I. I watched him sleep once— before the fire, before the betrayals. He did not dream. Or if he did, he dreamed in silence, too deep for mercy, too old for fear.

They called him Bhaalspawn. But he called himself nothing.

And that, perhaps, was the truest name of all.

II. He carried death like others carry duty— not proudly, but as something given and never quite refused.

It lived in him, quietly at first. A whisper beneath the ribs, a hunger beneath the kindness.

But we all heard it. And still we followed. Not because we believed, but because he did not.

And that made him dangerous. And precious.

III. The gods played dice with his soul. Irenicus cut it open to see what divinity bled like. And still he stood. He fought. He chose.

Not always wisely. Not always well. But he chose.

And that is rarer than power.

IV. There were moments— by moonlit campfires, in the laughter of companions— where I thought he could be free. That the blood did not bind him, only test him.

But the gods do not release what they’ve marked. And fate does not favor those who hesitate on the edge of becoming.

He became. And in doing so, he was lost.

V. Now his name is legend. But I knew the man. And what remains of him is not a title, nor a throne, nor even the corpse of a god.

It is a choice. Made when no one watched. To protect, to forgive, to endure even when every voice inside screamed destroy.

That is the child of Bhaal I remember. Not divine. Not damned. But decided.