The Final Test

A DnD Inspired Short Story

Rauva stared up at the fortress of Nin-Karath, its crimson towers clawing into the storm-grey sky.

I am about to kill a king.

Tonight would end the house of Akethar. The assassination of King Thellon was her final trial before Lolth—the Spider Queen would judge her worthy only through blood. Every drow acolyte dreamed of such recognition. Few survived it.

She whispered a prayer into the dusk. Favor me, my Queen. Guide me. Was Lolth listening? Did she ever listen? Rauva pulled her hood low, hiding gray skin and the stark white braid pinned tight against her back.

“For Lolth. For House DeVir. Find favor in me, my Queen.”

The walls of Nin-Karath loomed fifty feet high, but the fortress was poorly defended. The Akethar were raiders, not wardens. Land meant little to them until High King Eder gifted them this bastion after the Burning Rebellions.

Rauva uncorked a flask. The spider-walking potion Yazston had brewed sent hooks prickling beneath her fingers and toes. She climbed the stone like a shadow, vaulted the parapet, and dropped silently onto the wall.

A guard stood ten paces away. A flick of her wrist sent a needle-dagger into his throat. Another turned the corner—her second blade found his jaw. He crumpled with a muted thud.

Scanning the wall, Rauva saw others distracted: two deep in chatter, one whistling while relieving himself. She slipped to the nearest tower and ducked inside.

At the stairwell’s base, two servant women whispered.

“I saw an omen,” one fretted. “The Outer Gods are angry with High King Eder.”

“Bah. Stories for children,” the other snapped. “Now fold the robes before we’re whipped raw.”

They bustled past carrying white garments nearly identical to Rauva’s own.

J’ai-Tem was right. White will hide me better than black tonight.

She followed the hall until a sigil-marked door barred her way: The Chamber of the White Order. Voices murmured within.

She entered with her head bowed. The chamber stretched high, shadows dancing across its walls. White-clad priests filled the room, their talk breaking as a booming voice cut through.

“Our last member arrives. Sister Avaais of Ikin-Spar joins us in place of Derrell Kol.”

Another priest barked, “Show your face, sister.”

Rauva’s voice slid smooth as silk. “Among my kin, women unveil only in their homes—or when accused of crimes. To demand otherwise insults my oath. Do you wish dishonor?”

A wave of murmurs swept the chamber until the Grand Master snapped, “Enough. We will respect her custom. But, Sister, temper your tongue. It was our Order’s zeal that lifted women into priesthood. Show gratitude when you speak among us.”

Rauva forced a bow. “Forgive me, Grand Master.”

Snickers rose, silenced again with a shout. “Prepare. The bell tolls soon.”

When it did, the Grand Master cast a spell, revealing hidden stone doors. Unease twisted Rauva’s gut. The map J’ai-Tem had given her showed nothing of this chamber.

They entered. The priests began to hum, a guttural chant that echoed off vast unseen walls. Rauva’s pulse quickened. The chamber was impossibly large. How had surface elves built such marvels? Everything I was taught of their weakness was a lie.

The chanting stopped before a wall of living smoke. The Grand Master raised his arms.

“Oh great Shevarash, Lord of Vengeance, hear us. Show yourself, foe of Lolth.”

The wall pulsed. A silver hand tore it open. From the breach stepped a towering elf clad in gleaming armor, crowned in silver horns. His eyes scanned the room—then fixed on Rauva.

“Remove your hood,” Shevarash commanded. “I see your true nature.”

Her blood iced. She obeyed, chin high though instinct screamed to flee.

“You dare bring this filth before me?” the god thundered.

The Grand Master groveled. “Lord, she came to kill Thellon. We thought your justice upon her would honor us.”

Shevarash’s gaze burned. “Speak, Drow. Why are you here?”

Rauva steadied herself. “I came for Thellon, but I was betrayed. This is no king—it is your avatar. I ask only to leave in peace.”

Shevarash laughed, cruel and echoing. “You sought my life and would walk free? No—you will die here.”

Smoke bombs burst. Rauva cast off her cloak, daggers flashing. Darkness poured outward, swallowing the chamber.

“Lolth, hear me,” she whispered. “If I die, let it be for your glory.”

Shevarash’s blade tore blind arcs through the dark. Rauva listened—then struck. One dagger screeched off armor; the other found flesh. The god roared, seized her, and hurled her aside. His boot slammed down, ribs shattering beneath the weight.

Agony seared her chest. She gasped, then drove a dagger into his heel. He howled and flung her away like a rag.

Broken but alive, Rauva clawed toward the smoky wall. I cannot win. Forgive me, my Queen.

She whispered an incantation. The stone swallowed her, spitting her out on a cliff above Nin-Karath. Wind rushed across her face. She was alive.

“You escaped,” came a voice from the shadows.

“It was no king,” Rauva rasped. “It was Shevarash. The Black Archer has returned.”

Her father Yazston stepped into the firelight, clad in black carapace armor, his face grim.

“Then you must face Lolth.”

“I’m not ready. I’ll fail her.”

He pressed a pendant into her hand. “This will guide you home. Whatever happens, you are my daughter. Now go. The Dark Mother awaits.”