain the temple floor. Nualia glanced at the candle. It was nearing its end, but she suspected the Varisian would outlast it.
When she looked back, Rabie was still upright, impaled but grinning. Blood seeped from the corners of his smile like ink from a cracked quill. Without a word, she grabbed him by the hair.
“You will watch your friends burn,” she whispered, and pulled the blade free with a wet sound. She wiped the blood on his own cloak and sheathed it.

    She turned on her heel, striding back to the Goblin singer. “The rings,” she commanded.
The Goblin offered up two—one silver, one copper. Nualia held up the silver band, arching an eyebrow at Cletus.
“That one’s mine,” the tiefling said.
Nualia tilted her head, almost playfully. Despite the demonic arm and the scars along her exposed belly, she still moved with an unnerving grace—an angel forged in fire.
“This is how it’s done, right?” she murmured with a soft laugh. “You give me a ring for our union?”
She slid the silver ring onto her finger.
Cletus smiled—not at her words, but at the subtle flicker beside her. He saw it: the hilt of her sword vanishing into thin air.
You little demon, he thought.
Nualia, too distracted with the second ring to notice her missing weapon, examined the copper band. Her amusement died in an instant.
She stomped back to Rabie, shoving the ring in front of his face.
Its copper surface was worn, pitted with tiny knife-marks—marks Rabie knew well. They were the signature of Jervis Stoot, the Chopper, carved with the same knife he used to shape his little wooden birds. The light caught on deliberate scratches—etched in the form of a sigil.
Nualia recognized it.
“Pazuzu has no influence here,” she spat. “Not in the sacred domain of Lamashtu.” Her voice turned venomous as she flung the ring across the temple, its clatter echoing like a curse.
“I’m still here,” Rabie rasped, a red grin stretched across his broken face.
Nualia’s claws closed around his head, fingers digging in with such fury it looked like she might rip it clean off.
“Yes,” she hissed. “You are. And you're here for one purpose.”
She twisted his head toward the altar—the towering effigy of Lamashtu, twin kukris ablaze with red and blue flame.
“Your master has served her well,” she growled. “He is spent. But you are not. You will feed her now.”
Anger. Rage. Impatience. They boiled in her wake as she paced before the altar, the candle of hope shrinking to a trembling flame.

  Nualia paused in front of Cletus, steadying herself. Her breath was controlled, her posture composed—but her eyes were wild with purpose.
“The world hasn’t been kind to you either, has it?”
Cletus met her gaze, unfazed. “You may know how they treat your kind here, in Varisia. But you have no idea how Tieflings are treated in Imperial Cheliax.”
Nualia gave a slow, understanding nod.
“But you're not in Cheliax anymore,” she said, almost gently. “You're in Lamashtu’s temple now. Far from imperial Cheliax."
Her gaze lowered to the ropes coiled around his form like snakes. “Will you not join me?”
Cletus tilted his head. “And what do you offer, child of Lamashtu?”
“A mother,” she said plainly, reverently—as if it were the most sacred gift imaginable.
Cletus raised an eyebrow. “A mother?”
“It looks like you desperately need one,” she answered, eyes flicking briefly to the scars across his exposed neck. “And perhaps,” she added, a faint curl to her lip, “a mate.”
The tiefling held her gaze. He had no desire to lie with her. He thought of Andromeda—how furious she would be if she ever knew. But now wasn’t the time for her lectures. It was time for survival. He swallowed his tension and lowered his voice.
“A womb,” he said, “to carry Lamashtu’s offspring.”
“To add to the brood,” Nualia replied, stepping closer.
“To spread the influence,” Cletus offered, playing his part.
“And the seed,” she whispered, almost lovingly.
  Without breaking eye contact, Nualia arched back her clawed hand. For a moment, it seemed she would grabe for her weapon.
But instead, her claws danced downward. With a slow, deliberate swipe, she sliced through his bindings. The rope fell limp to the floor. Pins and needles surged through Cletus’ hands as circulation rushed back.
He rose and stepped beside her, the image of grim obedience.
    Slurp.
A wet sound echoed through the chamber—the flick of a long, sticky tongue slapping against cold stone. A metallic scrape followed.
From beneath one of the braziers, Chieftain Ripnugget’s gecko tongue curled back into his fanged mouth, Rabie’s copper ring sticking to its surface. The Goblin chieftain grinned with glee as he plucked it free and shoved it onto a grubby finger. It barely fit, but that didn’t matter. It was shiny. It was his.
From where he knelt, Rabie saw the moment. The glint of the copper ring. The sigil now worn like a toy.
The absence of it cut deeper than Nualia’s blade ever could.

Cletus turned his attention to the Goblin warchanter.
“Did you hear that?” he said sharply. “If I’m to serve her… to perform… I’ll require healing.”
His eyes flicked to the sack where their gear had been dumped.
“Where’s the medicine?”
Before the Goblin could answer, Nualia interjected smoothly.
“Cletus, would you fetch me the Gnome’s cards.”
The tiefling nodded, obedient, and knelt beside the bag, rummaging through its contents. His fingers brushed against belts, clasps, tools—then the deck.
“What do you plan on doing with these?” he asked, holding them up.
Nualia didn’t answer. She simply extended her hand. Cletus placed the deck into her palm.
She turned toward the Gnome.
“You promised me a reading,” she said, beginning to shuffle the deck with practiced fingers.
Jinx blinked slowly, staring up at her. “I did. But those are the wrong cards.”
He tilted his head slightly. “There’s another deck in there.”
Nualia’s expression remained cold and unmoved. Without breaking eye contact, she tossed the deck over her shoulder. The cards fluttered like feathers through the air before scattering across the stone floor.
“Cletus,” she said calmly, “fetch me the correct Harrow cards.”
“And all the other Harrow items, please,” Jinx added quickly, seizing the opportunity. “If you want a proper reading.”
“You really want to know your future that badly?” Cletus asked as he dug back into the sack.
“I already know it,” Nualia replied softly, her eyes locked onto the Gnome. “Some friends I made in Magnimar confirmed it.”
She reached beneath her breastplate, withdrawing a silver medallion on a thin chain. It gleamed in the firelight—etched with a seven-pointed star.
Holding the new deck in one hand, she presented it before Jinx’s three-eyed face.
“You were going to do a reading,” she said. “So do it.”
“Yes,” Jinx replied warily. He opened his mouth to request his full kit, but Nualia silenced him with a flick of her claw.
“I think all you need are your eyes,” she said flatly. “To read."
Jinx shook his head, wisps of white-grey hair shifting with the motion. “No. I need to touch the cards. And I need to touch you.”
Nualia narrowed her eyes, leaning in close. Her gaze bore into the strange third eye on his brow.
“You’ve really been wasting Mother’s gifts,” she murmured. Her clawed hand slid a card free from the deck—the Trader. She held it inches from his face.
“What does this mean?”
Jinx hesitated, then answered with conviction.
“That you must give something… to receive your true gift.”
A slow smile curled on Nualia’s lips. She pointed a claw toward Jinx’s third eye, just shy of touching it.
“I think we both know what it is.”
“No,” Jinx countered, calm but firm. “I know what it is. You just assume.”
He straightened his back, as far as his bindings allowed.
“That’s the difference between us. I was given the gift directly from Lamashtu.” But Nualia was no longer listening. Her attention was already drifting.

  She turned away and resumed pacing across the dais, The Harrow card still in hand. Her armored boots clanged softly with each step. The altar loomed behind her, flanked by twin kukris wreathed in red and blue fire. She passed the candle—its wax long pooled, its flame sputtering weakly.
From behind, Nualia heard the bloodied rasp of Rabie’s voice.
“Pazuzu is done with your games.”
The words gurgled up through blood and spit, barely intelligible—but unmistakably defiant.
Once again, Rabie forced himself upright, teetering like a puppet with half its strings cut. Once again, the goblins pounced, tackling him back to the stone.
“Silence him,” Nualia commanded coldly.
One Goblin stuffed a filthy rag into Rabie’s mouth, muffling the laughter that had begun to rise—dark, unhinged laughter that rang truer than prayer in that chamber of false gods. But even as he choked on cloth and blood, Rabie reached inward—and was answered.
A raven’s caw echoed from far beyond the temple walls, carried on a wind no one else felt.
The others seized the moment. Bound but not broken, they worked in secret. Rope frayed against grit. Fingers twisted and pulled. Vannrik felt the subtle shift at his wrists—the taut pull loosening. Cletus had helped him, deft and unseen.
The Jadwiga shot the tiefling a quick, grateful wink.

  Just as calm began to settle, Vannrik shattered it.
“Cletus!” he screamed, his voice echoing off the walls. “You stupid traitor! You better not touch my healing potions! That’s not for you anymore—Now that you adhere to that evil god!”
Cletus turned toward him, reaching into the pack with an exaggerated flourish. He pulled free a vial filled with shimmering red liquid and held it high.
“You mean this healing potion?” he asked with a smirk.
“STAY AWAY FROM IT, YOU FIEND!” Vannrik howled.
Nualia rolled her eyes. The Jadwiga’s theatrics were anything but subtle—more a temper tantrum than a performance. She studied him like a parent observing a child caught lying.
Still, she glanced from Vannrik to Cletus, the vial glinting in his fingers. Cletus gestured faintly at his wounds—blood caked across his side, staining his shirt beneath the armor.
Nualia tilted her head, paused, then gave a curt nod. “I need some life in you.”
Cletus downed the potion in one eager gulp. The warmth spread through him, fire flowing into his limbs, returning strength.
Then—the last sound.
A soft sizzle.

The candle’s flame faltered. Flickered once. Then collapsed into smoke.
It left only a thread of gray rising from a pool of melted wax.

The Candle of Hope had failed.
And the Sentinels knew what would happen after.

  An inferno.

 

Your inferno shall set the land ablaze.

"It is time," Nualia said calmly. “Ripnugget.”
The Goblin chieftain sat up immediately.
“We’ll do the Gnome first. He needs to return his gifts to the Mother.”
Jinx's pulse quickened as goblins scrambled toward him. He thrashed in his bindings, but they were upon him in a blink—dozens of green hands, even from the chieftain astride his lizard mount. They hoisted him with savage delight and threw him atop the altar like a toy discarded.
The game was up.
From his prone position, Jinx could hear Vannrik and Rabie squirming, their bonds creaking under pressure. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cletus step back.
Nualia loomed over him, expression unreadable.
“First, we burn the spirit,” she said, her tone flat—neither angry nor gleeful, just resolute.
Jinx met her gaze, trying to summon empathy, trying to reach something… Human. But there was nothing left. No remorse. No doubt. Just divine purpose.
“You should have foreseen this was inevitable.”
She snapped her fingers.
The blue kukri flames of Lamashtu ignited with a sudden roar, flaring high above the dais. A heartbeat later, the entire altar was engulfed in cerulean fire.
At first, it was cold.
Then it wasn’t.
The flame kissed his skin, but it wasn’t pain of the flesh that made Jinx scream—it was deeper, crueler, as though his soul were being unraveled thread by thread. His blood boiled with a silent shriek, sorcery hemorrhaging from his veins like steam from a cracked kettle. His third eye fluttered open wildly, searching for time’s thread—then closed forever.
The world didn’t go dark. It went absent. Like something vast and divine had turned its face away.
His third eye turned grey. Dead. Blinded. Forever.
The Sentinels watched in helpless horror. Halted in their struggle. None spoke.
Nualia stood unmoving, absorbing the spectacle of Jinx’s torment with silent satisfaction.
“Rabie,” she said without turning, voice low and deliberate, “did you burn the bodies of your murder victims?”
A cruel smile curved across her lips as she looked down at the Gnome. “You should have.”
She raised her hand again, fingers poised to snap.
“Now for the flesh.”

Caw!

Thwip.

Thunk.

Nualia screamed. An arrow jutted from her exposed back. She whirled around, rage blazing in her eyes.
Hovering above the temple floor, Ghurab burst into view—wreathed in a grotesque halo of writhing maggots, wings spread wide like a herald of plague and vengeance. Behind him, framed in the massive temple doors, stood a tall elven huntress, her bow already nocked again.
Two squirrels sat like silent sentinels on her shoulders.
Shalelu never spoke unless the wind demanded it. She simply aimed again.
And then—Belor Hemlock stormed in, sword drawn, leading a wave of guards from Sandpoint and Magnimar, shields raised and voices shouting the call to justice.
Ripnugget and one of his lackeys dropped their hold on Jinx, scrambling for their weapons. The Yeth Hound growled low in its throat, teeth bared. One Goblin commando remained by the prisoners, guarding Rabie and the others, while the rest turned to face the oncoming threat. Nualia stood like a flame-wreathed idol—radiating hatred.
Sheriff Hemlock charged into the chaos, his eyes locking on the altar where Jinx writhed in blue flame. It was like Chopper’s Night all over again—corpses, fire, and blasphemy. A chill ran down his arm as he lashed out with his sword at the nearest Goblin. But the blow was sloppy, and the Goblin parried with its wicked horse chopper, screeching with glee.
Nualia snarled, pushing through the pain of her wounds. Fury at the interrupted ritual burned hotter than the arrow still lodged in her back. She marched past Cletus, eyes locked on Hemlock.
“You’ll burn too, Belor,” she spat.
But a flicker of confusion overtook her expression as her hand closed around empty air—her weapon was gone. She faltered for a moment. It cost her.
The goblins surged forward, screeching war cries—but Hemlock had regained his footing. He planted his heels and drove his blade clean through the first Goblin in his path.
Meanwhile, the flames on the altar shifted—changing hue. Blue deepened into crimson red, and the heat intensified. Jinx's cloak caught fire, crackling at the edges. He thrashed, twisting toward the edge of the altar. With a desperate heave, he rolled off, landing with a brutal thud on the stone floor.
He looked up at the statue looming over the altar, its expression unmoved. Something in Jinx's world had changed—like a lens had shattered. No glimpses of the past or future now. Only the present. The singed ropes were brittle. He broke free. But he wasn’t safe.
To his left, Ripnugget advanced atop his giant gecko. To his right, a Goblin commando raised his weapon.
Jinx darted past the commando—dodging just as Ripnugget’s blade crashed down. It missed Jinx but cracked the marble altar with terrifying force.
“That’s my favorite harrow reader you’re trying to burn there, bitch!” a guard from Magnimar shouted. Crossbow bolts flew past Jinx, clattering against pillars and stone.
“For Sandpoint!” another guard cried. He dashed forward, tossing aside his bow to draw a dagger. Quick as a fox, he stabbed the Goblin poised to silence Rabie. As the Goblin slumped, dead, he turned to Hemlock.
“Do I get a promotion now, Sheriff?!”
But Hemlock didn’t answer—he was bearing down on Nualia. Behind him, Shalelu loosed arrows in rapid-fire rhythm. The first struck Nualia high in the thigh, the second tore past her shoulder, drawing a hiss of rage.
“Sheriff, move!” a sentry from Magnimar shouted, taking aim. Her bolt hit true, sinking into Nualia’s side. The aasimar reeled.
A Goblin, seeing the tide shift, scrambled behind a pillar for cover. He drew his bow and scanned for a vulnerable target.
Rabie, still gagged, watched Ripnugget bolt past in pursuit of Jinx. The ring… it called to him. But he was bound and gagged. He heard the gurgling death cry of his guard behind him—stabbed in the back. He twisted, staggering toward the source of the flapping wings above—Ghurab.
Jinx had nearly escaped—but the Yeth Hound lunged from the rising flames like a demon reborn. It collided with the Gnome, sending him crashing to the floor. Its jaws sank into Jinx’s neck and shoulder. His scream was short. Darkness claimed him.
Cletus froze. The fight, the fire, the choices—all colliding in a single moment. His cover was still intact. He could stay hidden. But Jinx was dying. And this… this was the exact moment when Andromeda would have known what to do.
He made his choice.
He sprinted for the Gnome, muttering the incantation Andromeda had taught him. He pressed his hand to the wound.
“Come on, Jinx. You’ve survived this long. I’m not losing you now.”
Light bloomed under his palm. The gaping neck wound began to close. Slowly. But surely.
Vannrik pushed forward through the chaos Just ahead, a Sandpoint guard charged at Nualia, spear aimed for her ribs. The aasimar, bloodied but unshaken, sidestepped with cold precision and batted the spear aside, her eyes burning with scorn.
Before the guard could recover, two Goblin commandos darted in from the sides. Their horsechoppers hooked low and swept the legs from beneath both the spearman and his brother—the one who had driven the dagger into Rabie’s captor. The brothers hit the floor hard, weapons scattering.
The goblins were on them instantly, snarling and stabbing. Their crude blades plunged again and again. The guards cried out—pain sharp and sudden—still alive, but helpless beneath the flurry of blades.
Vannrik didn’t stop. He followed the blood trail Rabie had left, weaving past pillars. He reached him just as the Yeth Hound closed in, jaws frothing with gore.
Vannrik raised a palm, summoning the sea. A surge of briny water splashed over Rabie, washing away blood and pain. The jagged wound on his chest closed like a curtain drawn shut.
Rabie looked at him. Then past him. The Yeth Hound was almost on them.
And for the second time that day, an ocean of blood erupted across the Temple of Lamashtu.