Prototype's Gate

She had endured too much, bled too much, fought too hard to be broken now.

With a growl, Lae’zel focused her mind, channeling her will. A cloud of ethereal daggers materialized around her, their sharp edges gleaming with deadly intent. With a flick of her wrist, she sent them flying toward the nightmare, each blade a manifestation of her refusal to yield, her defiance against Vlaakith’s twisted dominion.

But Vlaakith only smirked, a cold, cruel expression that sent a chill down Lae’zel’s spine. The queen took a step forward, and as she did, Lae’zel felt a sudden shift—an unnatural tremor in the air. The daggers, so precise and deadly, began to waver in midair, trembling as if the very fabric of her will was being unraveled.

“No...” Lae’zel whispered, her heart pounding as she struggled to hold onto control. She could feel it slipping—the power she had summoned faltering. The daggers veered off course, one by one, until they flew past Vlaakith, missing their mark entirely. Her strike, her power—it had failed.

Vlaakith’s smirk deepened, her eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. “You cannot defeat me,” she said, her voice low and cold, like the grave. “You are not strong enough. You never were. Hshar'lak .”

Lae'zel's chest heaved as the words cut through her like a poisoned blade, each syllable from Vlaakith's mouth sinking into her bones. The githyanki warrior had faced countless foes, seen death up close many times—but none hurt the most like that word. Hshar'lak, the word echoed in her mind like the toll of a bell marking her failure. Traitor .

She felt the ground beneath her shift, her knees threatening to buckle. Her fingers trembled around the hilt of her sword. Lae'zel felt the terrifying grip of doubt coil around her heart. Was this what she had become? A discarded soldier? A shadow of what she once was?

The fake Lae'zel surged forward, her sunken eyes filled with cold malice, sensing the weakness that flickered within the real Lae'zel like a dying ember. She raised her blade high, the edges gleaming with dark intent. Lae'zel, paralyzed by the nightmare’s hold, could only watch as the weapon came down.

The strike hit her shoulder with a sickening thud, sending her reeling back. She bit down on her lip to stifle the cry of pain, but the damage wasn't physical. It was the weight of Vlaakith's gaze on her, the sting of her words sinking deeper, burrowing into her psyche. Traitor...failure...weak. The pain was not from the wound, but from the realization creeping into her mind that maybe—just maybe—Vlaakith was right.

Each strike from the fake came faster now, like a relentless storm, her blade cutting shallow gashes across Lae'zel's skin. Blood welled up from each wound, but it was the terror that truly drained her. Every clash of steel chipped away at her strength, her fire dimming with every blow. She raised her sword in a desperate attempt to parry, but her arms felt leaden, her body no longer responding to her will.

“Hshar'lak.” Vlaakith's voice rang out again, colder this time. Sharper.

Lae'zel’s sword slipped from her grasp, the flaming blade extinguished before it even hit the ground. She watched, powerless, as her weapon flew from her hand, clattering against the ground with a hollow, final sound. Her heart thundered in her chest, the world tilting as she realized—she was defenseless.

The fake Lae'zel didn't hesitate. With eerie precision, she raised her sword and brought it down again and again, cutting into Lae'zel's skin. The pain was sharp, but the mental wounds were far deeper. Each strike wasn’t just a blow to her body; it was an attack on her spirit, eroding her sense of self with ruthless efficiency. 'I am broken', she thought. 'I am nothing.'

Vlaakith's cold, gleaming eyes watched the scene unfold, her lips curling into a cruel smile. The smile of someone who knew they had won. She stepped forward, her shadow looming over Lae'zel like a specter of her failures.

Lae’zel’s muscles tensed as Vlaakith’s cold fingers gripped her chin, the queen’s smirk like a dark omen. Lae’zel could feel every crack in her mind widening, her thoughts spiraling into a vortex of terror. Each shallow breath was harder to take as Vlaakith’s mocking gaze pierced her very soul. The fake Lae'zel circled her like a predator, and the cuts on her body—though shallow—burned like open wounds on her pride. The mental anguish was excruciating. She was a warrior, yet here she was, kneeling, powerless.

The nightmare was perfect, orchestrated to break her. It knew how to twist her mind.

“Hshar'lak,” Vlaakith whispered in her ear again, that word of condemnation stinging like venom.

The word shattered the last fragments of her resolve. She wasn’t githyanki warrior; she was a failed soldier, a traitor, and a puppet—a tool to be discarded.

Her breath trembled, and for a split second, she considered succumbing to the darkness, letting it consume her. But then, through the crushing despair, a memory surfaced. Alex—standing in the face of his own nightmare, unbowed, driven by a rage that defied the horror before him. And then another memory, one that stabbed through her like a dagger: she had tried to killed him. In her failure, in her blind obedience to Vlaakith, she had tried to slain the one person who had dared defy everything to show her the truth.

Her own heartbeat sounded like a drum in her ears, drowning out the nightmare. The moment she cut Alex's head flashed through her mind, seared into her soul. Then, that last vision, when Alex had unlocked her psionic potential, a vision of a weapon that could slice through the heavens.

Something within her ignited, like a flame rekindled from the dying embers of her rage. The ashes of her despair burned away, and in their place, a storm of fury took root.

“No,” Lae’zel muttered, barely more than a breath. The word crawled from deep within her, like a roar muffled by chains. “No,” she repeated, louder this time, each syllable shaking off the weight of doubt.

The psionic energy inside her, surged forth like a tidal wave, cracking the restraints that bound her mind. 'I will not kneel.'

Her nostrils flared as she gritted her teeth, her eyes flashing with the fire of a warrior who refused to be broken. The ground beneath her trembled, and from her trembling hands, psionic energy began to gather. It formed into something tangible, something more real than the nightmare around her—a blade. A blade that thrummed with power, a glowing sword of pure, concentrated psionic force, the very manifestation of her will.

Lae’zel staggered to her feet, blood dripping from her nose and ears, her body protesting the surge of energy. But she didn’t care. She raised the psionic blade high, its weight solid and heavy in her hands, yet it felt like it was born from her very soul.

“I am no failure!” she roared, her voice booming with a ferocity that echoed through the nightmare, a shockwave of defiance reverberating through the twisted reality.

The fake Lae’zel lunged again, but this time, Lae’zel was ready. With a roar, she swung her psionic blade with all her might. It met the fake’s weapon with a deafening clash, sending sparks of psychic energy crackling through the air. But this time, the fake stumbled. This time, Lae’zel’s blade didn’t falter.

Step by step, she pushed forward, her body screaming in agony, but her mind was sharper than ever. The fake Lae'zel’s strikes grew weaker as Lae'zel’s will strengthened, each swing of her blade carving through the fear that had once paralyzed her. The fake was slowing, its form flickering as if it couldn’t withstand the force of her will any longer.

Vlaakith sneered, taking another step forward, towering over her. “You will always be beneath me,” the queen hissed, her voice a harsh whisper that cut into Lae'zel like a blade.

But Lae’zel met her gaze, her own eyes blazing with unrelenting determination. “I will never bow to you,” she spat, her voice steady now, filled with raw, unshakable conviction.

With a surge of strength, Lae’zel swung her sword, the blade singing through the air as it connected with Vlaakith’s form. The impact sent a shockwave through the nightmare, and for a moment, Vlaakith’s smirk faltered. The queen staggered, her form flickering, like a shadow threatened by light.

“I forge my own path,” Lae’zel snarled, stepping forward, her sword raised again. “I am not yours to control.”

With each swing of her blade, Lae’zel shattered the illusions of weakness, the fear that had gripped her heart. Vlaakith’s figure wavered, growing more distorted, less substantial with every blow. Lae’zel’s strikes were not just physical—they were a declaration. A refusal to be defined by her past, by her failures, or by the chains Vlaakith sought to bind her with.

“You will never own me!” Lae’zel roared one last time, and with a final, powerful strike, her sword cleaved through Vlaakith’s form.

The nightmare shattered, dissolving into nothingness. The image of her defeated self crumbled away, vanishing like smoke on the wind. All that was left was Lae’zel, standing tall, her sword gleaming in the fading light of the nightmare’s destruction.

She breathed heavily, her heart still pounding, but her mind was clear. She had faced her greatest fear and won. She had not bowed, had not broken. Lae’zel had claimed her strength—and now, more than ever, she knew it was hers alone.

She would never kneel again.

_________________________

Wyll’s grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles white, his entire body trembling with the weight of guilt, failure, and shame. The overwhelming burden of all the lives he couldn't save, the promises he couldn't keep, bore down on him with crushing force. He had spent his life trying to do right, trying to protect those he loved, but here was the grim truth, staring him down, mocking every choice he had made.

His father's dead eyes held him captive, unblinking, unseeing. And yet, they seemed to say everything: disappointment, betrayal, finality.

Wyll roared, ready to strike, to end this twisted mockery of reality. But just as his blade began to swing, Mizora’s laughter rose again, cold and sharp like broken glass, and with a sickening lurch, she tossed the head toward him.

Wyll knew—he knew—that touching it would be a mistake, a trap. But his body moved on instinct, and his hands reached out, grasping the head as it tumbled through the air. The second his fingers made contact, the head shifted, contorting grotesquely. His father’s face dissolved, the features twisting and morphing until Wyll was left holding the bloodied, rotting visage of Counselor Florrick.

Her once-proud, commanding presence had been replaced by something nightmarish. Her hair, normally sleek and neat, was a tangled, filthy mess, matted with dirt and caked with dried blood. Her skin, once rich and vibrant, had turned sickly pale, the dark hue drained away by death’s touch, leaving only a rotting, decaying shell. Her lips, now a cold, lifeless grey, parted slowly, revealing broken, jagged teeth, and worst of all—her eyes. Bloodshot and wide, they moved, locking onto Wyll with a gaze filled with rage, pain, and betrayal.

“Why did you let me die, Wyll?!” the head screeched, the voice clawing at his mind like nails dragging down his sanity.

A scream tore from Wyll’s throat as pure terror coursed through his veins, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might tear free from his chest. In a panic, he threw the head to the side, the thud of its landing echoing unnervingly through the abyss.

“I didn’t… I couldn’t…” Wyll’s voice broke, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the crushing weight of guilt suffocated him. “I tried—I tried—I would have saved you if I could…”

But his words felt hollow, empty, as if the very fabric of the nightmare mocked him for even daring to speak them. His heart wavered, his resolve crumbling as terror took hold of his mind, spreading like poison.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. The head, grotesque and lifeless moments before, was now twitching. From the stump of its neck, thin, spindly spider legs began to emerge, twisting and snapping as they extended from the rotting flesh. It crawled toward him, each click of its legs against the ground a sickening sound that made his skin crawl.

“I trusted you, Wyll,” the head rasped, the voice low and filled with the weight of every life he had failed to save. Each word was like a nail driven deeper into his soul, his breath faltering, his vision swimming.

He stumbled back, his sword suddenly feeling impossibly heavy in his grip, his mind reeling, spiraling out of control. The nightmare was unrelenting, the rotting head crawling closer, its spider legs scraping across the ground as it neared him, accusing eyes never leaving his.

The head’s voice was no longer just in his ears—it was in his mind, scraping at the walls of his consciousness, clawing at his sanity. “You let me die. You were too weak, too slow… you failed us all.”

The words echoed endlessly, each one more damning than the last, each one chipping away at what little resolve Wyll had left. His thoughts grew hazy, his sense of self slipping away under the weight of the nightmare’s accusations. His father’s blank eyes. Florrick’s decaying face. The countless others he had failed. The guilt was overwhelming, suffocating, tearing him apart from the inside.

His vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges. His heart pounded painfully, his breath shallow, and for a moment—just a moment—he thought maybe it was true. Maybe he was nothing. Maybe he had always been too weak to make a difference.

But then, through the suffocating darkness, a flicker of light. A memory. His friends, his lover , Karlach. They hadn’t abandoned him, hadn’t given up on him. They were still fighting. They still believed in him. They still needed him.

And Wyll was not going to let them down.

With a growl of defiance, Wyll tightened his grip on his infernal rapier, planting his feet firmly on the ground. “No more,” he muttered, voice shaky but growing stronger. “I won’t let you break me.”

Wyll’s sword cut through the rotting head, but instead of relief, a new horror erupted. The decapitated head split apart like a grotesque flower, spewing more of the same—dozens of spider-like heads, grotesque hybrids of his father and Florrick, crawling from the wound. Their tiny legs skittered across the ground, swarming toward him with terrifying speed. His heart hammered in his chest as he backed away, but the nightmare was relentless.

Before he could react, the spider-heads were on him, their cold, dead eyes locking with his as they latched onto his arms, legs, and chest. Wyll gasped, horror gripping his body as the nightmarish swarm overtook him, their grotesque limbs crawling over his skin. They skittered along his spine, down his arms, wrapping around his neck, suffocating him. Each one hissed vile accusations, voices blending together in a cacophony of torment.

"You failed us," one head rasped.

"You are weak," another spat, its cold, decayed lips brushing against his ear.

Wyll tried to swing his sword again, desperate to clear them away, but his arms felt like lead, heavy and sluggish. Every ounce of his strength was being drained by the unrelenting swarm, his mind buckling under the weight of the guilt they carried. Failure...worthless...just a puppet. The words pounded in his skull, each one a dagger, each one a truth he had feared for so long.

His vision began to blur as he struggled against the mass of writhing heads, but then he saw her—Mizora, walking toward him with that insidious smile curving her lips. Her wicked eyes gleamed with sadistic delight as she approached, her form glowing against the darkness. She stopped just centimeters away from him, towering over him as he collapsed to his knees, powerless.

“Perhaps,” she purred, her voice soft but laced with venom, “we can arrange a new deal, Wyll. One that might... spare you this torment.”

She tilted her head slightly, her smile widening as she watched him suffer, watched him drown in the living nightmare she had crafted. Her words were like a lifeline, twisted and false, but tempting nonetheless.

Wyll opened his mouth to speak, but that was when he made his fatal mistake.

In an instant, the spider-heads surged forward, taking advantage of his moment of vulnerability. They poured into his open mouth, their writhing bodies forcing their way down his throat. He gagged, his hands clawing at his own neck, but it was too late—the swarm was inside him, crawling, burrowing deep within his chest. He could feel them squirming in his lungs, their legs scraping against his insides. The sensation was unbearable, like thousands of tiny knives carving him from the inside out.

His vision tunneled, spots of darkness blooming in his eyes as the heads flooded his senses. Mizora’s face, smug and untouched, loomed over him, her laughter echoing in his ears, mixing with the choking, suffocating sounds of the heads devouring him from within.

Terror overwhelmed him. The light faded. His mind slipped into a void as he lost all sense of self.

Before the rapier disappeared ,with pulsed, it activated the spell inscribed in it .

____________________________

Shar lifted a slender finger, pointing at Shadowheart, her grin widening. “You will never escape me.”

Out of the shadows came the twisted version of herself, a false Shadowheart, wielding the same dark spear that once belonged to her. She marched forward, her eyes gleaming with malice, her presence radiating the very thing Shadowheart feared the most: a return to the darkness, to a life without things that made her who she was .

Shadowheart’s legs felt like they would buckle beneath her, but then, a soft hum filled the air behind her. The spear—her spear—the one that once belonged to Shar but had been transformed by Selûne’s grace, shimmered faintly like moonlight. The weapon called to her, though she had hesitated using it until now. Shadowheart hadn’t felt ready to serve another god, not after everything she had been through, not after breaking free from Shar's control.

But now… now the choice felt like salvation.

Her trembling hand reached out, gripping the spear tightly. The moment her fingers wrapped around it, a wave of warmth surged through her. The icy terror that had gripped her heart began to loosen, her mind clearing as the spear’s power washed over her, filling her with strength she hadn’t realized she still had.

The false Shadowheart was nearly upon her, raising her dark spear to strike, but Shadowheart was ready. She raised her spear just in time, blocking the blow with a sharp clang. The two weapons met, the clash echoing through the withered forest. Shadowheart gritted her teeth, pushing back with all her might, the spear’s light giving her the power she needed to stand firm.

“Do you think my sister’s pitiful gift can stop me?” Shar’s voice rang out, mocking and cruel. “I will take everything from you as I always planned. You were never more than a tool.”

But Shadowheart, for the first time, did not cower. She gripped the spear tighter, the light of Selûne burning brighter in her hand. “I won’t let you take anything more from me,” she growled, pushing the false Shadowheart back with newfound strength.

The spear hummed with life in her grip, as if responding to her determination. Without hesitation, she pointed it at the fake Shadowheart, channeling all her fear, all her doubt, into one final, powerful attack. A radiant beam of moonlight shot from the spear, piercing through the darkness, obliterating everything in its path.

The false Shadowheart disintegrated before her, the dark figure dissolving into nothingness, reduced to ash by the overwhelming light. But the victory was short-lived. She hadn’t hit Shar. The goddess of darkness still stood, grinning from the shadows, her cold gaze unshaken.

“Petty tricks,” Shar hissed, her voice dripping with contempt. With a lazy wave of her hand, the black pools around them bubbled and churned, and the false Shadowheart began to reform, rising once more from the void. “You think you can destroy what I created so easily? Your power is nothing compared to mine.”

Shadowheart’s heart sank, terror creeping back into her veins. She had just used her strongest attack, and yet Shar stood untouched, her nightmare puppet returning, unbroken. Despair began to coil around her again, suffocating her will.

But then, a memory stirred within her, a flicker of hope. In her hand appeared the psionic mirror, the fractured object she had created with Alex help. Its surface was cracked, fragmented, yet it held the power to make things whole. 'What would it do to a nightmare?'

Shadowheart’s hand trembled as she lifted the mirror, her breath quickening as she angled it toward the false version of herself, which was now rushing forward, ready to strike again.

“Hope this works,” she muttered under her breath, her voice barely a whisper.

As the mirror caught the false Shadowheart’s reflection, something strange happened. The twisted figure froze mid-step, its dark, hollow eyes widening in confusion. The mirror’s psionic magic surged, drawing in the nightmare’s essence, warping and shifting it. The mirror was not just about fixing—it was about merging, unifying the broken parts of a whole.

The fake Shadowheart let out a horrible, guttural scream, as if it was being torn apart from the inside. Its form began to twist and distort, the blackness unraveling at the seams. The nightmare didn’t just dissolve—it collapsed inward, consumed by the mirror’s power, pulled into itself until nothing remained but silence.

Shadowheart’s chest heaved as she lowered the mirror, her heart pounding wildly. She turned toward Shar, who now stood at a distance, her grin fading.

“You are stronger than I anticipated,” Shar murmured, her voice barely a whisper . “But this is far from over.”

"Shut up!" Shadowheart screamed, her voice hoarse, filled with raw emotion—rage, pain, defiance. She raised the mirror high, its jagged edges shimmering with psionic energy, like shards of a broken soul stitched together. As she angled it towards Shar, the glass rippled, the cracks sparking to life with pulsing energy.

The mirror hummed louder, responding to her will, as if it understood her desire—her desperate need to sever this tie once and for all. The light from the mirror bathed the space in an ethereal glow, casting long shadows that warped and twisted under its power.

Shar’s eyes, those cold, merciless pits of darkness, flickered with something unfamiliar: hesitation.

"You think you can bind me with your broken reflection?" Shar hissed, her voice still laced with venom, though less certain now. The goddess stepped back, the darkness around her recoiling slightly from the mirror’s light. "I made you, child. You are nothing without me."

But Shadowheart didn’t falter. The psionic energy swirled faster, the power within the mirror building, fueled by her rage and the memories of every choice she had made to defy Shar’s control. The cracks in the mirror seemed to pulse with her heartbeat, syncing with her resolve.

Blood started to drip from her nose.

“I am everything despite you!” Shadowheart roared, her voice breaking with emotion as she poured all her hurt and fury into the mirror. She had broken free from the life Shar had forced upon her. She had made her own path, fought alongside her friends, and she will chose her own purpose.

She angled the mirror directly at Shar, unleashing its full power. The psionic energy surged forward like a tidal wave, a beam of shimmering light shooting from the fractured surface and crashing into Shar’s form.

The goddess of darkness recoiled, her shadowy figure flickering violently as the light tore through her. For the first time, Shar screamed—a high, piercing wail that reverberated through the forest, echoing off every corner . Her once impenetrable form began to warp and crack, her edges unraveling , melting like candled wax.

Shadowheart didn’t stop. She held the mirror steady, the power pouring from it relentless, stripping away Shar’s presence inch by inch.

“I am not yours,” Shadowheart said, her voice softer now, but no less fierce. “I never was.”

Shar’s form flickered again, her once-powerful presence shrinking, consumed by the light. Her cold, calculating expression contorted in pain . But the mirror’s power was too much. The psionic energy surged again, and with one final burst of light, Shar shattered into a thousand fragments of darkness, her figure dissolving into nothingness.

The silence that followed was deafening. Shadowheart stood tall, the psionic mirror still glowing faintly in her hand, though the light had softened now, its purpose fulfilled.

Her chest heaved as she lowered the mirror, her entire body trembling from the intensity of what had just happened. The weight of it all—the manipulation, the torment, the feeling of being trapped in a destiny she never wanted—finally lifted.

But the victory felt raw, the wounds still fresh. She didn’t feel triumphant, not yet. There was no euphoria, only a quiet, heavy relief that washed over her like a slow tide. She had faced the darkest parts of herself and she had survived. And maybe, for now, that was enough.

Shadowheart looked down at the psionic mirror, its surface no longer fractured and broken but smooth, whole, reflecting the soft glow of moonlight. She traced a finger along its edge, a quiet sense of peace settling over her. For the first time in what felt like forever, she could see herself—truly see herself.

Not as Shar’s puppet. Not as a servant of darkness.

But as Shadowheart, free to walk her own path.

With a final, deep breath, she lowered the mirror.