Pact of the Veil

The moment the level-up shimmer faded, I opened the UI. After getting knocked around by skeletons and learning that dying meant staying dead, I needed something to beef me up for the next round. I’d been waiting for this.

[New Pact Boon Unlocked]

Pact of the Veil – Patron: Graz’zt

That was new. Very new. No other options, I guess I was locked in. I hovered over it, reading the description:

“You fight like the veil—sliding across bare skin, gently teasing, restraining. You don’t strike to kill—you strive to own, to linger, to leave them trembling with your mark long after you've passed.”

Once per dawn, you may bestow a unique curse upon a target through bare skin-to-skin contact.

Unlocked Curse:

Curse of Trembling Skin: The target’s senses become heightened, making them acutely responsive. Even the lightest contact may provoke intense sensation.

I leaned back and sighed.

"That’s it?"

No earth-shattering spells, no magic weapons, no summoned demons, no abyssal armor.

"A curse and a cooldown. Great."

A voice oozed into my mind, smug and silken.

“Do not mistake subtlety for weakness, little blade. My strength flows where it is earned, not given. Spread me—corrupt them—and I will make you the embodiment of desire, pleasure given form”

"You’re not very helpful right now, you know, I don't even HAVE a blade."

“You dare call me unhelpful? I offer you elegance instead of spectacle. You speak of sword and steel—I grant you the power to ruin the very soul.”

He had a point. Still, one curse a day wasn’t going to cut it. Not for what I had in mind. If I was going to survive here—and do more than just survive—I needed reach. I needed a strategy that went beyond whispers and headpats. Graz'zt influnce had to spread. Quicker. Wider. A single touch wouldn’t reshape a world, but if I could find a way to plant a seed of corruption... that was a start. One curse a day might be the limit now, but I was already thinking about what came next.

Think, Tav. Work smart.

A rustle in the brush snapped me back to reality.

A dark-skinned man in a sharp looking coat sprinted past our group, breath ragged.

"Goblins... coming! Needed at the wall!"

He didn’t stop. Just kept running.

Wyll.

Of course it was him. The self-appointed Blade of Frontiers or whatever theatrical title he was parading around. I recognized the type instantly—charming, heroic, the kind of warlock who’d rather pose with a flag than conspire in the dark. A warlock with a conscience. The worst kind. We are supposed to be clever, secretive, manipulators of power—not poster boys for pact safety.

This was my party, and I was in no rush to add another blade to the mix. Withers at least kept to himself and dropped excellent one-liners. Wyll? He’d probably interrupt one of my "tadpole slowing sessions" to give a speech about honor.

No thank you.

Nestled inside the canyon walls, the Druid Grove was a strange mix of ancient ruins and wild growth forest. Cracked stone and moss-bound roots. Wildflowers pushing up between weathered steps. Druids walked the paths with animals in tow—boars, squirrels, even a bear or two.

At the shallow caves near the outer rim, the tieflings had set up makeshift homes. Tents stitched from cloaks and banners. Children ran barefoot, giggling beside crude trinket stands. But the druids? They watched with eyes like stones. Cold. Measured. They didn’t appreciate refugees settling on sacred land, and it showed in every tight jaw and stiff bow.

At the center of the grove stood the stone circle. Broad, ancient, alive with faint pulses of nature magic. In its center, a raised platform held a single idol—carved from something that glowed with life. A quiet, steady heartbeat of the land.

The humans we helped earlier were already shouting at the tieflings by the gates, tensions rising fast. Arguments broke out about defenses, about leadership, about food. That would have to wait. I slipped past them with ease. I had my own troubles—I was severely underpowered, or at least underpowered compared to someone who wanted an edge in this whole adventure, I made a beeline past the market chatter, heading toward the clang of steel.

There, beside a scorched anvil and some half-melted tools, stood Dammon—a young tiefling blacksmith with an easy smile and soot-stained hands.

"Looking for gear, stranger?" he asked as I approached.

"Looking to not die," I replied.

He chuckled. "That’s most of us."

We talked briefly—he told me about the tiefling caravan, how they’d been scattered after an ambush on the road south of Baldur’s Gate. Most of them had fled with what little they could carry, hoping to find shelter anywhere that would take them. This grove wasn’t ideal, but it was hidden, defendable, and better than starving on the open road. His voice was steady, but the weight of his people was in every word—the burden of keeping them safe on land that barely tolerated their presence.

My eyes scanned through his meager inventory, for something—anything—that would help me survive just a little longer in combat. I nodded toward a shield with just a sliver of magic, hanging on his rack.

"Ahh yes, an old family heirloom," he said, lifting it with care. The metal was scarred but solid, etched with faint sigils that shimmered ever so slightly in the light. "This one has a knack for reading a blow before it lands. You won’t dodge every strike, but it’ll block more of them than you'd think."

The moment I took it in hand, I could feel its weight settle evenly across my arm—like it wanted to be used. A quiet pulse along its surface buzzed under my fingers, nothing flashy, just the kind of dependable magic that whispered survive this fight, then the next.

"This is perfect,"

I traded in all the rusted weapons we had scavenged from the skeleton crypt, barely scrounging together enough coin to keep us fed. But it was worth it. The Safeguard Shield wasn’t flashy—it didn’t heal, sing or whisper infernal secrets—but it was solid, dependable. The kind of shield that could turn a deathblow into a bruise. For someone like me, who’d rather scheme than swing, the shield was exactly what I needed.

Shadowheart stepped up beside me as I strapped it on.

"No weapon?" she asked.

I turned to her with the most earnest smile I could muster. "Why would I need one? I’ve got you."

She blinked, taken off guard by the sincerity in my voice. She bought it.

[Shadowheart: Approval +2]

She smiled faintly, then gave a quiet nod.

"You’re reckless," she said. "But I’ll protect you."

Lae’zel, from behind, snorted.

"And Lae’zel... I trust you to strike down anything that dares stand before us."

"Tch. So be it," she said, folding her arms—but I didn’t miss the small, begrudging smile pulling at the corner of her lips.

[Lae’zel: Approval +2]

It was a good day.

And it wasn’t over yet.