04/07/2026: The Great Amber Hall

The shelves of the Great Library climb upward into darkness, tier after tier of arcane curiosities vanishing into the vaulted ceiling high above. The air smells of old paper and cold stone, and the silence has the particular quality of a place that has not been disturbed in a very long time. Every shelf is packed: glass jars of luminous powders, stoppered vials of liquid that shifts colour when the light hits it, rolled scrolls wedged between carved stone figures, clockwork mechanisms frozen mid-tick. Somewhere in here is the resurrection ritual they came for, to be used with the gem already in Ratrick’s satchel. Only Exethanter knows where it rests among these shelves — and Exethanter will not help them until the matter of Fekre is resolved.

Shifty is the first to reach up and pluck something from the nearest shelf. His small kobold hand closes around a small glass bottle, and he turns it over curiously. A handwritten label reads: Ink of True Witness. As a cleric, he recognises it at once — contracts and confessions written in this ink cannot deceive. The truth simply will not allow itself to be otherwise. The bottle looks to hold about twenty uses. Useful, if not immediately.

Nike gravitates toward a dull little metal box on the shelf above. She snags it, pleased to discover that it rattles cheerfully when she shakes it. She pries it open and finds inside six mismatched coat buttons. She tips one into her palm, examining it. Plain, slightly ugly. But something about them tugs at

her attention, and when she slips one between her fingers and simply thinks open, she feels a button on her sleeve pop free on its own. She grins despite herself. Buttons of Levity, sewn onto any garment, will fasten and unfasten at their wearer’s mere thought. Not exactly a weapon. But rather satisfying.

Soulfire investigates the shelves closely before selecting. She brings down a small, badly battered book with a cartoon cloud stamped on the cover, lightning bolt striking cheerfully from beneath it. It is a pocket almanac. It will predict tomorrow’s weather with complete and unerring accuracy — and absolutely nothing else, no matter how desperately one begs it. It cannot predict the day after tomorrow. It will not predict anything about crops, or battles, or the fates of kingdoms. Only tomorrow’s weather. Soulfire considers this, weighs it against the infinite tea bag she is also offered — a tea bag that makes any tea one desires, perfectly brewed, indefinitely — and decisively swaps.

Infinite tea, she announces with satisfaction, and tucks it away.

Biblo, meanwhile, has wandered into the adjacent treasure room, where enormous piles of loot glow dully in the low light. Coins loose and gleaming, stacked chests, crates, shields propped against the walls — and in the middle of pile five, slightly buried under a heap of silver, a carved wooden horse the size of a real one. He pulls it free, noticing a small green button set into the pommel of its saddle. He presses it.

The horse comes alive beneath his hands, whinnying and blinking in mild confusion at the stone ceiling of the Amber Temple. It is, Biblo reflects, a very large horse in a very enclosed space. He presses a yellow button on the back of the saddle, and the horse becomes wood again, still and silent. Then he notices there is also a red button on the top of the horse’s head. He presses that too — and the horse shrinks down to something he can fit in one palm, a perfect miniature, solid and warm in his hand. He turns it over, delighted.

He now owns a pocket horse.

Crystal retrieves a folded piece of pale linen from a nearby shelf — nearly translucent, embroidered with dozens of tiny silver eyes. A shroud. As a dragonborn with a passing familiarity with the darker applications of magic, she recognises it: laid over a body, this shroud renders the corpse invisible to anyone seeking to raise it as undead. It works only on the genuinely dead. She folds it carefully and tucks it away regardless.

Shifty, drawn to the third pile, opens a small carved wooden box to find ten pieces of jewellery nestled inside — rings and pendants and a brooch, each one worth somewhere between two and two hundred and fifty gold pieces. He turns them over in his hands, considers them, and then presents the box to Crystal, who accepts with a quiet thank you.

⚔

It is Nike who stops still in the middle of the treasure room.

There, in the midst of pile one — between eighteen thousand loose copper coins stamped with Strahd’s profile, a pile of plate mail parts, and nine battered shields — sits a sarcophagus. Stone, old, and carved with considerable care. Nike’s eyes travel up to the face worked into the lid.

It is unmistakably Ilya’s face.

The same small nose, the same slightly too-large eyes, the same set of the jaw. Nike stares at it long enough that Ratrick notices her noticing, and then he sees it too, and his hand goes tight on the strap of his satchel. It is a child-sized sarcophagus.

Nike lifts the lid. It is empty. She exhales.

“Ilya,” she calls out. “Why is your face on a coffin?”

Ilya trots over and considers the carved stone lid with the detached scientific curiosity of a twelve-year-old confronted with his own death mask. “I don’t know,” he says agreeably. “I’m not dead.”

Crystal puts the shroud over Ilya’s head. He becomes a very dirty-looking ghost. He seems mostly unbothered by this.

Ratrick removes the shroud from his son’s head and does not mention the sarcophagus again, though his jaw is tight for some time afterward.

⚔

Out in the Great Hall, Neferon is waiting. The demon is composed, as always — the lean, long-snouted figure of him casting a thin shadow across the stone floor. He gives a small, formal bow.

“I wish you well,” he says, and there is something in it that sounds, if not quite warm, then at least sincere. “If you require anything, I will be in my apartment.” He gestures toward the enormous iron statue that dominates the hall, easily three storeys tall, its great head tilted forward, its eyes fashioned as windows of thick, clouded glass. Neferon circles around the base of it, opens a small door set into the statue’s back, and ascends. His footsteps ring on the metal stairs, quick and light, climbing higher and higher until he reaches the top, and his silhouette appears behind the statue’s eyes — looking down at them, small and indistinct, but watching.

Zilk lingers near the statue a moment longer than the others. He looks up at it. The robes carved into the iron figure look familiar — long and plain, the same severe cut as the robes Exethanter favours. He considers this, tilting his head. The statue is not new. Whoever built it did so before the lich was a lich.

The thought settles into place with an unpleasant click.

He is still thinking about it when he becomes aware of the hair on his arms standing up.

⚔

It begins as a whisper — sourceless, threading through the vast cold air of the Great Hall as though it has been there all along, simply waiting to be noticed.

“Are you called Zilk?”

Zilk goes very still. “…Yes,” he says, after a moment. The voice is not outside himself.

The voice is within Zilk’s head. The bugbear begins to sweat.

“You are Zilk.” The voice is unhurried. Pleasant, almost, echoing between his ears like a melody he can’t quite place. “It is so very nice to finally meet you.”

“Where are you?” Zilk asks.

“I am close.” A pause. “I thought I would introduce myself. It has been so very, very long since I have seen anyone. Anyone other than my fellow inmates.” Something in the voice shifts — not grief, exactly, but the memory of it. “And I am very glad to say farewell to them.”

Zilk glances toward the direction the others went. The impulse to call for them is immediate and strong, and he acknowledges it, and does not act on it yet.

“I was going to ask a favour of you,” says the voice.

“What would that be?”

“I can see that you are something of a strategist.” There is no flattery in the observation — it lands as simple fact. “One who sees things before others do. You think several moves ahead. Because you are a rogue, are you not? Yes. It’s rare in a bugbear, Mr. Zilk. Genuinely rare. And it is wasted here, in this little country, running around chasing a vampire who has had centuries to prepare for exactly this kind of thing.”

Despite himself, Zilk’s mouth twists. “I agree. I don’t particularly want to be here.”

“I can help you with that.” The voice comes a little closer — not louder, just nearer, somehow. “You describe yourself as not too bright. I would disagree. But — I can fix that, if you feel strongly about it. I can make you the most intelligent person in all of Barovia. Your colleague — do you remember Novaril? He had a headband. He buried it in the earth. I know where it rests. It can be yours. The famed Headband of Intellect. You would be able to defeat him — Strahd. Strahd cannot outthink a mind like the one I could give you.”

Zilk is quiet for a moment. He weighs it the way he weighs most things — without sentiment, with a careful eye for the catch.

“I’m listening,” he says, which is not the same as agreeing. “What do you want?”

“Only a small thing. Take me from the Amber Temple. A short walk down the mountain to Vallaki, perhaps. On the way, we collect your diadem. All I need is for you to carry me a little way. When we reach the city, we part. You will be remembered as the bugbear who caused the fall of Strahd. You will leave this cursed country. You will never look back.”

“After you reveal yourself,” Zilk says, “I will take you outside this temple. Yes.” A beat. “I agree.”

“Ah.” The voice sounds genuinely pleased, the warmth of it almost surprising. “Thank you. So very, very much.”

She tells him to go east. He goes.

⚔

The voice finds Crystal in the corridor, just as she catches up to Zilk. It slides into her mind without warning — smooth as smoke, warm as a banked fire.

“You are Crystal, are you not?”

Crystal stops walking.

“I am Fekre. Very nice to meet you. Fire —” and here the voice turns thoughtful, almost admiring “— you speak it like a language, don’t you? It is not a tool for you. It is more of an expression. There is something in you that has always understood fire. Perhaps your dragon blood. Perhaps something more. But you know what fire does, don’t you? It doesn’t destroy.”

“It transforms,” Crystal says.

“Correct. Into ash, yes. Into heat. Into light.” A pause. “I also have a talent with fire. I can bring it to you — the full inheritance of your line, not the fraction you carry now. You would burn like a star, Crystal. You could be magnificent.”

“And you want something in return.”

“Only a small thing. A ride. Take me from this place, and I will leave you with the ability to use your fire any way you wish.”

Crystal considers her. “Why do you want to reach Vallaki so desperately?”

“I want out of the temple,” Fekre says, and there is no attempt at softening the answer. “I wish to find followers. That is how I gain my strength. I need worshippers — that is how all gods work. Surely you understand. Vallaki is the largest city in Barovia. The most followers. The most possibility.”

“And when you have your followers?”

“I will unseat Lathander. He cannot be in this plane — we are cut off. I can be the goddess of all of Barovia.”

There is a long silence.

Crystal does not answer.

⚔

The voice is in her head before she realises it has arrived.

“You don’t trust any of this, do you.” It is not a question. “Good girl. You shouldn’t. But you’re listening — which means some part of you is curious, and I respect curiosity.”

Nike says nothing.

“You are looking for something. Not something you can hold, but something that’s missing. You carry the kind of anger that comes from being overlooked. From being underestimated. From showing people who you are and watching them look right past you.”

The voice is unhurried, almost gentle. “I can help you be seen. Really seen. Not just among these companions — though that would be a start — but by everyone in Vallaki. The kind of presence that takes control of a room the moment you enter it. The kind of person the Barovians will remember for the rest of their lives. No more being the one who gets looked past. No more being invisible, unless you choose to be.”

Nike is very still.

“Of course,” Fekre continues, quieter now, “there is one who has seen you. Isn’t there. The one who looked at you and knew who you were in a way no one else has.”

A pause.

“That frightens you, doesn’t it.”

Nike’s expression doesn’t change. But something behind her eyes does.

“I won’t say his name,” Fekre says. “I don’t need to. We both know whom I speak of. And if you want to understand it — truly understand it — before he decides to punish you for your transgressions, I can protect you. Ride out of the Amber Temple, down the mountain to Vallaki. And there, you can claim the seat of power. Defeat the Burgomaster. The city can be yours.”

Nike contemplates this in silence for a long moment.

No response comes. Only contemplation, still and private, as the amber light hums around her.

⚔

“How could you say those things of me?” The voice enters Biblo’s head with an offended air, as if they are already mid-conversation. “You hurt my feelings.”

Biblo blinks. “I — what?”

“You hit things,” Fekre continues, as though she hasn’t heard him. “Things break. You’ve always been good at that. Fast, furious, completely committed. And there’s joy in it, isn’t there? No doubt. That moment when the decision is already made and you’re already moving.”

“Why are you in my head?” Biblo demands.

“Oh, just visiting,” she says pleasantly. “Just visiting. It’s rather lonely in here. But I can help you with that. Haven’t there been times when you acted impulsively and then regretted it? After the dust settled? After something had broken that you hadn’t meant to break?”

“Maybe,” Biblo allows. “Regretted — not so much.”

“Mmm. I don’t believe that you have no regrets at all.” Her voice is kind, which is worse. “How would you like to be right every single time? No second-guessing. I can give you certainty. Join forces with me. You would never have to doubt yourself again.”

Biblo goes quiet.

“You’re talking about being a permanent part of my decision-making,” he says carefully.

“Oh, not permanent. Not at all. I would teach you how to do this, and then I would leave. You would never make another mistake. I could help you with that.”

“Look,” Biblo says, after a moment. “I don’t need to be perfect. I’m happy with who I am.”

“Hmm,” says Fekre. “I see. Well. You keep saying that. That’s fine.”

“Stop trying to guilt me,” Biblo says.

She does not, immediately, stop.

⚔

“Ratrick.” The voice is warm, even respectful. “You are called Ratrick, are you not? A fine name for a ratling. You’ve been running since you came to Barovia. Running toward things, I think, rather than away — which makes you unusual.”

Ratrick’s hand drifts toward the strap of his satchel. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do.” A pause. “You wish for the people around you to be safe. Say, for instance — the boy. Ilya.”

Ratrick says nothing.

“You carry him like a son,” Fekre says quietly. “He fills your heart. You love this boy.”

“…I would say that I do,” Ratrick admits. “Why do you ask?”

“I can guarantee — not wish, not hope, but guarantee — that I can make Ilya untouchable.” Her voice is very soft now. “Strahd will never find him. The mists will never take him. Your boy will live. He will grow old. He will die in his own bed, at the end of a long and fruitful life. All I ask is your service. A simple ride from this temple, Ratrick. Bring me to Vallaki. And when the time comes, you and I will part.”

Ratrick turns to Ilya, who has been following quietly at his shoulder.

“Ilya,” he says.

“Yes, Papa.”

“I’ve dealt with a lot of tricksters in my time.” He thinks about it, choosing his words with the care of someone who understands the weight of them. “And I’ve learned — this seems like a very good deal. But it’s your life we’re talking about. I’m not sure I should leave that one up to me.”

Ilya looks at him — steady, patient, entirely trusting. “I’m with you, Papa. I have a life I’m very happy with. And you’ve been keeping me safe.”

Ratrick is quiet for a long moment.

“If Ilya’s agreeable,” he says, at last, “then so am I.”

⚔

Fekre draws herself up before Soulfire — and she is tall, easily eight feet, her closed eyes tilted downward, her ruined face angled in that particular direction that suggests she does not need eyes to see. The wire crown presses into her pale hair, its thorns drawing thin lines of dried blood across her brow. She looks wan, bloodied, the purple shadows beneath her sealed eyes so deep they are nearly bruised. But her voice is strong and clear.

“You,” she says. “Soulfire. You are the most interesting one here. Because you are the only one who knows what I truly am. You have met things like me before.”

“I have,” Soulfire says.

“You are a thing like me.” It is not an accusation. “At least — in the way others see us. You’ve joined groups before, and now you’ve joined these people. You are not sure yet if they trust you, or that you trust them. But you’re used to that.”

Soulfire says nothing.

“I won’t lie to you with a pretty story,” Fekre says. “You are too much like me to fall for that. Instead, I will offer you the only thing a creature like you actually needs. You need freedom. Real freedom — not just being permitted to walk beside them, not just being tolerated, but respected. Carried. The kind of freedom where you can be yourself without apology. Where there is no Van Richten standing at your shoulder.” A pause. “What kind of freedom is it, when you cannot be yourself?”

Soulfire considers her. “That’s true,” she says, quietly. “But I can’t imagine I’d be myself if I was helping you.”

“No, not for long. Just a short time. A little help, and then — we say ta-ta. Possibly forever. All I need is for you to help me leave the temple.” The voice softens. “Think about it. We could be great together.”

Soulfire’s mouth curves, very slightly.

“I’m a demon,” she says. “I’m the one who gives out contracts. If this is what you’re trying to do — sell me something with a side effect — I’m not interested.”

“Oh, not sell,” Fekre says immediately. “Of course not sell. Just — trade.”

“Trading,” Soulfire says, “can be another word for bargain.”

“A bargain,” Fekre agrees, warm and unhurried.

The amber light hums between them.

The party stands before the goddess, patient in her tattered gown, eyes still closed, the crown of thorns pressing quietly into pale hair. The ritual waits on these very shelves — but only Exethanter knows where it rests among the countless tiers of arcane clutter, and Exethanter will not help them until the matter of Fekre is resolved.

She does not wish to be returned to her amber prison.

And somewhere in the lining of this moment, several very interesting offers have been made.

Now, they must decide what to do about all of it.