RAVEN'S GAMBIT | Episode 49: The Pact Rejected
The chamber of spheres pulsed with tension as the two remaining efreeti—Zahur the Flame-Sworn and Rashoon of the Searing Grasp—stepped out of the mist-filled archway, just as the party emerged from the northern crawlspace.
Both sides froze.
Weapons were held tighter. Spells were readied silently. Eyes narrowed across the vast, echoing chamber, where painted beasts watched from stone.
"Well," Zahur rumbled, flame licking his shoulders. "It seems fate brings us together at last."
Sir Cedric stepped forward, shield raised, visor lowered. "Your kind has stalked us long enough."
Rashoon lifted a hand, not in flame but in parley. "Before more blood is spilled, hear our final offer."
"No," Sir Cedric said, but Zahur pressed on.
"The relics. Return the three taken from White Plume Mountain—Whelm, Wave, and Blackrazor. Their wielders must come with us. The rest of you will walk free and live."
A silence fell like a hammer.
Thog Skullsplitter’s fingers twitched on his greataxe. Theron Blackroot raised a brow. The spellcasters looked among each other. Lira stopped humming, letting the question settle.
Sir Cedric’s reply was steel:
"I SMITE THEE!"
He charged like a storm, divine energy engulfing his bastard sword. Thog bellowed and followed suit.
The efreeti reacted quickly—walls of roaring fire burst to life, cutting the battlefield in thirds. Lira sang a battle hymn, her voice slicing through the heat. Kaela Virell and Elric Duskwind hurled magic over and around the flames. Fire met frost, and lightning shattered rock.
Seren Willowmere attempted to leap a burning line to aid Sir Cedric—only to be engulfed in flame. She screamed and vanished into ash and light.
Elowyn sobbed, but there was no time to mourn.
Blackrazor began to pulse in Khopesh's dead hand, calling out for a new host. It wanted vengeance. It wanted to feed.
Theron Blackroot’s eyes locked on it from across the battlefield. Between his spells, he made a bold dash through a corridor of fire, burned and blistered by the time he reached the corpse of the fallen mummy. He picked up the obsidian blade.
The moment his hand closed around its hilt, Theron gasped.
Power flooded him.
Hunger. Glory. Purpose.
"Let’s kill something that bleeds," he growled with a grin—and Blackrazor laughed with him.
Theron turned and plunged the sword deep into Rashoon of the Searing Grasp, just as a spell left the efreeti's burning lips. The creature shuddered and exploded in a burst of flame and fury—dead.
Zahur roared in fury and desperation, now alone, bloodied, and outnumbered. With a final curse in Ignan and a glare of pure hate at Sir Cedric, he vanished in a swirl of hellfire—teleporting away before the killing blow could fall.
The silence that followed was broken only by the crackling of dissipating flames.
The battle was over—but not the consequences.
Theron stood, Blackrazor held high.
"Well," he said with a smirk, his body still scorched but his eyes alight, "I think we’re going to get along just fine."
Sir Cedric turned slowly. His eyes glowed with holy wrath. The paladin said nothing… but the sword’s evil was loud in his ears.
The others looked between them—unsure if their victory had gained them a powerful ally… or awakened a deadly new threat from within.