ㅤㅤㅤTrinity had long since resigned herself to the undeniable fact that she was forever bound to Draven; she was eternally his, until death did them part. But even death would not free her. Were she to perish, he would resurrect her. Another number in his undead horde; however, she was special to him. In his twisted mind – ailed by a sickness that’s festered over centuries of undeath – Draven was convinced she was his darling Gisella come back to him. And Trinity understood all too well that he wouldn't release his beloved this time. Maybe he would bestow upon her the curse of consciousness, or he would lavish her with special treatment, as he always had. And perhaps, among those capable of such feelings, envy would simmer like it did among the clergy years ago. After all, she was his ‘favourite.’ They did not know ‘favourite’ was a way of saying ‘his most valued possession.’ In the lifetime and unlife that she has spent under his thumb, she learned that he regarded her not as a person, but as an object : a pretty thing to ogle, to push around and touch as he wanted. Being his ‘favourite’ did shield her from his wrath, or spare her from beatings; it didn’t grant her any more influence over the men she referred to as ‘brothers.’ He paid her objections no heed, much like he disregarded their attempts to curry favour through flattery.

ㅤㅤㅤFreedom only came with Draven’s death, his utter annihilation, his complete erasure from the realms. Killing a lich required destroying its phylactery that tethers its corporeal form to the Material Plane with it. Fail to do so and the lich will be reformed within a tenday. Draven was a clever one, having broken his phylactery into three shards that he then hid in the hard - to - reach corners of Faerûn.

ㅤㅤㅤOne fragment was with Trinity’s father, the exiled protégé of House Meliscient, Kiirion. He fled north, to the quadruplet peaks at the Spine of the World where the sky and snow became indistinguishable. The bitter chill and unforgiving terrain of the tundra stood in stark contrast to the temperate shores of Evermeet, yet Kiirion was prepared to adapt. Stories of dragons veiled as clouds and formidable barbarian tribes that lived along the Wall, deterred any pursuit of him, granting him uninterrupted solitude for the past one - hundred and twenty years.

ㅤㅤㅤAnother shard of the lich’s phylactery lay hidden within the blighted marshes of the Mere of Dead Men, concealed amidst the hoard of the dracolich Xylbesdi. It was Draven who orchestrated Xylbesdi’s transformation into undeath, only to later seize control of the dracolich and pilfer its own phylactery. Shielded from prying eyes by powerful illusions and safeguarded by intricate magical wards, the dracolich’s home is an impregnable fortress even seasoned adventurers cower from exploring.

ㅤㅤㅤWithin Trinity beats the third shard, powering her mechanical heart, the pulsating core that sustains her existence. Removing the fragment would bring the artificial organ to a standstill, so. . .

ㅤㅤㅤ“So, to slay Draven, you have to die?” Zakn’rae’s furrowed brow betrayed his troubled thoughts as deftly twirls an ornate dagger between his practised fingers. He angled the blade toward Trinity’s chest, its pointed tip hovering perilously close to where her heart beat with hesitant anticipation.

ㅤㅤㅤThe half - elf was never the type to hide the truth in pleasant falsehoods, answering the with a firm “Yes.” Her gaze funnels to the dagger’s honed edge, throat bobbing as she swallows the knot of unease that threatened to choke her, stifling her dread.

ㅤㅤㅤFace betraying no emotion, Zakn’rae offers a slow nod in reply, and wordlessly presses the dagger into Trinity’s hand, a silent agreement sealed between them in steel. Her slender digits tighten around the hilt and she observes her warped reflection in its polished metal.

ㅤㅤㅤOver the course of her travels alongside Zakn’rae and their companions – stalwart Loa, valiant Erik, and ever faithful Thallia – Trinity, like to a raven collecting shiny baubles, had gathered a trove of mementos : a white peppered feather plucked from Loa’s noble brow; a silver coin, minted in the kingdom Adelaide was meant to rule, a kingdom now darkened by a pall of uncertainty and upheaval; and a dried flower taken from the Aerwood Glade, its petals still faintly fragrant, tenderly preserved between the yellowed pages of her weathered journall. . . Several meaningless items that hold little sentimental value to the average person, but were to her tangible memories that, when arranged together, created a recollection of their time together.

ㅤㅤㅤIt’s been a little over a year since she first met them. To one for whom time holds no sway, such a span might seem infinitesimally brief; but, she lived more than one year than she had in one - hundred fifty years spent under Draven’s enthrallment. The closer they came to confronting Draven, the clearer the true essence of living became to her; life’s beauty lay not in its longevity, but in its intensity. Every laugh shared, every tear shed, every heartbeat counted – these were the currency of being. Trinity couldn't deny feeling disappointed by the modest sum she had amassed over her lifetime, especially considering how many others she had outlived. She, however, was grateful for whatever amount she had, whether it was one, a thousand, or even a million.

ㅤㅤㅤPart of her yearned for just a little more time, perhaps another year, to neatly tie up the loose ends she knew she would leave behind. Yet, such mercy was not granted. With the end looming ever closer, Trinity knew there would be words left unsaid, conversations unhad, and embraces left unfelt. She refused to burden her companions with any more sorrow than absolutely necessary. Some secrets, she resolved, would accompany her to the grave, all in the name of sparing them further pain. Sacrifices had to be made. If her death meant freeing the tormented souls, like her, ensnared by Draven’s cruelty and saving others from his malevolence, then she would meet death willingly. For she had grown to value their happiness above her own, ready to set aside her wants for the greater good.

ㅤㅤㅤThe floorboard protests with a soft creak under the pressure of her boot as she strides across the room, closing the distance between herself and Zakn’rae, who stands poised by the window, his gaze fixed upon the starry expanse above. Silvery eyes mirror the twinkling diamonds strewn across the night sky, slivers of moonlight filter through the emerald foliage, dabbling the forest floor with specks of muted ivory.

ㅤㅤㅤ“I have one request – a dying wish if you will,” though her tone is hard, it’s easy to tell her words are a poorly masked plea. “When I’m dead and buried, do not let me be remembered as a tragedy.”