The torch gutters in Kael's weathered hand, painting shifting shadows across the crumbling grain store as you press for answers.

The blacksmith settles back on his haunches beside Theron's still form, his face gaunt in the flickering light. When he speaks, his voice carries the weight of a man who's witnessed things no mortal should see.

"The Perfectibles aren't human—not anymore." Kael's scarred fingers drum against the hilt of a short blade tucked beneath his belt. "Grolk's experiments began with good intentions. Replace lost limbs, heal the sick—that's how he lured volunteers from the refugee camps after the Purge. But the iron he used... it came from the Crags. Deep places where ancient forges still burned with something that wasn't fire."

He glances toward the ceiling where distant scraping sounds echo through stone. "The transformation takes three days. First, the iron seeds crawl through their veins like living metal. Victims feel stronger, younger. By day two, their eyes glaze over—pupils vanish like breath on cold glass. That's when they stop asking questions and start following orders."

Kael's jaw works as if chewing something bitter. "I've seen a man tear apart a stone wall with his bare hands before his heart stops beating. They feel no pain, no mercy. And they don't die easy—I've put a blade through one's skull and it kept crawling."

But it's when you mention the Eye that his knuckles whiten around the torch. "The Eye of Balor is older than this city, older than the elves who first named it. A sphere of volcanic glass, big as a man's head, etched with runes that shift when you look away. They say it shows truth—every truth you've hidden from yourself."

"Grolk believes he can rewrite the past," he continues, voice dropping to a whisper. "Every choice he regrets, every life he broke, every step that led him to this ruin... he thinks the Eye can unweave it all. But the stories—if you believe the old tales—say the Eye shows those truths as they should have been, not as you'd want them. It reveals the paths where you were braver, kinder, wiser. Where you died a hero instead of living as a monster."

The torch sputters, sending sparks dancing into darkness. "The deeper truth? Nobody who sought the Eye ever found what they wanted. They found who they could have been instead—and the weight of that knowledge broke them. Grolk's chasing a shadow that will devour him whole."

A cold wind sighs through unseen passageways. "Whatever he's planning, it involves the ancient vaults beneath Neverwinter's noble quarter. The old lords buried their failures in deep crypts—cursed heirlooms, forbidden texts, relics of a war that never officially happened. He's been hunting through those ruins for months, leaving his transformed slaves to patrol the districts like watch dogs with iron in their veins."

Kael's gaze meets yours, filled with desperate conviction. "If he finds the Eye, he won't just change his own history. He'll rewrite every life his choices have touched—including yours, mine, and every soul unlucky enough to call the Sword Coast home."

The grain store feels smaller now, the weight of ancient stone pressing closer as Kael's revelations sink in. Behind you, Theron's breathing hitches—a small, pained sound that reminds you how fragile survival has become.

"We need to move within the hour," Kael insists, checking his blade with practiced efficiency. "If Grolk's already searching the noble vaults, it's only a matter of time before he realizes what I know—that the Eye isn't there. It's deeper still, in the Underworks where the old river once flowed. Places even the lords feared to tread."

The distant scraping grows louder, accompanied now by what sounds like... chanting? Hollow voices echoing through stone, speaking words that make your teeth ache.

"What will you do?" Kael asks, eyes locked on the dark corridor beyond their makeshift sanctuary. "Stay and wait for Madam Zara's healing? Risk the deeper tunnels to cut him off? Or try to reach the surface and warn someone who might listen?"