“Blaine!”

The hairs on my neck bristled with the shock of hearing a name so far removed from my mind. So foreign out of the mouth of this villain’s lips. Before, I only felt the blast of the heat on the edge of the precipice, the orange glow of lava igniting the metal of her plate armor, like she was already on fire.

And the feeling of my hand, wrapped around her neck as I dangled her over the precipice, her legs kicking desperately for a footing on the cliff’s edge. The only way for her to catch her breath was if I let her fall.

And she was so tiny. So easy to manipulate. Enough to end her here and now, a return gift to the Gods for granting me this moment.

But volcanic heat popped another blast of magma from below, and my voice dropped like a stone. “_What_?”

Spit and blood coated her horrible teeth. “You know me, Blaine. You _know me_.”

Plated metal fingers clawed to break free as I tightened mine. Eyes rolling back, veins bursting, she continued, “Your enemy is no— ggggh —- more a bloody fighter than she is —- aghh —- your _wife_.”

“My wife died by your cult’s blade. You do not know me. You do not know my title. _Who are you, really?_”

I shook the shapeshifter by the neck like a piece of meat cooking over a pot. The Bane of Baldur’s Gate, strangled in my grasp, was no average trickster at this. Try as she might to provoke my anger and loss of control, her ways were still calculated and she knew how to slip away from me.

Transforming into my wife, Helena, nearly broke my concentration. Nearly.

Now, her tongue licked sharp canines, expression frenzied like a wild animal. Unrecognizable but achingly familiar. A hint of the wretch’s desperation met my sturdy stance as sharp as the volcanic quakes shaking the ground beneath us.

She knew it, and I knew it, too: in a moment, we would both be killed by the eruption.

The Bane attempted a laugh, a wheezy cackle. “You Dragonborns and your,” gasps, “devotion to your mates.” A hiss, “It was almost too easy.”

I should have dropped her, right then, instead of guess what tricks she might pull next. But there was an answer I needed.

So before we both die, I ask, “How do know what Helena looked like? Stop your riddles. Answer me this one thing, _witch_.”

The shapeshifter even perfected the look of pain Helena would sometimes get in her eyes, when she had have something to hide. I had loved her, and her eyes.

“My sweet,” she replied — my hand had unconsciously relaxed enough, for I’d grant her the reply, “You must know that, hhh, fighting against you was the greatest thing I have ever done since loving you.”

“Helena.”

“You were always such a strong fighter. But made _stupid_ by your blind love.”

“Bane!” I threaten. Held her back over the edge more readily. The precipice was waiting.

“You are a fool for marrying a

Do not stumble, do not falter. That was our creed.