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Chapter Text

   The girl slowly opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on the sprawling landscape before her. She stood on a rise, overlooking the boundless expanse of Korkari. Below stretched a patchwork of wild grasses typical of these desolate lands, and beyond, the view dissolved into an endless expanse.

   Ancient, sloping hills, cloaked in pine forests gone grizzled with age, alternated with clearings where the shattered remains of trees jutted like broken teeth. These were wounds left by wildfires and the fury of winter storms—yet with spring’s arrival, they had been veiled again in fresh greenery.

   Her gaze wandered across the untamed contours of the land until it caught on a familiar landmark. Recognition flared in her eyes: she traced the line from a distinctive boulder to a remembered ravine. Then her delicate dark brows arched—on the distant horizon, beyond the farthest hill, five or six pillars of milky smoke coiled upward. An unmistakable sign of wildfire. But fire could hardly rage unchecked now—autumn had crept too close. The heavy cumulus clouds crawling westward unleashed cold, drenching rains every other night.

   A faint, cool breeze carried the scent of damp forest and lazily stirred the raven-black curls gathered into a tight braid. The girl frowned—somewhere in the direction of the smoke lay a home, but her memory failed her, yielding no memories of the previous day. Instead, there was only a hollow certainty: there was nowhere left to return to.

   Her body had grown stiff and numb. The slightest movement sent pain lancing through her. A long rest on damp earth, leaning against the smooth surface of a wall built from grey basalt blocks, promised no traveller health or comfort.

   Struggling to her feet, she surveyed her surroundings. The wall behind her rose three or four meters before crumbling into rubble. Stones that had once been part of it littered the ground, slowly sinking into the grass over decades. No other vegetation grew nearby.

   Her slender legs were clad in rough leather trousers, crudely stitched, and soft, soundless boots of deerskin. Over her shoulders, as if carelessly thrown, was a thick knitted wool vest with its hood pushed back. A cluster of crow feathers marked her left shoulder—their size arresting; the wingspan of the bird they’d belonged to must have stretched to a good meter and a half. Beneath, only a linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, clung to her bare skin, barely outlining her form.

   Among her adornments, the most striking was a leather wrap on her left shoulder, etched with an intricate design—a skull entwined with swirls that might be wind or roots. Around her neck hung an old necklace of tarnished metal segments. A cord held a bone-carved amulet set with a crudely cut garnet. Five twisted iron rings were meticulously braided into a short plait near her left ear, and her lobes were weighed down by darkened silver hoops. On the ring finger of her right hand, a band of scratched gold lay hidden, barely noticeable.

  Picking up a sturdy oak staff—nearly two meters long—she moved along the wall, brushing her free hand against its surface, straining to remember where she was. Soon, the wall crumbled into a heap of debris: a breach cut down to bare earth, revealing what lay within.

   The complex had once been an outpost, its lone watchtower still standing. Every surviving structure bore the hallmarks of Imperial architecture from the era of rapid expansion—clean, hewn lines, decorative arches, and a brutal focus on function over ornament. Faint traces of later additions, typical of Ferelden a century past, lingered. Time and the harsh climate had erased most of the attempts to repurpose the fortification.

   Clambering inside, she scanned the ruins before nimbly scaling a broken section of the wall for a better view. Memory whispered: such outposts had once fanned out in a semicircle deep into Korkari, a day or two’s travel apart, all centered around the ancient fortress of Ostagar. But only these ruins had endured the winters and the wrath of the Hasind.

   What memory refused to yield was why she’d awakened so far from home, in this place rather than in the familiar woods. A shadow of doubt crossed her face, and her free hand darted to the plain leather pouch strapped at her hip. From it protruded slender, green-tarnished metal tubes, sealed with black wax.

   Drawing them out one by one, she studied the surviving engravings. Symbols in Old Tevene—the tongue of the Empire—mixed with archaic Fereldan script and heraldry pointing to the ancient order of the Grey Wardens. There were references to the last surviving dwarven kingdom, Orzammar, marked with the sigil of a Paragon she didn’t recognize. Also mentioned were the Circles of Ferelden, a branch of the Chantry, and separately, the Templar Order. Four tubes bore the emblems of the Dalish Clans, though she knew of only three that roamed these lands. The last tube carried the heraldry of Ferelden’s royal line. Treaties of the Grey Wardens, pledging aid to the nation’s Commander upon the declaration of a Blight... Perhaps these had once been stored within this very outpost.

   Glancing south, she grimaced. Encounters with creatures of darkness in the surrounding woods had grown more frequent with each dawn. And likely not by chance—two months ago, the Hasind tribes had retreated either deeper south, into the swampy lowlands bordering frigid seas, or west toward the Frostback Mountains. Winter there would be harsher. Without the full picture, judging the threat of the Blight was difficult—but coincidences rarely stayed innocent under scrutiny. A fort once used by the Grey Wardens, treaties, a Blight... and smoke on the horizon.

   Turning north, she narrowed her eyes. Beyond the ever-rising hills lay the ancient fortress. It guarded the sole pass through sheer cliffs that, for a hundred kilometers east to west, abruptly gave way to flat plains. Even for her, that barrier was as good as a death sentence.

   Sighing, she looked west, where the sun dipped toward the horizon. It had barely three or four hours left; she couldn’t have been unconscious for more than that. That explained her stiff but not useless muscles. Everything before this moment blurred into a haze of threat, sharp loss, and a need she couldn’t quite name. Without context, the chaos only deepened her confusion. Proper rest might clear her mind—but for now, north was the answer. To put as many hills, rivers, settlements—and, with luck, armed men—between herself, the creatures of darkness, and whatever else lurked.

   Just as she turned away, she froze. At the hill’s base, near the treeline, her sharp eyes caught movement. Four figures emerged from the woods one by one: two warriors, an archer, and the last, robed like a mage. Each looked weary, battered, and wary. And there was no doubt where they were headed.

   Another “coincidence.”

   Casting a final glance west, she retreated from the wall to a lower ledge, into shadow. Perching on the stones, she let her legs dangle and prepared to wait.

   * * *

   The squad took about ten minutes to climb the hill and reach the ruins. Passing under an arch still standing in the wall, the four of them fanned out smoothly. The warriors advanced—the mage took the center, while the archer brought up the rear. None of them glanced upward, where a pair of watchful eyes glinted from a ledge above the arch.

   As early dusk settled over the old fort, the men confirmed the ruins were relatively secure and began their search. Their focus was on the remnants of later constructions—the ancient Imperial-era structures were deliberately ignored.

   The leader was a fair-haired man with a short crop. His bearing, stance, gear, and quiet command made it clear he was a seasoned warrior. The blond never let go of his plain shield or blade, even as he poked through the rubble. When he turned halfway toward the hidden observer, her sharp eyes caught the amulet cord over his quilted jacket and mail. A heraldic griffon—the Grey Warden symbol—hung from the cord at his chest, his alone.

   The second warrior boasted a massive two-handed blade, muscles bulging under his armor, and a neck as thick as a stump. His bristly, week-old buzz cut stood out, but his face betrayed bewilderment mixed with fear. His movements carried barely half his leader’s menace. The archer was worse—after the climb, he still hadn’t caught his breath. Greasy, unwashed dark hair stuck out in clumps, and his stubble completed the unkempt look.

   Last was the mage—an elf. The lack of vallaslin meant he hadn’t grown up among the Dalish clans. His attire was a knee-length woolen travel robe with a soft leather hood for rain and wind. His staff matched the length of the one strapped to the girl’s back. He wore his shoulder-length hair no lighter than the stranger’s. Alone in the group, he didn’t wander aimlessly but scanned the area methodically.

   Suddenly, the mage pointed his staff at a pile of stones and called out in a pleasant voice:

   — Found something. Commander?

   The blond turned and, muttering under his breath, approached. Nodding, he planted his sword in the soft earth, left his shield as well, and began shifting heavy debris. The brute watched for a minute before sighing gloomily, sheathing his blade, and joining in. A quarter-hour later, they uncovered a stone recess by the ruined wall—the kind meant for massive, iron-bound chests. Now, it held only rust-eaten metal strips and rotten wood.

   The commander’s shoulders tensed. Digging through the decay, he finally erupted in curses. The elf sighed tiredly, ignoring the outburst, and prodded the ground with his staff:

   — Another spot?

   Standing, the blond held up a dark disc:

   — No. Here—the Order’s seal. Enchanted metal, untouched by rust or rot. By the Commander’s notes, the treaties were stored here.

   The grubby one spat and smirked:

   — Someone beat us to it. And long ago, I’d wager.

   — No outsider would have use for them. And few even knew they existed.

   — Aye, Commander. But they’re gone. And “useful”? Debatable. Sometimes a thing’s value isn’t in what it is, but who wants it.

   The elf looked up at the sky:

   — Night’s coming.

   And his gaze locked with a pair of eyes glinting in the thickening shadows. The stranger watched them as if they were some oddity, weighing hidden value or meaninglessness. The mage betrayed nothing but whitened knuckles on his staff and pupils blown wide. Calmly, he alerted the others:

   — Commander. Easy. We’re not alone.

   The three men whirled toward his voice, weapons drawn. The girl’s gaze snapped to the trembling arrowhead aimed between her eyes. Slowly, she drew up her legs, stood on the ledge, and showed empty hands—then hooked them behind her, arched fluidly against the wall, and flipped down onto the ruins, staff in hand.

   Reactions varied. Only the elf stayed focused; the others faltered at her agility. So he was the first to step back and hiss a warning:

   — A spellbinder!

   The brute, voice shaking, was blunter:

   — A witch! Look—wolf’s eyes!

   The commander grimaced—whether at his team’s panic or his own momentary lapse—but waved it off. Loudly, if unevenly, he demanded:

   — Who are you? How long have you been hiding here?

   The girl crouched, staff planted on stone. Her voice—calm, husky, laced with arrogance and power—rang out for the first time:

   — Well, well… Strangers asking me questions? Why disturb old stones? Beneath us lie only wind-bleached bones of a Grey Warden outpost… But the Korkari’s swallowed it whole.

   The commander blinked, caught off guard:

   — So you know—

   Then he caught himself and scowled:

   — If you know its past, know this—we’ve more right than the local savages. This fort was the Order’s. Served the Wardens faithfully for decades.

   The girl jerked her chin at the wary mage:

   — Bold words. Here’s mine: the pointy-ear has a better claim. As a mage, he’s heir to the Empire the Wardens helped to build. As an elf, heir to the lands taken for that foundation. But look closer—his ears mark him victim more than heir. If we’re tallying rights… I doubt answers matter. No manners, no courtesy. Truly vultures.

   The brute burst out:

   — We’re here by right! We’ve a mission—to find the—

   Yellow eyes fixed on him, then darted back to the blond, whose glare shut him up. But before the leader could speak, the grubby archer interjected:

   — Boss! She might be Hasind. Savages don’t travel alone. What if it’s a trap?

   The “girl” bared teeth neither white nor even—uncharacteristic of southern tribes—and mocked:

   — Scared of barbarians? Mighty warriors, aren’t we?

   The mage stepped behind the commander, laying a hand on his shoulder, and murmured:

   — Commander. Dark’s falling fast. We’ll camp in the ruins. On the one hand—shelter. On the other hand, you did fret over this hill’s visibility for leagues. A fireless night. Cold. Perhaps… diplomacy’s your strength here?

   His tone stayed flat, eyes never leaving the stranger. The blond listened silently, then nodded—though he shook off the elf’s hand with a flicker of irritation. The archer, proving his incompetence, gaped at the elf. The girl caught the sarcasm, arching a brow, now eyeing the elf with interest.

   Clearing his throat, the leader tried again:

   — Right. We… started poorly. I’m Alistair. Leader of this Grey Warden squad—though only one full Warden’s here. Temporarily. We came for treaties left in these ruins. Vital documents. The Blight’s rising—we need assurance old oaths of aid will be honored. But time’s short, and… they’re gone. If you… know anything of this place’s recent history… we’d be grateful.

   Rising, the girl shook her head and tapped her staff twice:

   — Fragile, your Order’s alliances, Warden. Relying on century-old papers in a forgotten corner. But who am I, a southern savage, to judge civilized northern ways? Typical—binding allies with papers that become weapons in enemy hands. Still, to the point: you’re in haste. To return where? And why?

   The archer spat aside, loud enough for all:

   — Too few answers, too many questions. Bet we’ll regret this.

   Ignoring him, the girl focused on Alistair. The others glared. As the blond hesitated, she pursed her lips faintly. Too many pieces hung in the air, forcing blind trust. Finally, grudgingly, he answered:

   — Ostagar. Rally point for Ferelden’s armies, north and south, under the king’s banner.

   She leaned forward, weight on her staff:

   — Much said, nothing answered—but I’ll bite. So the Order never recovered after Drayden’s fall, if this is the squad sent for treaties on the Blight’s eve. And armies… Not led by Wardens? Thousands of warm bodies, gathered like a feast. The darkspawn won’t resist. You mean to crush the horde at its height, delaying the Blight a year or two. Bold. Dangerous. What could go wrong?...

   Squinting thoughtfully northward, she grasped the only exit from Korkari would soon host a gamble with unmatched stakes. A wise woman would watch from afar. But this gamble meant the woods would swarm with darkspawn tonight. Coincidences…

   If danger came, this squad—flawed as they were—might be her only shield. And they were her ticket into their camp. She also felt a strange curiosity about the leader who’d devised such a reckless plan. And beneath it, a gnawing dread—tied to her mother, the smoke on the horizon, and the void in her memory. Fear whispered: Run. Now.

   Returning her gaze below, she surprised herself by saying:

   — Today’s your lucky day, Warden.

   With a smirk at their scowls, she pulled a tube from her pouch and tossed it down. Alistair caught it—and froze. The others understood instantly. The brute yanked his blade free, snarling:

   — Thief!

   Fear and fury warred in him, but before he acted, the elf’s staff cracked his skull. The commander growled:

   — Stand down, Jory. Whoever… she is, she’s got our documents. At least they’re safe. Right?

   The girl nodded, tone imperious:

   — Since we understand each other, here’s my bargain, Warden. Thanks to you northerners, these woods are death. Winter here? Worse. And darkspawn will make it unlivable. Swear to take me safely to Ostagar—and keep my presence hidden—and you’ll have your treaties now.

   — Witch! They’re ours!

   — I said stand down!

   Alistair was clearly uneasy—dealing with a wild spellbinder, unaffiliated with the Circles, who’d somehow found the treaties. But the elf cut in:

   — Why hesitate? The deal’s clean. No harm to the Order. Better than fighting unknown magic. And if she’s got the treaties, she knows this land better than us. If it rankles—drink it away later. Now…

   The brute gripped his sword:

   — You can’t bring a witch to camp! And even if—how—?

   Alistair raised a hand:

   — You’re both right. But Jory—you overestimate the difficulty. With the crowds, patrols are too busy keeping brawls in check to notice one more. Sentries watch for darkspawn, not spies. Getting in’s easy. The risk… is her behavior.

   His glance at the elf was pointed. The girl smiled:

   — So much worry… for your own hides. Rest assured, this “savage” has no death wish—nor interest in tangling with Templars.

   The elf nodded—“See?”—and met Alistair’s eyes:

   — Exactly. We agree. I do. Let’s go.

   The girl struck her staff against the stone, interrupting:

   — Then let the bargain stand—between Morrigan, daughter of Flemeth, and Alistair, Grey Warden.

   Jory gasped. The archer swore, summing up the squad’s mood:

   — Bloody Void. Bet my coin this isn’t just any Flemeth. The Witch of the Wilds from the tales…

   A raindrop struck the stones—the first of many.

   * * *

   Before the sun could fully set, a storm cloud swallowed it whole. Surging from the east, the churning mass embodied the night descending upon Korkari. Its swirls resembled a frozen, inverted sea—pale where the light still clung, fading to leaden black at the crests of its thunderheads.

   During the treaty exchange, the wind had died to a hush, and the party hurried downhill, escorted by sparse raindrops. But the moment they crossed the treeline, noise surged behind them—as if something raced through woods, hills, and glades alike. While Jory gaped, Morrigan pointedly tugged up her hood and quickened her pace to match Alistair’s.

   — Best hurry, Warden, — she said.

   The blond shot her an irritated glance:

   — I know...

   A peal of laughter from the “witch” drowned his retort as the storm caught them. Icy rain hammered down, drenching them instantly. The archer, Daveth, cursed through clenched teeth:

   — There goes my bowstring.

   Without slowing, Alistair muttered over his shoulder:

   — Where’s the spare that came with it?

   — Oh… Southern gut. Good stuff. All-weather. Soldiers swear by it. Traded for jerky, gloves, and five coppers.

   Jory, shivering, glowered:

   — Didn’t see jerky at camp.

   — Course not. Would I haul that around? Stashed it at Ostagar.

   — Waxed it?

   — Smart ideas come too late.

   Alistair sighed:

   — Idiot.

   For the next hour, they marched in silence through unwelcoming woods. No proper trails existed here, forcing constant vigilance—nearly impossible as the downpour shrank their world to five paces in any direction. Only Morrigan moved untouched, gliding through brambles like the rain wasn’t there.

   The brute broke first, voice thick with misery:

   — Cold. Hungry. Can we stop?

   Alistair wiped his face, pushing soaked hair back.

   — No. If there’s shelter, I don’t know of it.

   His glance at Morrigan hung in the air, unspoken. She shook her head—whether denying knowledge or interest was unclear. He pressed on:

   — Stopping means freezing in soaked gear. And good luck lighting a fire here, magic or not. Right, Alim?

   The elf at the rear flicked water from his lashes and scoffed silently.

   In the next quarter-hour, four things happened. Daveth slipped on a slope, vanishing with a yell into the roots of southern pines. They found him unharmed but mortified by their grins and Morrigan’s disdain—she alone descended unstained. The rain eased to a drizzle, just as cold but less blinding. The air grew sharper; breath fogged, and chill seeped into bones.

   They stumbled upon tracks—fresh, deep, and bizarre—cutting northeast across their path. Alistair wiped his nose:

   — Genlocks. A dozen. Marching in formation, not a pack. Means an alpha. No shoes, no gear.

   Morrigan studied the prints:

   — Less than an hour old. The ones I’ve seen lately at least wore rags.

   The blond nodded, scratching his chin.

   — They were in a hurry.

   — A guess?

   — I don’t sense darkspawn nearby. Means they’ve put distance between us.

   Finally, as the party wearily climbed another hill, a wolf’s howl pierced the night—answered from left and right. The men instinctively halted, though the forest’s blackness revealed nothing. Morrigan groaned, her verdict brutally blunt:

   — Children on their first woodland stroll. The pack encircles its prey. Stay alert, keep moving. They’ll strike when ready. You’re slow, noisy meat to beasts who’ve never tasted elf or man.

   Alistair shoved his half-drawn sword back, scowled, but marched on. The elf shot Morrigan a thoughtful glance and followed. Only Daveth hesitated—unused to being prey—and Jory, his voice edged with anger, asked:

   — Friends of yours, witch?

   She didn’t dignify it, already matching Alistair’s stride.

   The pack closed in near the hilltop, their chorus a constant reminder: We’re everywhere.

   A massive wolf materialized from the left, silent until it leapt, aiming to crush the two-legged leader. Alistair was quicker. His shield cracked sideways, smashing the she-wolf’s skull mid-air. She crumpled with a yelp.

   First blood went to Jory, who, despite his fear, moved fluidly in real combat. His blade flashed, burying to the spine in a wolf’s throat, while a kick repelled another. Daveth dodged snapping jaws, wielding his bow like a club. The elf whispered over his staff, conjuring a dim light-globe. Morrigan, selecting a shadow among trees, murmured:

   — Fríos. Tenací.

   Her fist clenched. A whimper, then a thud—something frozen dead hit the grass, unseen in the dark.

   Alistair finished a risen wolf with a throat-stab. More emerged, their eyes glinting. One slipped past Jory’s swing, jaws clamping his thigh through wool and gambeson. Daveth hurled his bow, then tackled the beast, emerging with a palm-wide dagger dripping red.

   As Jory shifted his stance, another wolf lunged for his back—until a magical bolt from Alim left a crater in its ribs.

   Morrigan wasn’t idle. Her staff crunched down on a skull, flipped a second wolf mid-leap, and shattered a third’s joints. Alistair crouched, shield up, to meet a pouncing beast, then hurled it back into the bushes.

   Silence fell like a shroud. Even the wind held its breath.

   Daveth spun, paranoid. Jory leaned on his sword, clutching his leg. Alim and Morrigan frowned in unison—but only the elf checked Alistair’s expression.

   As Daveth fumbled for bandages and a healing draught, the blond spat:

   — Darkspawn. Many. Closing in.

   Morrigan tucked damp hair back, musing:

   — Remarkably convenient, sensing foes unseen. Does it work both ways? No matter. The wolves’ chorus likely drew them.

   Alistair shot her a glare, then pointed:

   — Trees thin there. Twenty paces. We’ll be crushed in thickets—move!

   He crashed through brush, shield-first. Jory limped after, Daveth at his heels, then Alim and Morrigan. The forest opened to a glade—scattered stumps like crooked fangs in the dark. They formed up, waiting.

   Minutes oozed by, thick as tar. Morrigan arched a brow at Alistair, but his stare never wavered. Jory sweated; Daveth twitched.

   Then—crackling branches. A rhythmic, muffled tread. Heavy breathing.

   As if by magic, the western sky cleared. Starlight flooded the glade, revealing the constellation Vísus—the Everwatchful Eye—before the darkness birthed its own creations.

   Alistair raised his shield and weapon, barking:

   — Genlocks!

   The creatures emerging from the treeline barely reached chest-height, moving on all fours. Yet their massive forearms—corded with dense muscle—would give even Jory pause. Their wide shoulders and scapulae led the eye to earth-toned skin, beady eyes sunk deep in oversized skulls, and disproportionately heavy, lipless jaws. No clothing. No weapons.

   A heartbeat later, quieter:

   — And their alpha behind them.

   The first five darkspawn paused, sniffed the air, then charged in crude formation. The sight of genlocks advancing in ranks was unnerving.

   Under Morrigan’s gaze—equal parts impressed and envious—the elf wove a complex spell, exhaling “Repulsion Barrier.” A translucent pulse, clear as springwater, radiated from him.

   Two genlocks dropped prone. The spell merely shoved them back. The remaining three took the force head-on—literally. Their bodies cartwheeled through the air with wet thuds before crumpling near the treeline.

   As Alim gasped for breath, the smarter genlocks closed in. Jory met the leftmost with an overhead chop. The creature blocked with its right arm—a poor choice. The limb sheared off with a moist crunch, black blood spurting from the stump. Alistair engaged the second, deflecting a punch with his shield before driving his blade hilt-deep into its throat.

   Seeing Jory wounded, Daveth flanked the genlock, dagger ready. The creature swung its bleeding stump in a wide arc. Black droplets blinded Daveth as Jory’s follow-up strike separated head from shoulders.

   At the treeline, the thrown genlocks rose. Four reinforcements joined them, followed by their hulking alpha hanging back. Seven voices raised in screeching chorus as they charged.

   Alim closed his eyes. Another pulse erupted—five genlocks went airborne. The remaining two bulled through. The elf collapsed unconscious as his light-globe winked out.

   Jory gritted his teeth, favoring his wounded leg. His counterstroke met empty air as a genlock dodged with unnatural agility. Alistair fared no better—a shield-blow nearly wrenched his arm from its socket. Gritting his teeth, he stepped in and slashed upward, splitting cheek and eye.

   Morrigan acted fast. A hissed incantation and “Winter’s Grasp” flash-froze the genlock pressing Jory. The warrior pivoted, his descending strike burying itself between ribs—then lodging fast as flesh clenched.

   Nearby, Alistair went flying. The one-eyed genlock had body-slammed him shield-first. Daveth seized the opening, plunging his dagger between ribs—only to be swatted away like a fly. The crunch of his landing promised broken bones.

   A staff-strike snapped the genlock’s head sideways. Morrigan spun away, frosting Jory’s blade with “Ice Weapon” as she passed. The now-rime-covered sword screeched free, its next arc decapitating another foe.

   Their respite lasted one heartbeat before the final wave hit. Jory took a fist to the mouth—teeth and blood spraying. Morrigan rolled clear of trampling feet. Alistair shield-charged two genlocks, managing a glancing slash.

   When frost sheened over Jory’s attacker, the warrior grinned through ruined lips. His two-handed swing crushed the genlock’s skull with a sickening crunch. Breathing heavily, he barely raised his sword to face two more.

   Nearby, Alistair lost his blade to a dying genlock’s convulsions. Now shield-only, he battered one foe senseless before killing the other—but not before it disarmed him.

   Morrigan rose smoothly, assessing the fray. One spell later, “Disorientation” made a genlock’s punch sail past Jory’s nose. The warrior repaid the favor with three brutal hooks, toppling his foe.

   Shieldless, Alistair improvised—a shoulder-check, shield-uppercut, then a relentless barrage of edge-strikes. The genlock staggered back, guarding its eyes in confusion.

   Darting behind the genlock flanking Jory, Morrigan thrust her staff between its legs, unbalancing the creature and buying the warrior precious seconds. With a grunt, he brought his sword down in a brutal arc, impaling the genlock through its gut and pinning it to the earth. Simultaneously, Alistair used his full weight to slam his shield into another, knocking it prone before scrambling for his lost blade.

   Morrigan slowed a third genlock with Winter’s Grasp, then reversed her grip on the staff and began methodically caving in its skull.

   Alistair moved like a man possessed. Wrenching his sword free mid-stride, he wheeled back toward the rising genlock and drove the blade deep with a vicious twist.

   An eerie stillness followed. Jory panted, bloodied and fearful; Morrigan scowled; Alistair stared blankly into the dark. As the warrior scanned the treeline, the witch noticed Alistair’s tension. He met her gaze, inhaled sharply, then shook his head:

   — Gone. Slipped away mid-fight. Smart bastard—unlike these. That makes it twice as dangerous.

   He ripped up a clump of wet grass, scrubbed black blood from his sword, and sheathed it.

   — I’ll check Daveth. See to Alim... please.

   Morrigan arched a brow.

   — Politeness? How novel. Very well.

   While Jory clumsily cleaned his own blade, the stars vanished again behind clouds, plunging the glade into deeper gloom. The witch knelt beside the unconscious elf, pressing two fingers to his neck.

   — Alive. Mana exhaustion—he drained his reserves at once. Reckless magic. Rare.

   No answer came. She turned to find Alistair crouched over Daveth’s body, his face grim. A slow headshake. Eyes shut, he tilted his face to the storm. Jory, busy with his wounds, missed the silent exchange. Morrigan approached to see for herself.

   Fortune had abandoned Daveth with cruel simplicity. The glade’s fallen logs—some rotten, others weathered but hard as bone—had waited patiently. It wasn’t the jagged branch jutting a palm’s width from his side that killed him. No, the rogue’s skull had met an ancient pine’s unyielding trunk with perfect force, snapping his neck instantly.

   Morrigan’s lips thinned.

   — Fewer bodies mean fewer chances to reach Ostagar intact.

   — Didn’t know witches cared for strangers’ lives, — Alistair muttered.

   She snorted, hands on hips.

   — This witch cares only for your sworn word. Can you still keep it?

   He flinched but nodded.

   — Don’t. Doubt. Me.

   — That’s what worries me. A knight’s honor—nobility drowning in stubbornness.

   She shrugged.

   — But I’ll ease your burden. Call it... goodwill.

   Alistair stared, equal parts irritated and perplexed—until she leaned her staff against a log and began undoing Daveth’s clothes. Amid the men’s stunned silence, she stripped the corpse to its smallclothes, then—without a flicker of shame—started on her own.

   Soon, she stood in nothing but her shift, the firelight tracing legs honed by wilderness marches. The men averted their eyes as she donned Daveth’s garb, tightening laces until the fit was loose but serviceable. Bundling her discarded clothes, she tied them to her belt and addressed the speechless group:

   — Done. Wake the elf. We move.

   * * *

   Fifteen Days Earlier

   Vincent rapped his bent knuckle against the aged oak table. The sound carried no impatience, no anger—only finality. A trademark gesture from the man known as “the Iceblood Bastard,” Chief Overseer of Aeonar, the mages’ prison. He knew every epithet whispered behind his back, and exactly which mouths had spawned them.

   Leaning forward slightly, he passed a signed parchment to the aging Templar before him. The man bore a livid scar through his empty right eye socket, his twitching cheek betraying lyrium’s creeping toll. The Templar’s armored boots clicked as he bowed respectfully. The Overseer’s dry, authoritative voice cut the silence:

   — While we’re at it—any progress on Benedict’s disappearance?

   — None. The Seeker left no traces. And it’s been...

   — Three years, seventeen days. Disappointing.

   — Yes, ser.

   The Templar turned sharply to leave, his rigid spine betraying discomfort under Vincent’s gaze—once piercing blue, now faded to frost.

   Dismissing the man, Vincent leaned back. His armored weight made the chair creak as he turned toward a narrow arrow slit serving as a window. Outside stretched a breathtaking vista—for ordinary eyes. The coastal peaks of the Waking Sea dominated the horizon, their snowless crags stark against the sky. Below lay a nameless valley, a place that didn’t exist—ravaged by landslides, avalanches, and scree. Patches of sickly green dotted the waste; the only life a handful of birds and rodents. Vincent found its desolation comforting.

   Lead-gray clouds foretold a storm by nightfall. Roads might vanish for weeks—a complication for his plans. But Vincent, ever methodical, had contingencies.

   His square jaw worked silently as he rose and strode to the armory lining the right wall. No ornate showpieces here—just meticulously maintained weapons. Wear patterns on the mace and Fereldan longsword hinted at his preferences, but today his hand went to a new Orlesian rapier. The blade whispered free, balanced perfectly in his grip. A glance at its needle point, then he opened the door.

   Outside, as always, stood his lone guard: Nakari. A twenty-five-year-old Templar he’d brought from Orlais. Reliable. Loyal. She stood statue-still, her armor immaculate, cropped hair severe, spine straight. She didn’t turn as he emerged.

   — Was Daniel in a hurry?

   — Yes.

   — Good.

   Vincent noted with faint disappointment that she saw no threat in him. Trust in Aeonar was an unforgivable flaw. He’d drilled that into her daily since their arrival at this ancient Imperial fortress. Some never learned.

   The rapier’s thrust was surgical—piercing her throat without severing arteries. Her eyes bulged, but only a wet gasp escaped. A twist, then the pommel cracked her temple, dropping her soundlessly onto the carpet. His boot heel crunched down to finish her.

   Crimson bloomed across her white-and-silver tabard—the only vivid color in this realm of grays. A nostalgic weakness. Vincent knelt, wiping the blade clean on her cloak.

   — No greatness without sacrifice.

   Vincent knew well that talking to oneself was a bad sign—but the need for perfect discipline had passed. Dismissing Nakari from his thoughts as he had Daniel, the Overseer strode away from his office. His pace was neither hurried nor slow.

   Only three upper tiers of Aeonar stood above ground: living quarters for the sparse guard, clustered in a single unremarkable building against the mountainside. A concession to human needs—preventing madness from lack of sun and sky. Moving past empty rooms toward the central stairwell, Vincent remained focused. The prison’s full garrison comprised forty elite Templars—apolitical, devout, battle-hardened against mages and the possessed. Yet this past month, two had fallen to the mountains’ whims (acceptable losses), and three had shown instability (promptly shipped to Denerim’s central chantry under escort). All within his expected parameters.

   His footsteps echoed in the hollow halls. Six months prior, he’d scheduled today’s annual terrain drills—lest his Templars forget how to navigate ravines and boulders. Their absence would last twelve, maybe thirteen hours. Then, a week ago, the expected inspection notice arrived. Once or twice yearly, some unfamiliar brother would visit to “assess security.” A convenient pretext for today’s “inventory”—sending the remaining guards below in shifts to the “Pit.”

   Pausing at the stairwell’s entrance, Vincent clenched his left fist until the leather creaked. Then descended.

   Beyond the upper levels lay only locked storerooms before the stairs plunged downward, unbroken by landings. Vincent navigated the pitch-black effortlessly—three years of practice made the path muscle memory. Occasionally, a warm draft carried whispers of laughter and moans.

   Three hundred steps later, he emerged into a circular chamber lit by bronze candelabras. Elsewhere, such wax might be costly; here, Vincent’s gaze went to the smooth walls. He admired the ancient Imperium’s architects. The logistics of carving Aeonar from a single basalt monolith mattered less than the result—flawless, eternal. Ostagar had crumbled; Kinloch Hold decayed. But Aeonar stood unchanged.

   Six subterranean tiers. Five concentric galleries, each smaller than the last. From each radiated perfect cubes—two meters to a side—sealed by iron bars thick as a man’s wrist. Rust crept slowly in the arid dark. The air was never silent: weeping, screams, mad laughter... and words. Those were worst. However one tried to ignore them, fragments of monologues lodged in the mind, stealing sleep.

   The Chantry cynically categorized mages. Circle members were “safe.” Apostates required more effort to catch than they were worth. Maleficarum merited only death. But some—those whose knowledge outweighed their expendability—“vanished” during transfers, waking here. Aeonar had no past, no records. Just madness, horror, and endless interrogations. It reduced all to beasts. Each wretch’s suffering strained the Veil—one spontaneous possession per month seemed fair.

   Vincent moved through the upper gallery with purpose. His patrol system—praised even by conservative Templars—relied on overlapping sightlines. But with half the garrison gone, blind spots multiplied unnoticed. He wasn’t angry. The mind’s laziness was predictable. Leave something in plain view, and soon it becomes invisible. Repeat an action enough times, and the hands move without thought. Habits. Shortcuts. Patterns...

   The first victim never saw him coming. A flicker of irritation—he’d trained these men himself. Yet that very training made their deaths inevitable. He killed methodically, the new screams lost in the cacophony. Rhythm mattered. Two more fell cleanly. The third fought briefly. The fourth lasted longer, but Vincent took his time—closing the man’s eyes afterward, a grudging nod to sentiment.

   No need to slaughter every tier. These deaths were mere delay—keeping patrols occupied while the order he’d given Daniel shifted others deeper. To the “Pit’s Bottom”: the sixth tier’s central cylinder, where Imperium priests once performed sacrifices. Now it stood empty save for the prisoners’ phylacteries, gathered here a year prior. Thus Vincent reached the chamber doors without spilling more blood than necessary.

   The double doors boomed shut. He heaved the iron bar into place, then worked swiftly in the dark—lighting candles, clearing the center of tables and vials of thick, magically preserved blood.

   Drawing his rapier across his palm, Vincent let his blood fall first. Then, vial by vial, he began tracing intricate glyphs on the floor—a hypnotic pattern demanding precision over speed.

   Twenty minutes later—just before the patrol shift change—Vincent finished. He had mere minutes before the first bodies were discovered, but it no longer mattered. As Aeonar’s sole remaining Seeker of Truth, only a fellow brother of his Order could stop him now. For the first time in years, a faint smirk tugged at his lips. Strange—this time, he hadn’t even needed to recreate the “Flame Oath.” Then again, his goals were different now.

   Without preamble, words spilled from his mouth—a blend of forgotten Elvish and Dwarven. Vincent was no mage, but he knew how to wield the untapped power around him. Before him lay a construct woven from the blood of dozens upon dozens of the gifted. Blood magic. Fools dismissed it as mere maleficarum, yet even the phylacteries surrounding him had been created through its use. It was the only magic that didn’t disturb the Titans—and thus, remained invisible to Templars.

   For the first time in three years, thinking forbidden thoughts was painful... and exhilarating. Like tearing a scab from a healing wound.

   The glyphs on the floor began to writhe, interlacing as if alive. Pressure built in the chamber—not physical, but felt. Vincent knew: the Veil wouldn’t hold.

   A soundless chime resonated, sharp enough to set teeth on edge. Then—a tear. A pulsing blot of absolute blackness, flat yet paradoxically three-dimensional.

   This wasn’t the goal—only a step.

   Beyond the sealed doors, screams erupted. Vincent knew exactly what was happening across Aeonar’s six tiers: blood forced from every living pore, mages’ souls—bound by their phylacteries—ripped free and hurled into the void.

   His voice was calm:

   — The offering is given. The bargain sealed. Show me the path.

   Silence fell—abrupt, suffocating. Then, from the rift, a voice devoid of inflection:

   — I taste it. Burns. Gnaws at the core. Devours caution and patience. Rends awareness. First—seek understanding. Exceptionality is no place, thing, or essence. A state. Fleeting. Thousands of lives—one after another, many at once—forge but a single moment of transcendence. For this work, diligence outweighs all virtues.

   Vincent bared his teeth:

   — The price is PAID!

   His mortal voice held no less authority than the thing beyond. The response came:

   — Truth. The strong take what is. The wise build their own. Mark the moment where the path begins. Winding. Narrow. Littered with traps. Cunning your shield. Harvested power your blade.

   — The moment nears… Too near! Formless one—!

   — Time’s value lies in its scarcity. This is the gift.

   The rift collapsed inward with a sound like claws scraping bone, sending shivers down Vincent’s spine. Alone again, he snarled—a raw, bestial contrast to his earlier control.

   No time to waste. He lunged for the doors. Originally, he’d planned to stage a fire, leaving a corpse in his place. Now? Let them chase shadows. Let them drown in suspicion. He was already late.

Chapter Text

   The rest of the night passed in trudging and sullen silence. Fatigue, fresh bruises, wounds, and foul weather weighed on Morrigan’s companions. Before dawn, the group was twice drenched by short, icy downpours. The additional burden was the still-unconscious elf, carried like a dead weight between Jory and Alistair. And then there was the gnawing sense of danger—not dispelled even by the first rays of sunlight. It seemed to lurk behind every bush now. Of course, the men couldn’t shake the loss of their comrade, left behind without burial or honors. The witch treated the previous night’s events as settled, refusing to let them fuel darker thoughts.

   Yet with the sun flickering between the clouds, the monotony of the march took hold. The sharpness of their dark musings blurred. Guilt dulled. The warmth of the new day helped, as did the vivid landscape. A flicker of brighter emotion came when Alim finally regained consciousness. After a brief rest and a terse summary of events, the mage caught the mood and silently fell into step, saving questions for later.

   Two hours later, cresting another hill, the party spotted the slender silhouette of Ostagar’s watchtower—still imposing after centuries. It pierced the sky like an arrow. Just past the last ridge, warmth, food, and campfires awaited.

   Alistair slumped onto a nearby log, forehead pressed to his knees, signalling a breather. Jory prodded his swollen mouth and promptly collapsed into the grass. After a moment, the blond straightened and fixed his gaze on the girl’s lean figure. Leaning casually on her staff, she stared pensively at the horizon between sparse pines—back toward where they’d first met her. Not a trace of weariness showed. Deliberately sharpening his tone, Alistair tossed out a question:

   — How do you manage to look so fresh after a march like that?

   Morrigan smirked, eyes still forward.

   — Hard to say. Either your companion is better suited to long walks... or the men around her are simply weak. I’ll ponder it in my spare time.

   Alistair scowled. She caught his reaction from the corner of her eye, sighed, and continued:

   — There were times I didn’t return home for days. Hunting. Surveying the wilds, studying beasts, gathering herbs. Just the forest and... the maiden. That tempers body and mind—teaches where the line lies between arrogance and real strength.

   Perched on gnarled roots beneath a pine, the elf ventured cautiously:

   — Alone? And no one worried? No one called you home?

   Morrigan closed her eyes, shaking her head.

   — Complex questions. Slippery words. What is loneliness? How does one describe concern? Our views may differ fundamentally, elf. You, raised in the Tower, should understand such nuances better than most. Especially now, thrust into the wider world. The chains you knew never bound me. And what stirred my spirit... is no concern of outsiders.

   Jory, rubbing his bandaged leg, smirked and jabbed:

   — A witch is a witch. Like these lands—wild, dangerous, and deceptive. What they say of the mother applies to the daughter.

   She shrugged.

   — A warrior. Like the sword on your back—heavy, blunt, unwieldy. What holds for one holds for all.

   The swordsman bristled but checked himself under Alistair’s glare. With a huff, he flopped back, muttering:

   — Sword’s perfectly sharp. Checked before we left.

   Unexpectedly, Alim spoke up:

   — After last night... Why Ostagar? You could’ve slipped any pursuer in the wilds of the Korcari.

   Morrigan tilted her head, weighing the words.

   — You’ve a Grey among you. But—blondie, how many spawn have you seen at once?

   Alistair’s jaw twitched.

   — Thirty-four. The officers told us to turn tail and prove we could run. Lost one that day.

   — I’ve seen a hundred. From afar. When a horde like that crawls through the woods, elf, no branch or root will hide you.

   Seeing the conversation wither, Alistair slapped his knees.

   — Lovely chat. Truly ‘heartwarming.’ Let’s move. Three hours—we’ll reach camp.

   Grimacing but silent, the party rose for the final descent. The terrain grew rocky, boulders veined with roots jutting from the slopes. The hills steepened, as if a titanic force had crumpled the Korcari Wilds, carving deeper valleys and sharper peaks. Near Ostagar, cliffs plunged abruptly. Pines now dominated, interspersed with deciduous trees crowned in autumn fire and gold.

   The path narrowed, forcing them to clutch at outcrops. During one pause, Morrigan fell in step with the panting elf. She watched him climb, teeth gritted—then sunlight pierced the clouds, revealing his pallor, unnatural even for an elf.

   — That magic last night...

   She drew out the words, letting him gather his thoughts.

   — Rare skill for a Circle apprentice. A battlemage?

   Alim inhaled deeply, wiped sweat, and glanced at Alistair’s back.

   — Strange that this interests you. But no. I never sought the battlemage corps, bound to the Chantry and the King. Simpler life, perhaps—but hidden costs. Still, I took to magic young. Of my options, I chose Tower Guard: standing with Templars during Harrowings, keeping order, escorting Tranquil. A protector... Poorly planned, as you see.

   Morrigan scaled the next ledge, then offered a hand. After a pause, he took it.

   — You speak as if you had something to guard there. Strange. My knowledge of the Circles—of Kinloch Hold—is hardly exhaustive. But few there burn to defend their gilded cage. Let alone devote themselves to it.

   Dusting himself off, Alim shook his head.

   — The heart of another is a dark forest.

   She nodded slowly.

   — So it is.

    * * *

   Crossing the final ridge, the party entered a forest starkly different from the one they’d left behind. Even the scent had changed. Evergreen pines gave way to the lush variety of broadleaf trees common to central Ferelden. Following the terrain’s contours, the trees stretched in waves all the way to the fortress walls, where cliffs plunged sheer into the depths below. This time, the descent was treacherous—slippery stones and a rain-swollen pond in the lowlands forced careful footing.

   Morrigan paused, taking in the unfamiliar path with a furrowed brow. Every detail was scrutinized, every potential refuge noted. Misreading her thoughts, Alim offered his own take on the peculiar landscape:

   — Unsettling, isn’t it?

   She arched an eyebrow, waiting. The mage faltered, then clarified:

   — Ostagar’s an imperial relic, yes—but few realize this forest contrasts with the Korcari Wilds for the same reason. The Magisters planted it. Perhaps Tevinter mages preferred this aesthetic. Or the original flora was razed during construction. Unsettling, really—the labor it must’ve taken to plant all this for a frontier outpost.

   Alistair, already descending, tossed back:

   — Beauty’s fine, but what matters is it’s impassable for cavalry or supply trains. Admire it from the fortress. Move.

   The march led them along a narrow trail between boulders, then to a grove at the fortress base. The walls, though weathered and veined with stubborn roots, still radiated an air of impregnability. Winding past gnarled trees, the party emerged onto a clearing of stumps—then onto the trampled ground before the gates. Fresh wood shavings and hastily hung gates suggested recent repairs.

   Two bored guards leaned on spears, eyeing the newcomers without curiosity. Morrigan hung back, letting Alistair take the lead. With a wave, he asked if Duncan was in camp or with the King. The guards shrugged—they’d only been on duty a few hours. A few flat jokes later, they were inside.

   Ostagar’s interior fared worse than its walls. Not a single intact building remained—even the grand central structure was a skeletal ruin of columns and arches, hinting at Tevinter’s love for vast halls. The Fereldans who now occupied it preferred cramped quarters.

   The military camp sprawled amidst the ruins, a mosaic of faded tents and pavilions bearing heraldic embroidery. Oddly, it harmonized with autumn’s palette and the eroded statues. Near the gates, haystacks, makeshift horse troughs, and a freshly built kennel cluttered the space.

   Then the hounds howled.

   Jory shot Morrigan a glare. She feigned innocence but tensed inwardly—this was too convenient. Alim watched her, not the dogs. Alistair’s jaw tightened as the kennel master, a grizzled man, smirked.

   — Alistair. Should’ve known. Only Grey Wardens rattle the boys like this. Sometimes they can’t tell your kind from darkspawn. — His tone darkened. — Ran into ’em, or did you go looking?

   — Ran into ’em, — Alistair muttered. — Seeking ’em out’s just stupid.

   The man eyed the party.

   — Careful, Grey. The army’s here to fight. Some might call that talk... bold.

   — Won’t change my mind. We’ve got business—like washing off this taint.

   — Aye. And Alistair? Don’t trail filth. Nerves are frayed.

   As they walked away, Morrigan murmured:

   — “Trail filth”?

   — Darkspawn blood’s contagious, — Alistair said flatly. — An open wound’s a death sentence. Most know it’s what makes Grey Wardens, too. But they don’t trust ours is harmless. Hence... no handshakes.

   — Fascinating.

   Descending toward the tents, Morrigan noted the camp’s disarray. Instead of orderly rows, it was chaos: a central cluster of merged pavilions (guarded by four Templars in engraved plate), randomly scattered soldier tents, and supply wagons near a makeshift workshop. On the far wall, archers and spearmen drilled.

   Alistair led them to a roaring fire between ancient columns. A statuesque man—dark-skinned, silver-streaked beard, Templar-like armor—rose as they approached. His stern face hid nothing from Morrigan: his eyes warmed at the sight of Alistair, then flicked over the others—lingering on her.

   — Alistair, — he said, voice low and pleasant. — Your “short trip” seems to have diverged from the plan. The Wilds exact a price. But experience is valuable. Report.

   Alistair stiffened, chastened.

   — No signs of darkspawn until the outpost. Then... a storm. Lightning like I’ve only seen on the Waking Sea. Later, we found tracks—clear, heading northwest. And then... a full patrol. Unarmed, but with an alpha. It acted... odd. Didn’t fight. Just fled. Daveth didn’t make it.

   Duncan’s gaze softened.

   — Losses are inevitable. A leader’s duty is to minimize them—not dwell. — He turned to Morrigan. — And you?

   — Felandaris, — she said.

   Alim smirked. The name meant “terror-flower” in Elvish.

   — Apt, — Duncan noted. — How’d you come by the treaties?

   — Circumstance. Like why we’re all here. The deal’s done: the Wardens get their papers. I get safe passage. My secrets stay mine. The question is—what’s your word worth?

   Duncan’s voice turned steely.

   — You press awkwardly.

   — That’s the point.

   — Alistair?

   — Prickly. Tough. Fights well. Self-serving. A witch. — The last word dripped disdain.

   Duncan chided him:

   — Shed the Templar’s hate, or it’ll get you killed.

   Morrigan’s eyes narrowed at “Templar”, but she said nothing.

   Duncan continued:

   — Three more skirmishes took place last night. All against poorly equipped darkspawn. All victories. Too many. And two patrols—Fergus Cousland’s and Arl Urien’s—are missing.

   Morrigan scoffed.

   — Northerners got lost. No mages to signal for help.

   To everyone’s surprise, Duncan agreed.

   — We’re short on mages. Too many Templars. — He eyed Alim. — But the treaties are secured. Focus on the Joining. Alistair—clean up. Meet me at sunset in the ruins.

   As Duncan left, Alistair groaned:

   — Bath first? Or food?

   Jory rubbed his stomach, but Alim cut in:

   — Bath.

    * * *

   The bathhouse, a slapdash structure of fresh-cut logs, stood defiantly intact at the foot of Ishal’s Tower—a relic of the Archon who’d overseen Ostagar’s construction. The mundane nestled against the eternal.

   From the bridge spanning the gorge, the view was staggering: the southern slope, choked with rubble; the gorge below, tent-dotted like mushrooms after rain; the orderly lanes (already taking on the character of their makers); and beyond, a cleared field giving way to stumps and the dark pines of the old forest. The horizon blurred into distant hills.

   Only one artifact of civilization remained—the Imperial Highway. Once, it had met the gorge head-on, but centuries of neglect had left it fragmented, swallowed by the wilds. Now it reappeared an hour’s march northwest, a ruler-straight scar on the land.

   Morrigan turned away, trailing her weary companions. Only Alim glanced back—northwest, toward Lake Calenhad and Kinloch Hold’s distant spire. The heart of Ferelden’s Circle.

   The bathhouse itself was a shoddy affair: crooked logs, gaping seams, steam leaking everywhere. Nearby, soldiers loitered on rocks while sergeants barked orders at woodcutters.

   Alistair adopted a gruff air, accosting a sergeant. To Morrigan’s surprise, the man cursed fluently—but the Grey Warden only leaned in, murmuring something that made the older man scowl.

   Alim muttered an explanation:

   — Baths are allocated by rank. Patrols skip the line—which irks those waiting. Lucky for them, we’re just four. A full squadron’s return would—

   Morrigan cut in:

   — Wait. You assume I’d join you?

   The elf coughed.

   — Ah. Right. Spent days trailing three men— Never mind. Too tired to dig this hole deeper. But you…?

   — I’ll pass. Unlike you, I’m not drenched in blood. Daveth’s clothes got washed overnight. — She gestured vaguely. — I’ll wait… around.

   As Alim trudged off, Morrigan scaled Ishal’s Tower, finding a perch on a protruding block. Below, soldiers whistled at her agility—then promptly returned to dice games.

   Observing them, she noted their lack of fear. Nervous laughter, bravado, petty aggression—all symptoms of complacency. Duncan was right: this army had known only easy victories. The Grey Wardens’ warnings fell on deaf ears.

   Closing her eyes, Morrigan turned inward. The gap in her memory taunted her—a void her mind reflexively dismissed as trivial. But she’d been raised harder than that. With iron will, she chipped at its edges, reconstructing the day it began:

   A routine morning. Returning from the hunt, dragging a gutted musk deer. Flemeth’s wordless greeting—then…

   Fragments resisted order. A figure emerging from the trees. Male? Flemeth’s face—surprised. That alone was alarming. The Witch of the Wilds was unpredictable, but surprise was rare. And uninvited guests? Impossible. Flemeth always sensed intruders days in advance. Usually, Morrigan would be sent to mislead fools or scare Hasind youths. Or kill overzealous maleficar hunters.

   Two possibilities presented themselves...

   A cruel lesson from Mother. But even Flemeth wouldn’t erase memories for the sake of a lesson.

   Someone slipped past her. That thought prickled Morrigan’s skin. Yet logic soothed her: if she’d escaped such an enemy unharmed, the threat was gone. Flemeth had either dealt with the intruder—or he’d no interest in Morrigan.

   A third, darker thought surfaced: What if Mother lost? Examining it, she felt only a thread of sorrow for lost history—and quiet rage at the theft of her choice.

   The second key point was this. Why did her mind only conjure scenarios of violent confrontation? Sighing, Morrigan forced herself to detach from the emotional haze—from every feeling that surged at the mere memory of smoke coiling above the hut she’d shared with her mother. Some emotions seemed... imposed, deliberately pushing her to flee like an animal instinctively retreating from fire. But without an active pursuer—what sparked such impulses?

   Frowning, the witch focused on the mental image burned into her memory. The devastation suggested massive damage to the forest—likely tied to the stranger’s appearance. Yet when, how, and by whom remained mysteries. Had a battle occurred, it would have been on a scale beyond Morrigan’s comprehension—and she’d have been collateral damage. Yet her steady pulse and breath disproved that. The only plausible scenario was an improbable one: something had saved her, shielding her so completely that not a scratch remained before whisking her away. But how? Hundreds of clues, yet no proof...

   A pained groan escaped her as she massaged her temples, dispelling the throbbing headache constricting her skull like a vise. Opening her eyes, Morrigan resolved to return to the present—where the immediate threat wasn’t some enigmatic stranger, but the impending carnage of northerners and darkspawn.

   After half an hour with no sign of the men emerging from the baths, the free-spirited daughter of the Wilds grew restless. Scanning the soldiers, she sought women among their ranks—a rarity in Ferelden, though Orlesian occupation had eroded some traditional prejudices. Soon, she spotted two archers on duty, their identical braids, weary postures, and tired expressions providing perfect templates.

   Loosening her hair, Morrigan swiftly replicated their hairstyle. Upon landing, she mimicked their gait and mannerisms—though she doubted the performance, the transformation was seamless enough. Adopting the harried air of someone rushing to unpleasant duties, she crossed the bridge unchallenged. None cared to stop yet another weary soul.

   With sunset hours away, the mages’ segregated area became her sole point of interest. Choosing a spot just beyond the Templars’ sight but within earshot, she settled casually, unpacking her belongings with deliberate slowness—nothing drew attention like an idle soldier.

   The Templars, like all thinking beings, couldn’t maintain stoic silence forever. Their fragmented conversation revealed tensions in Kinloch Hold since a quarter of their order departed for Ostagar. With guards stretched thin, relations with certain mage factions had deteriorated rapidly. Both men suspected conspiracy, though they absolved the First Enchanter—a staunch Chantry ally—of blame.

   After a dreary detour into assessing female mages’ appearances (reminding Morrigan of villagers comparing cattle), they circled back to intriguing news: a Seeker’s arrival in Denerim. The term carried weight—this was a Chantry operative of immense authority. Whispers placed the event a fortnight prior, the news only now reaching the front via a commander’s leaked letter. Speculations abounded: ties to the Blight, a rogue hunt, or—most compelling—the sudden silence of Aeonar, the mage prison. If even a Seeker took notice...

   Just as Morrigan pondered this, Duncan emerged from the mages’ tents.

   With a nod to the Templars, Duncan left the cordoned area and vanished behind nearby tents. Even with her sharp hearing, Morrigan couldn’t discern the Grey Warden’s footsteps over the camp’s din—until he suddenly spoke behind her.

   — Felandaris? I see you’ve transformed. That suggests certain... intentions.

   His voice carried dry amusement.

   — For our safety, you’d do better staying close—preferably where I can see you. But since youth favors recklessness, you’ll endure an old man’s company. Walk with me. And tell me: what do you seek?

   — You think I have but one goal?

   — Ah. — Duncan adjusted his gloves. — Alistair may have many thoughts, but only one purpose at a time. That doesn’t make him simple—just methodical. Step by step. You? Your eyes betray you. Even mid-conversation, they dart—weighing clues, analyzing surroundings. Multiple aims. The question is: do you steer them, or they you? — He chuckled. — But no soul reveals itself at once.

   — Hmph.

   — No offense meant. Philosophy comes with outliving comrades. Or with seeking a worthy death.

   — Is that what you seek here? — Her words prickled like thorns.

   — Now I see why Alistair called you “prickly.” — He gestured toward the ruins. — Having seen death up close, I question if any end is “worthy.” Hence my idle musings. So—your goals?

   Morrigan shrugged, following him into the skeleton of Ostagar’s central hall. Surprisingly, its burgundy brick floor remained intact, the geometric patterns still crisp.

   — For now, Alistair’s approach suits me, — she admitted. — Survive this mess. Escape north. Then—

   She froze, startled by the blankness where plans should be. As if she’d forgotten something vital.

   — Then... find sanctuary. Sort through doubts. Simple enough.

   Duncan stopped before a massive slab—perhaps an ancient table or grim altar.

   — A respectable plan. May you achieve at least the first steps.

   Reaching into his belt, he produced a cloth bundle.

   — Not porridge, but filling. No queues required.

   Unwrapping it revealed two grayish bricks of... something. The lumpy texture defied categorization as food.

   — Trail rations, — he explained. — Dried beef, salt, oats, vegetables, nut flour.

   Brushing dust off the slab, he added:

   — This will serve for the ritual. The Joining’s mystique has faded to old men’s posturing, but the location suits. — He nodded toward the steps. — Rest until sunset. I’ll be here until the others arrive.

    * * *

   As the sun kissed the horizon, painting the ruins of Ostagar in crimson and casting long shadows, Morrigan’s three companions arrived—clean and refreshed. Duncan halted Alistair at the steps for a hushed exchange. The blond shot a glance at Morrigan, who leaned against a broken pillar, but nodded silently.

   Soon, the other participants in the Joining appeared. First, the Grey Wardens—a pitiful dozen, all Duncan’s age or older, their eyes haunted by varying degrees of madness. Not a single Fereldan among them. Then came the mage, robed in the Circle’s traditional garb—a deliberate handicap, Morrigan mused, to mark him as a target. His Grey Warden medallion glinted in the dying light. Notably, no Templars shadowed him.

   As Alistair, Jory, and Alim lit torches around the ritual site, the last rays of sunlight gilded Ishal’s Tower. The camp’s noise dulled, but its smells grew sharper—smoke, sweat, and fresh-cut wood.

   The two surviving recruits stood before Alistair while Duncan accepted the chalice of Tainted blood from the mage. Jory trembled but stood resolute; Alim looked hollow, as if realizing there was no escape.

   Jory drank first. A grimace, then—his body seized, collapsing bonelessly. Convulsions wracked him until, abruptly, he stilled. Duncan checked his pulse and shook his head.

   — Dead? — rasped an Orlesian Warden.

   Alistair cursed under his breath, fists clenched. Morrigan watched, silent. Wasteful stupidity, but fascinating.

   Then Duncan turned to Alim.

   The elf recoiled.

   — This… isn’t what you promised.

   Alistair stepped forward, but Duncan cut him off with a look.

   — You swore this had meaning, — Alim hissed. — That I’d be protecting her. Instead, it’s just… knives on a table. Sharper tools for your war.

   Duncan’s voice was weary.

   — You came to me. Chose this.

   — To keep her safe! You never said it might kill me. What are the odds? One in two? One in four?

   A tic in Duncan’s eye. Alim paled.

   — You were going to send her into this blind.

   — It’s the best we have.

   — No. I refuse.

   The Wardens tensed. Duncan exhaled.

   — The Order doesn’t deny the right to refuse. But understand the consequences.

   Alim’s smile was bleak.

   — Oh, I do. Refusal means death. Acceptance means probable death. But you’re not just threatening me, are you?

   Duncan’s jaw tightened.

   — No. If the Blight isn’t stopped, no Circle will shelter you. But for now… swear silence, and you live. Until spring.

   — And if any of you survive, I die. — Alim extended his hand. — I swear.

   The ritual ended.

   Alistair avoided Alim afterward, lost in thought. Morrigan drifted closer to the elf, feigning indifference.

   As the Wardens dispersed—Jory’s body destined for the pyre—a messenger approached Duncan.

   — Ser! His Majesty summons you. The darkspawn advance from the northeast. The camp prepares for battle.

   Duncan’s gaze flicked north.

   — Alistair, see to quarters for the rest.

   Alistair stared after him, then turned to Morrigan. Her smirk was all teeth.

Chapter Text

   The night by the campfire, its orange tongues licking higher than their heads, passed without incident. No worse, no better than in the forest. A plus—no bloodsuckers. A minus—the military camp never truly slept. The dreams left Morrigan with a vague sense of unease, though no trace of concrete memory lingered.

   Glancing around, Morrigan first spotted Duncan’s figure. The man sat in the same spot as the night before. The Grey Warden’s face was blank as he watched the flames greedily devour a pair of fresh logs. Noticing movement, the warrior gave a curt nod. Morrigan, with an uncharacteristic curiosity and careful silence, studied the features of a man who undoubtedly held an exceptional position—even if he stood far from the pinnacle of the world’s, or even the country’s, hierarchy. In these moments, the Knight-Commander maintained a striking detachment. Or perhaps his control over his expression was so absolute that reading his thoughts and emotions was impossible.

   Less than ten minutes passed before the other two participants in the ritual arrived—strictly separate from one another. Greeting both with the same nod, Duncan cut straight to the matter:

   — I assume at least two of you are burning with questions. How went the war council? Since you’ll face the consequences regardless, I see no point in hiding it. Besides, there’s no military secret here. A horde approaches from the north—roughly a thousand strong. Poorly equipped. They won’t reach Ostagar before tonight. The King believes this timing is coincidence. Your interlocutor… and some others in His Majesty’s circle suspect otherwise. On one point, the King is, unfortunately, undeniably right. At this stage, the army has few options to evade battle—especially with an attack from the north. For a host of reasons, the worst is unfolding.

   Morrigan crossed her legs, leaned forward, and propped her hands on her knees before asking the simplest yet most critical question:

   — Why?

   Duncan raised his brows in surprise but answered.

   — Initially, intelligence suggested the scattered spawn were moving south to north. By yesterday morning, the bulk of the horde was believed to be within the Korcari Wilds. Thus, the King’s general, Loghain Mac Tir, proposed fortifying Ostagar as our stronghold. At first, the strategy faced no objections. Now, doubts gnaw at us—did we choose the battlefield, or was it chosen for us?

   Alistair frowned and cautiously interjected, keeping his voice low:

   — Can we truly expect such cunning, long-term planning from spawn? Months of coordination?

   The old Grey Warden sighed and shook his head.

   — There’s no clear answer. The creatures of the Blight are, for the most part, fearless predators. Alphas are cunning in their own way—like old, seasoned beasts who’ve outlived younger rivals. Emissaries… are different. Their intellect breeds twisted yet effective schemes. But planning so far ahead… cooperation on this scale… This is new. It’s hard to accept when the rules change, and nothing is as it seems. Mortals cling to the familiar until the last. But if my years have taught me anything, it’s that there were never any rules to begin with. Prepare for the worst. If the unexpected happens, our assumptions were flawed. To return to Felandaris’ question… At first, few paid heed to minor skirmishes along the southern border. Except us. Then, violence flared in the southeast, spurring the King to campaign. In the Southron Hills, monsters destroyed the village of Vintiver—near the southern edges of the Brecilian Forest. The Templars still blame an unknown maleficar. Then, silence. Suddenly, reports flooded in from the Western Hills. An epidemic began in Sothmere—the Amber Rage. Now we know the taint was to blame. Then came word from Gallagher’s Wold. Hordes of darkspawn had invaded the Arl of the Western Hills’ lands. Amid this, and at His Majesty’s behest, Loghain devised a strategy to crush the spawn swiftly. En route to Ostagar, the army fought three major battles, seemingly shattering the invaders’ vanguard. These clashes reinforced the general’s belief in the horde’s bestial nature. All that remained was to hold the fortress, bait the horde’s core, and destroy it. Events unfolded as predicted—until now. We were lulled into thinking any remnants were mere beasts without weapons. And nothing more. Assuming the army could always retreat to the Imperial Highway and onward to Lothering, we traded mobility for the ancient walls’ strength. That’s why a northern assault is disastrous. The camp’s defenses there are weakest. We cannot retreat south into Korcari. Attempting to withdraw toward Ferelden risks battle in the forests or along the Highway.

   Morrigan snorted, unable to resist a jab laced with dry mockery:

   — So the glorious northerners were outmaneuvered by mindless spawn?

   Alistair shot her a glare and snapped back:

   — Easy to criticize when you bear no responsibility.

   — Oh, shifting your stance like autumn leaves—pretty, but pointless. Weren’t you the one decrying the folly of open battle just yesterday?

   Alistair opened his mouth to retort but faltered under the elf’s attentive gaze. He growled:

   — You know nothing. I spoke then, and I stand by it. I’m no grand strategist, least of all compared to a hero of the Orlesian occupation. But the idea was simple. We shouldn’t have met this enemy in the wilderness, where we’re on equal footing. Cynical as it sounds, we should’ve faced the horde at Lothering. Or further north. Evacuate the civilians first, of course. Use roads, rivers, supply lines, villages, and forts—even militia. Instead, we’re trapped here as if fighting mindless beasts that’ll charge the walls without tactics. But if they’re smarter—

   Morrigan arched a brow and clapped twice, slow and sardonic.

   — Remarkable you still draw breath with such wit.

   — Says you.

   — A mystery you’ll die pondering, no doubt.

   Alim, who had watched the exchange in silence, turned to Duncan and pressed:

   — Is she right? Was the general outplayed?

   Duncan’s gaze returned to the flames as he shook his head.

   — If only things were as simple as they sound. Right or wrong. Victory or defeat. Loghain Mac Tir is accustomed to counting himself among the great strategists—and deservedly so, I might add. He is also unaccustomed to heeding advice from an obscure, sun-darkened Grey Warden. But like many before him, the general underestimated the enemy, infecting the King and his court with his own certainty. I avoid politics where I can. Tensions between the general and the King run high for reasons unknown to me. This spurs Loghain to act more aggressively, more confidently than ever—precisely when such traits are least warranted. Yet it would be a mistake to call the man rigid or a fool. Based solely on recent reports, Ser Loghain pieced together the truth and admitted his error. Without my own knowledge, I could never have drawn the same conclusions from such scant evidence. At the war council, he urged pragmatism over optimism: withdraw the army northwest to Redcliffe Fort at once. That very night. The King laughed in his face, forcing Loghain to choose between pride and prudence. That a man in his position cast aside pride and acknowledged his mistake… that deserves respect. Mine, certainly. I supported his reasoning. Yet… His Majesty spent the night determined to break Ser Loghain utterly. The King believes the horde is mere beasts, and thus victory is assured. If Loghain wavers, it only proves glory belongs to those who stand firm. Was this not why the army was gathered? Still, the King conceded retreat might be wise—on one condition. Winter approaches. Regrouping and resupplying would drain the treasury, delaying any final battle until spring. By then, the horde would grow stronger. Guaranteed victory would require Orlesian reinforcements. That, it seems, was a step too far for the general. I cannot say which of the two lost more in that exchange.

   Alim shook his head grimly but stayed silent. It was Alistair who spoke next.

   — How will the battle unfold?

   — The battle… yes. Here’s what we’ve settled. A third of the forces, led by the King, will meet the enemy here. Elite units and Grey Wardens at the base of the walls; archers and ballistae above. The remaining two-thirds—including cavalry, mages, and reserves—will withdraw northwest by noon, lying in wait for a flanking strike once the battle is joined.

   Morrigan tilted her head, skepticism lacing her voice.

   — How suspicious. Why would the King march into the fray? What does he gain?

   Duncan shrugged.

   — I argued against it. Pointlessly. Truth be told… I don’t know. I’m not privy to the King’s mind. But Loghain didn’t call it madness for nothing. His Majesty believes crushing the horde will take but a day—and his presence will burnish his legend. Pride? Undoubtedly. Heroism? Perhaps. But above all, he’s convinced the enemy cannot scheme. Thus, the risk seems illusory to him.

   The next question came from the blond, who shifted uneasily as the discussion turned to the King’s judgment.

   — How will the general know when to attack?

   Duncan turned toward Ishal’s Tower and pointed.

   — Firewood and oil will be hauled to the summit today. All that’s left is to light it at the appointed hour—when the enemy is fully committed to melee. And you, Alistair, will light it.

   At first, the blond merely nodded—then jolted upright, sputtering protests.

   — But—I—Why? Surely—

   — It’s simple. You’re the youngest Grey Warden here. You’ve a life ahead; most of us have barely a year left. Yes, exactly, don’t interrupt. Someone must endure. Someone unbroken, open to what comes, untainted—if not by present sins, then past ones. You must survive. Preserve the Treaties. Ishal’s Tower is your best chance. It sounds ignoble, provincial—what hero is ordered merely to live? But trust me, this may be the hardest heroic act of your life. Dying by the enemy’s hand is easy. To live on… Well, you’ll understand. After. It may take years, but it will come.

   Alistair still opened his mouth to object—but Duncan shook his head sharply.

   — This is not a debate. It’s an order. Alim—I’d have you go with him. That’s a request. Consider it balancing the scales. For every Grey Warden here, there are ten darkspawn.

   The elf allowed himself a brief smirk but nodded assent. Then the Grey Warden Commander turned to Morrigan, who snorted immediately.

   — Seeking to appoint me a nursemaid, are we? Drizzled with honeyed words about “the safest spot on the field.” Save your breath. The matter’s simpler: your heir’s word shields me until this farce ends. Since I rely on it, I’ll linger within blade’s reach before vanishing into the wilds. Besides, not even a mangy hound could slip from camp since last eve.

   — Then we’re agreed. My advice—eat. Sleep if you can. Tend to other needs, if you’ve the means or place. After noon, collect the Treaties and settle in the Tower. Climb high.

   With a clap on the men’s shoulders and a nod to Morrigan, the old Grey Warden strode off, leaving the trio in heavy silence. No one wished to speak… and there was nothing left to say.

   * * *

   Aside from its massive foundation—accessible by a private staircase of three or four dozen steps—Ishal’s Tower consisted of four spacious floors. The broad landings of its single stairwell, connecting each tier, hinted at either the builders’ ambition or the need to haul heavy cargo upward. The final floor had once been reached by narrow stone steps ascending from the third level’s center. One of the few impractical touches of this engineering marvel, the staircase had not survived the ages. The soldiers hauling firewood had unceremoniously replaced the ruins of imperial masonry with a sturdy, makeshift ladder.

   The fourth floor was remarkable. Remarkably high. With a remarkable view. Remarkably inhospitable in foul weather. Essentially an open platform, it was crowned by a dome—a verdigris-crusted spire resting on four massive pillars. Intricate copper patterns, thick with patina, coiled down each column before vanishing into the tower’s stone walls. Nothing but those pillars bordered the platform. Just a rough-hewn floor with four drainage grooves, then the abyss. At the center, left of a square hole in the floor, lay bundles of kindling, oil jugs, and tinderboxes—enough that any firestarter’s only worry would be how to escape the flames.

   And the view… The combined height of Ostagar’s cliffs and the tower’s perch evoked the exhilaration of birds in flight. Certainly worth boasting about in a tavern: “I’ve stood beneath the very clouds!”

   Following Duncan’s advice, the trio arrived at the tower around four in the afternoon, bringing a week’s worth of army pemmican just in case. Only Alistair, burdened by a heavy pack, was slightly winded after the climb. The elf, far spryer and unencumbered, shrugged at the warrior’s surprised glance and muttered:

   — Lived in a tower taller than this.

   Morrigan added:

   — And you’re the one in armor.

   She promptly claimed the pillar facing the lowlands. Years scaling Korkari’s trees and far riskier feats had long since cured her of vertigo—so she dangled her legs over the edge, leaned back, and shut her eyes. The wind tousled her hair, but her relaxed posture betrayed no fear of falling. Alim, after a wary look at her, took the pillar beside her but sat safely inward. Alistair, having shed his pack, meticulously inspected the pyre-to-be before pacing the perimeter, surveying the surroundings from all four sides.

   After an hour or so of inactivity, the camp below stirred. Tents vanished in orderly fashion, supplies flowed to wagons, and soldiers formed triple-file ranks. Soon, a disciplined exodus began toward the forest. Yet as some departed, others relocated ballistae from southern to northern walls and hauled spare logs to the palisade.

   Watching the human tide, Morrigan abruptly addressed the dozing elf:

   — Who was she—the one whose place you took?

   Alim opened his eyes, turned toward the northern horizon, and for a time, silently tracked the clouds. A few moments later, having reached some internal accord, he answered:

   — My sister.

   To the witch’s mild surprise, despite the languid pace of the exchange, Alistair hadn’t lost the thread. Muffled curses came from across the platform the moment the reply was spoken:

   — Didn’t know the Circle let kin room together these days. Thought exile was still the only outcome, same as before.

   The mage grimaced, a note of sorrow in his voice:

   — It is. We were… an exception.

   — Ah. And her?

   — Wondering what might’ve caught Duncan’s eye?

   — Just so.

   Alim frowned, deliberating for a few moments before replying:

   — Talent, I’d guess. My sister had an uncanny gift for spells that project runic constructs into three dimensions. With Duncan’s resources, that could’ve granted an immense tactical advantage.

   Morrigan nodded, glanced at the sinking sun, and shut her eyes again…

   * * *

   A hand reached out to gently shake the girl’s shoulder—but a moment before contact, golden eyes snapped open, meeting the elf’s puzzled gaze.

   — Look.

   Morrigan shifted her attention from the man to the view below, now swallowed by gathering darkness. Hundreds—no, thousands—of torchlights outlined the enemy forces at the forest’s edge. What struck her immediately was their formation: the flames moved with rigid discipline, their arrangement too deliberate to be anything but an organized army.

   Alistair, standing three paces to her right, voiced the thought echoing in all their minds:

   — Not a horde. An army. Whoever leads this has turned every weakness of ours to their advantage. And it’s not just their discipline—look, to the right.

   His hand gestured eastward, where a new column advanced along the cliffs separating Korkari from the lowlands. Torchlight flickered, vanishing intermittently behind dense trees, yet even so, the reinforcements—unaccounted for—seemed to match the numbers already assembled. The situation was dire.

   Alim’s voice trembled with tension as he spoke:

   — It’s begun.

   Indeed, the enemy’s front ranks emerged from the forest in perfect unison. The darkspawn hurled their torches to the ground and marched forward, slowly but inexorably. A second line followed, then a third, a fourth. The fires left behind cast the advancing mass in crimson silhouettes, obscuring details but amplifying their horror. Their gear was mismatched—improvised weapons, scavenged armor—yet the unnatural silence and coordination were oppressive.

   Then, like a force of nature, drums erupted from Ostagar’s fortress. The uneven, thunderous rhythm quickened pulses and stirred blood. Without warning, trumpets pierced the air, followed by the screech of ballistae and the unified roar of soldiers lowering their spears.

   Ballista bolts tore through the first two ranks, but the darkspawn’s spaced formations minimized casualties. Arrows rained from the walls, yet the damage fell short of expectations.

   The lines clashed. The first wave of darkspawn fell to spears, and a triumphant cheer rose from the defenders—but the trio atop the tower didn’t share their optimism. The forest disgorged wave after wave, as if spawning more creatures than there had been torches. The realization struck like a dagger to the gut.

   — Bloody Void...

   — Admit it—it’s clever.

   — The army’s position will collapse within half an hour. Sooner, if more keep coming. Alistair, this isn’t about tactics anymore. It’s survival. Light the signal.

   With a grim nod, the blond strode to the pyre. He hurled three oil jugs into the woodpile, struck flint, and showered it with sparks. Flames erupted, licking the dome with a crackling hunger. Within minutes, the heat became unbearable. Blinded by the blaze, Alistair turned to the others, who were scanning the northwest darkness.

   — Well? Anything?

   Minutes crawled by to the soundtrack of battle. The human forces barely faltered, their victory cries growing louder—until the ogres reached the spear line. Then, a new wave of darkspawn emerged, not marching forward but wielding massive bows. The arrows they loosed arced high, punching through shields and armor like parchment. Ogres—twice a man’s height, horned and relentless—slammed into the front lines, shrugging off wounds as they crushed flesh and splintered spears.

   — Where are our reinforcements?

   Alistair’s voice wavered between fear and desperation. Alim remained silent, jaw clenched. Morrigan, leaning against her pillar, gestured northeast.

   — There they are. Are you blind? Reinforcements are coming—just not for us.

   The elf cut off Alistair’s protest with a grim murmur:

   — She’s right. Face it. There are no reinforcements. There never were.

   Meanwhile, a second line of archers emerged from the forest, filling the air with another volley of arrows. Alim continued, his voice grim:

   — If we strip away emotion and look at this coldly… this is a rout. Reinforcements could turn the tide. But the cost… I suspect Loghain is withdrawing his forces even now, racing to put as much distance between himself and this slaughter as possible. He commands two-thirds of Ferelden’s army—forces still fit to fight. And though it’s too late, he’s taking your advice.

   Alistair’s gauntleted hands clenched until the mail groaned. He opened his mouth to protest but managed only a strangled sound. Morrigan, watching the carnage with eerie detachment, added:

   — A trap. Again and again, you northerners march into it with such clever expressions. So much talk, so little attention to where you step. Loghain, though… he watches his footing. Though perhaps there’s emotion in it too. A quarrel between your leader and the general—and vengeance is a petty mistress.

   The elf crouched beside her, his voice low.

   — What do you see?

   Below, the ogre assault faltered. A unit of Grey Wardens—fighting with lethal precision, the King in his gleaming plate among them—proved the monsters could die. Despite the devastation they’d wrought, the hulking creatures soon littered the ground. The Fereldan ranks reformed behind the palisade as ballistae and archers shifted fire to the forest, cutting down the darkspawn archers now massed in three tight lines.

   — Waiting. And a pit, hungry for brave rescuers. You believed the enemy few. You were deceived. Look down and tell yourselves—if only the whole army were here… Why not consider your eyes deceive you again? The enemy waits. And if the others don’t come—

   — —we’ll be crushed without mercy.

   — Precisely.

   — Yet you’re calm.

   — Truly? If your guesses are as sharp as your swordplay, we’re all doomed.

   Alim started to retort, but a new sound drowned his words—a growl, low and vicious, vibrating through their chests. It ceased abruptly, followed by a hollow boom from the tower’s base. The elf paled.

   — Structural collapse. That sound—it’s stone giving way. Every few years, some battlemage idiot tests fireballs in enclosed spaces…

   — Look!

   Alistair’s shout drew their attention to chaos below. The tower doors burst open, disgorging darkspawn onto the unsuspecting archers and ballistae crews. Fighting erupted near the southern pass. Then, from the forest, emerged three dozen genlocks in light armor, their muzzles wrapped in cloth. As one, they raised their hands, dark crimson flames swirling into seething orbs that arced overhead—blossoming into short-lived fireflowers among the Fereldan ranks. Heat scorched lungs; wood, cloth, and flesh ignited. The battle’s rhythm shattered into screams. The drums fell silent. The King’s lines broke.

   Alim pointed weakly.

   — This is…

   Alistair, shielding his eyes from the glare, whirled toward the pyre.

   — Can we shove the wood down?

   The mage stared as if he’d gone mad, but Morrigan understood at once.

   — Heroics, warrior? What’s in it for us?

   The Grey Warden snarled through gritted teeth.

   — I’ll extend our bargain as long as needed. My word.

   — Folly. But very well. Alim—circle the pyre. Use that repulsion spell. Imagine the logs are enemies and push.

   Nodding, the elf grabbed his staff. A faint barrier shimmered around him—weaker than during the night’s battle, lacking the green wisp’s aid. With two sharp exhales, he tensed—and the woodpile shuddered toward the edge. Three pulses sent it cascading down the stairs, flames licking at the tower’s base. Trembling, drenched in sweat, Alim gulped a vial from his belt.

   Alistair didn’t wait. He hurled the remaining oil jugs after the tumbling pyre. The resulting fireball lit his face with vengeful satisfaction.

   — Brilliant plan, flawlessly executed. Petty vengeance, as you said. Now the tower’s choked with flame—where will they go?

   Spitting, the blond drew his sword, snatched up a shield, and leaped to the third floor. Morrigan raised a brow.

   — Determined… Alim?

   Still pale but steady, the elf nodded—no fainting in his plans. They slid down the ladder to find Alistair braced at the stairwell, the thunder of approaching darkspawn echoing upward. Battle had come to them.

   Morrigan tossed over her shoulder:

   — Don’t die.

   Morrigan approached Alistair and, moving slowly to avoid startling him, touched his blade. A simple spell rippled across the metal, coating it in frost as if freshly pulled from a winter gale. The warrior acknowledged the aid with a curt nod. Alim, wrapped in shimmering magical and spiritual wards, attempted a grim joke:

   — Heard tales in camp about the legendary Witch of Korkari. They say she could call lightning upon her enemies. Perhaps we’re fortunate to have such company?

   The witch nearly agreed—then froze mid-breath, struck by uncertainty. Racing through her memory, she realized the lightning spell’s sequence had vanished, feeding fresh paranoia. The hours spent mastering it felt intact, yet the spell itself... as if those efforts had evaporated. What else had been lost during those blank hours? With a noncommittal nod to Alim, she steeled herself for battle.

   A minute and a half later, the first three genlocks appeared on the lower floor. Clad in rusted mail and wielding jagged blades, they charged up the stairs with startling speed. The spell on Alistair’s blade hurled the lead creature backward—bones crunched as it tumbled down—marking the fight’s start.

   Morrigan clenched her fist and hissed through gritted teeth:

   — Tua vita mea esté.

   Something intangible brushed the charging genlock—like a ripple on water—before its sword plunged into her abdomen to the hilt, dragging her back a step with a choked cry of pain. Though Alim roared in fury, Alistair was locked in his own struggle. Genlocks in melee were deadlier than they were at range, especially armed and armored. Deflecting thrusts with his shield, barely dodging, the blond bided his time—then ducked low and surged forward. A shield bash to the gut, a stab to the thigh, and he flung his opponent down the stairs after the first.

   Turning, he witnessed something unnatural: Morrigan, impaled and smiling horribly, cradled the kneeling genlock’s head as she whispered:

   — Fríos. Tenací.

   Frost crawled over the creature’s skull beneath her fingers. It collapsed, sword clattering free. She yanked the blade from her belly—barely a trickle of blood now—and tossed it aside.

   — Leave this one. It’ll serve as a... well of life.

   Five more genlocks reached the third floor. An archer loosed at Alistair—the only visible armed target—forcing him to dodge right, slamming into the wall. Alim managed to hurl one attacker downstairs, his ragged breathing betraying his limits.

   Alistair whirled, using foes as shields against the archer. Morrigan, exploiting her staff’s reach, speared a genlock’s eye, then bludgeoned it senseless. Slipping from the archer’s sight, she repeated her freezing spell on the stunned creature.

   Before Alistair could fully use one darkspawn as cover, a hilt struck his jaw twice in the scrum. He retaliated—kicking both genlocks down the stairs—then spat blood and retreated from arrow range.

   — Our time’s running out.

   Panting, he checked his grip and squinted upward.

   — Dark’s falling.

   Two genlocks and another archer burst onto the landing. Alistair and Morrigan split, complicating their aim—but the archer targeted the swaying elf. Without hesitation, Morrigan incanted:

   — Somnia dirae tenebrae, animus furenté!

   A wave of translucent gloom flashed through the room. The effect was more than she’d hoped for: the archer flailed at invisible threats; one genlock froze; the other stumbled backward down the stairs. Alistair seized the opening—running one through the neck, shield-bashing the second, then finishing it on the floor.

   — Can’t... huff... help but wonder. Got more tricks like last night’s?

   Morrigan shot him a glare, fatigue now plain.

   — Honesty will kill you.

   — Bit late for warnings.

   A thunder of footsteps echoed below—dozens, plus an ogre’s heavy tread. Morrigan hissed:

   — Remember your vow at the ruins? To protect? Your hour’s come. Delay them. Even a minute.

   — Got a plan?

   — An idea. We’ll see what it costs me.

   He readied his blade.

   — Still better than ‘we die now.’

   Alistair clenched his teeth and took position at the stairwell, his attention wholly consumed by the approaching footsteps below. Morrigan lingered for a moment on his tense back before turning to the elf who was clinging to consciousness by sheer will. Closing her eyes, the witch invoked that particular spell her mother had taught her—a strange, interwoven chain of runes turned inward, toward the blood flowing through her veins and the flesh that formed her essence.

   Normally calm though complex, the spell now writhed like a living thing, demanding extra focus and control. Something about it felt broken, wrong. But there was no time to examine each rune in the sequence. As the mage watched with fading consciousness, the witch’s flesh began to ripple like molten wax, swelling and deforming at an accelerating rate. Her face sharpened, losing all traces of eyes or lips. Her mouth filled with needle-sharp teeth. Hair retracted into her body. And the transformation had only begun.

   From the stairs came the clamor of battle—Alistair, seeing and hearing nothing but the fight, desperately held the line. His shouts and the clang of steel became muffled background noise to Alim, whose eyes widened unnaturally at the sight. The mage’s attention remained riveted to the metamorphosis unfolding in front of him. With audible cracks of tendons and snapping bones, the witch’s shoulders widened. Her clothing strained and split at the seams, sloughing off like shed snakeskin. Finally, broad shoulders on an elongated, emaciated frame that barely resembled her former shape sprouted two additional pairs of black-clawed arms with a sickening click.

   The creature exhaled through its lipless mouth, showing no sign of pain or discomfort, before hissing quietly:

   — S-s-strange. But no time for this.

   One hand deftly grabbed her staff and personal bundle. Two others scooped up the paralyzed mage—not that he could have resisted in his state anyway. Emitting a faint whistling sound from the effort, the creature darted away.

   Meanwhile, having barely dispatched his third opponent in a row and miraculously unharmed so far, Alistair got three seconds of respite. The genlocks flooding upstairs were clearing a path for the ogre to deal with the obstacle. Seizing the pause, the warrior turned... only to see shreds of Daveth’s clothing and... emptiness. His gaze shot upward. The ladder remained in place. The puzzle wouldn’t quite register in his exhausted, battle-weary mind, and Alistair simply let out a quiet chuckle.

   — Told me... honesty would kill me... Bad joke... Still. A shame.

   * * *

   The sounds of battle had faded—in the tower, in the fortress, across the surrounding lands. Night concealed the dead but brought no peace.

   Perched atop the spire of the fourth floor—the highest structure in all southern Thedas, where no living soul had set foot for centuries—stood a naked woman, dark locks whipping in the cold wind. Slitted yellow eyes tracked the darkspawn’s methodical work below. The seething mass in the darkness resembled scavengers descending on carrion, yet their movements were coordinated, antlike. Bodies, regardless of origin, were stripped of armor and piled onto sledges dragged by genlocks. The wounded were mercilessly dispatched. Other carts were filled indiscriminately with salvaged weapons and gear. The spoils vanished steadily eastward beneath the forest canopy. In stark contrast to the battle’s earlier cacophony, everything unfolded in eerie silence… By dawn, the field might be picked clean. And almost no one would ever know.

   Alim lay nearby, hands bound to the spire with his own belt. Even an elf’s will couldn’t withstand mana exhaustion. During the brutal climb—Morrigan hauling him like a sack—he’d blacked out. Perhaps for the best. The witch had too many thoughts gnawing at her in the night’s stillness. Another oddity to add to her growing list: her original plan had been to use her remaining mana to assume spider form and flee to the tower’s peak. The gamble—that the Blight’s creatures, bound to literal-minded obedience, wouldn’t climb higher—had paid off… though it would’ve left the men to die. Instead, the familiar spell had twisted her body into something unknown. No less agile, but stronger. Morrigan had never intended to survive alone. The moment the transformation took hold, she’d chosen to save Alim.

   Alistair… The witch admitted, grudgingly, that the man unsettled her. With reason. The blond bore a templar’s prejudice against mages, had unexplained Chantry ties, pursued his own ends, and thought with the subtlety of a warhammer. And the darkspawn had needed holding off so her transformation could run its course. Yet his death left her oddly… irritated.

   Exhausted, Morrigan sank onto the spire’s freezing stone and shut her eyes. She had barely enough mana for one last spell. And though she was thrice hardened by surviving Korkari’s wilds alone, fatigue threatened to drag her into dreams as surely as it had the elf. Her power source was also her curse.

   Pushing hair from her face, she fumbled with her bundled clothes. A thought struck—how absurd to survive the battle only to freeze to death…

   * * *

   Alim clung to the roof’s edge, his fingers bone-white with strain. Every movement was a battle—even turning his head toward Morrigan required impossible effort.

   — Maker, dragons, and primal forces… How, exactly, am I supposed to find this ledge blind?

   His voice was hoarse, the words unexpectedly florid for the normally reserved mage. Below him, Morrigan stood at the edge, arms crossed, her face etched with mild impatience. After descending the thick copper band that wound down the tower’s side and retrieving the staff Alim had lowered, she’d been trying to guide him. But the man clearly had no experience climbing anything taller than a stool.

   — Let me be clear. Brave Alim has two choices. Become owl fodder when hunger and sun claim him, or trust his wise companion and climb down. At worst, the fall will be brief. One who agreed to die after the battle has no right to complain now.

   — Why not transform again and carry me down?

   A pause, filled only by the elf’s strained grunts. When she answered, uncertainty tinged her voice:

   — The spell behaved… oddly. Until I understand why, I’d prefer not to waste it on trifles.

   Sweating, Alim focused solely on the rough stone before his nose, inching downward until his feet finally touched solid ground. His knees trembled as he took steadying breaths. Gradually, his thoughts cleared enough for a weak smile:

   — Any climb seems possible now… so long as I don’t look down. And I’m warmer.

   — We’ll see.

   — Waking on a tower roof at dawn is equally unforgettable. Speaking of—why didn’t the darkspawn follow us up?

   Rubbing his rope-burned wrists, Alim’s voice grew firmer, his analytical mind overriding panic. Morrigan clicked her tongue:

   — Three reasons. No matter how many times I’ve encountered darkspawn, they never look up. They rely on scent and sound, not sight. Even a hawk’s cry won’t make them raise their heads. Second, what did they witness? Our ascent. But at the top, they found nothing. Complex deductions require an alpha—or an emissary, as Duncan described. Third, they had distractions.

   Alim sat heavily, nodding.

   — Logical. But… Don’t mistake this for ingratitude. The way you mentioned Alistair’s sacrifice so casually at the end… It’s unsettling.

   Morrigan’s face twisted briefly before she snapped:

   — I stated the facts. The choice brought no joy. Save the pointless questions. Your staff and supplies are gone. We must scavenge the camp.

   — You’re right. But… Let there be no secrets between us. That transformation… Void take me, it was strange even by recent standards. No—horrifying! It carries… implications. Not the kind a mage enjoys contemplating. If you ever wish to speak of it—

   — Not before we’ve thoroughly discussed your sister. Move.

   At the mention of his sister, Alim fell silent.

   The third floor held no bodies—only two dried bloodstains near the stairs, offering no clues to the blond’s fate. Morrigan ignored them but allowed Alim a moment to look.

   Evidence of the darkspawn’s entry began at the final stairwell: a gaping hole in the main hall’s center, its edges jagged where massive stone slabs—each a meter thick—had been shattered inward. The tunnel itself pierced the tower’s foundational blocks.

   Staring into the darkness, Alim murmured:

   — This was dug beforehand. When only birds and rodents lived here. A month’s work?

   — Persistence. Purpose. Foresight. That’s the character of the force driving this Blight.

   Leaving the tunnel’s secrets to the dark, they emerged into sunlight that did little to dispel their grim thoughts. Thanks to the night’s “cleaning” (which Morrigan had summarized on the roof), the stench of blood and viscera was faint, overpowered by smoke and dew-dampened ashes. A quick survey revealed the horde had taken only food, armor, and melee weapons. Ballistae lay broken, tents shredded, personal effects scattered. The empty, ruined camp, wrapped in silence, felt surreal—especially when memory superimposed yesterday’s bustling images over the void. No bodies. Not even carrion birds…

   From the bridge overlooking the gorge, Alim was the first to identify and silently point out the command post, the royal tent, and the remnants of supply wagons. To Morrigan, the view from above was merely a jumble of differently colored fabric scraps. Acknowledging her companion’s superior knowledge, she gave a grateful nod—though, stepping back from the edge, she frowned at her own helplessness in matters of northern heraldry and colors.

   The army’s hastily constructed ladders and ramps had once made the descent into the gorge at the fortress’s southern end manageable. Now, the shattered engineering works lay scattered among far more ancient ruins, sharing their fate. It took a full hour to exit through the eastern gate and descend into the gorge via the natural pass.

   The scene of devastation below lent their mood a strange, contemplative cast. Personal belongings hinted at owners who would never reclaim them—revealing habits, quirks, and vulnerabilities. Beyond the complete absence of food, the most striking feature was the darkspawn’s utter disregard for valuables. Functional or expensive items lay abandoned everywhere—things no human would leave behind even in a hurried retreat. But to the horde, they held no worth.

   The supply wagons proved as useless to the pair as the soldiers’ tents. While Alim circled the empty, mangled carts, Morrigan studied them with a different focus. Having witnessed the horde’s organized efficiency firsthand, she glared at the untouched, still-functional wheels and axles. The answer that eluded her might hold the key to understanding their enemy’s behavior—yet no plausible theory came to mind.

   — Empty.

   Snapped from her thoughts by the mage’s voice, Morrigan nodded toward the royal tent.

   — One last chance to try.

   The ornate remains of the large tent greeted them with trampled carpets, broken braziers, folding chairs, a table, and scattered candles. The only movement was tattered fabric fluttering in the wind. It was easy to imagine the space before its desecration—a cozy study where, at night, shadows might have conjured the illusion of being back in a castle, the war just a bad dream.

   Unfortunately, no food remained here either. The enemy had methodically ransacked even the king’s chests—clearly never meant for provisions. Morrigan absently approached the largest chest, sifting through mixed scroll tubes and parchment sheets. Meanwhile, Alim studied a trampled, hand-drawn map of southern Ferelden, voicing his unease:

   — While Duncan and I trailed the army south, the Commander seized every chance to recount Grey Warden traditions—stories of the Blight or the darkspawn.

   His voice wavered at “traditions,” whether from anger or emotion, but he continued smoothly:

   — One tale spoke of the First and Second Blights, when Wardens captured intelligent spawn. Emissaries, I assume. They were kept in Weisshaupt’s dungeons for years. Once, one was taught language—Tevene, likely. Under interrogation, it revealed their goals. Simple, really. They care nothing for land, wealth, or numbers. Not even “victory” as we define it. Their sole drive is to burn the surface world. Eventually, it tricked its guards, killed many, and nearly escaped. That casts doubt on the interrogation’s validity… But there’s something there.

   Morrigan threw him a pensive glance before refocusing on the documents she’d been scanning during his monologue.

   — Ancient history. Hardly relevant. These, however...

   She shook the stack of papers—expensive stock reserved for nobility or high-ranking officials. The embossing suggested the latter. After rereading the text, she summarized:

   — Correspondence between the late King of Ferelden and… an Empress?

   Alim’s brows lifted.

   — Orlais? Her Radiance, Celene?

   Nodding, Morrigan sighed and lowered the papers, scanning the horizon.

   — No titles are stated outright. The wordplay is beyond me. But the subtext is clumsily veiled. A woman’s hand offers deliberate clues with grace; a man’s… muddies the trail. Without proof, they’re just letters. But if one wished, one could easily imply—Did the King have a companion?

   — Her Majesty, Queen Anora Mac Tir.

   — The general’s daughter?

   — Yes...

   Morrigan’s lips formed a silent “Oh,” before she folded the papers neatly and tucked them away.

   — They discuss a military alliance. Desperate, your King was. But they could just as well be framed as proof of treasonous ambition.

   A shadow of unease crossed Alim’s face as he eyed her intent.

   — And so… you take them for yourself?

   Morrigan simply nodded, scanning their surroundings before adding:

   — Search for coins. Unlike the darkspawn, we understand the value of money.

   — I won’t debate the morality—

   — Then don’t.

   Alim offered a grim smirk, shaking his head uncertainly as he began searching, his discomfort plain. Though he didn’t dispute his companion’s logic, the situation unsettled him. Crossing boundaries he’d once considered inviolable didn’t bring liberation—only unease about where such steps might lead.

   Their haul amounted to a pouch of silver—twenty-two silvers, to be precise, after Morrigan’s meticulous count. The complete absence of gold sovereigns was surprising, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. From the chest’s depths, she also claimed an elegant hunting knife with a palm-length blade.

   With the camp picked clean, the witch suggested sheltering by the gorge’s exit, where the cliffs blocked the wind. When Alim—staring northwest—asked why they were waiting, she explained:

   — For nightfall. Sleep will pass the time. No game here before the forest, and hunger bites less when you’re unconscious.

   — But why wait here?

   — Two reasons. First, darkspawn are creatures of darkness—denizens of the Deep Roads. But darkness is darkness. Whether in fields or forests along the Imperial Highway, patrols sent back by the horde might spot us. Who knows what lurks beyond the treeline? Second… Yes, we must hurry. These lands will stay empty a day, maybe two. That’s why we’ll take the Highway—at least until dawn.

   As they neared the cliffs, Alim turned to object.

   — Until dawn? But—

   — Consider: who travels the Highway ahead of us?

   — The retreating army.

   — Infantry and supply trains. You said you and Duncan overtook them on foot between Lothering and Ostagar.

   — We did.

   — Not bad for two travelers. We’ll hardly be slower. Now, who can catch an army now? Think like whoever’s seized command.

   Sinking onto a scrap of tent fabric against the ancient stones, the mage sighed. His grim expression showed he understood her implication.

   — Spies. Deserters. Maleficars. Yes, I see. Shoot first, ask questions later. Logical, for a general.

   — No worse curse for a criminal than a witness. So we’ll move by night, then divert through the woods, following gullies to Lothering. Avoid attention. Stay ahead of the horde, hopefully. And most importantly—out of range of those damned archers.

   — Agreed. Their arrows mean death.

   — I’ll sleep. Questions later.

Chapter Text

   An unfamiliar voice called out, trying to reach her. Someone shook her shoulder…

   Suddenly tearing free from the veil of sleep, Morrigan jolted upright, her eyes flying open to fix Alim with an owl-like stare. The man leaned over her, gripping her shoulder. His parted lips suggested her awakening had caught him mid-sentence. Worry flickered, tightly reined, in his eyes as the mage asked:

   — Are you alright? Couldn’t wake you, no matter how hard I shook you. All the signs point to a nightmare… and not a mild one. You cried out—like someone was beating you. Then the convulsions started… Let’s just say, seizures don’t bring me the fondest memories.

   The witch stared at the elf, eyes wide, breathing heavily. Slowly, she touched her cheek and found it damp with sweat. The cooling evening air had turned the beads of perspiration into a fine, glistening sheen.

   — I…

   Morrigan winced, scrambling to gather her scattered thoughts. Whatever words she’d meant to say evaporated before they reached her tongue. Claim she was fine? Too obvious a lie. Admit the problem? But what was the problem? Pressing a hand to her forehead, she focused, dredging up the remnants of the nightmare.

   A forest. The dream had unfolded in a twisted version of a place she knew. It might have seemed ravaged by fire—the scent of char hung thick—yet no flames had touched the trees. A gray haze veiled her sight, pierced only by a diffuse, colorless light from above. The air carried no smell, and the vegetation appeared blackened, withering. Occasionally, large flakes of ash drifted down in a silent dance, coating the ground as far as she could see. Cold to the touch—unnaturally so. In places, though, it seemed to smolder, staining the dull palette with a single vivid hue: the dark crimson glow of embers. It resembled a battlefield, freshly abandoned. But within the haze lurked something vital—a detail slipping away with the fading clarity of the dream. The crushing sense that this was the missing key to understanding…

   Exhaling, Morrigan opened her eyes again.

   — The dream was… unusually vivid. I admit, this is a first for me. And… thank you. No one volunteers to be trapped in a nightmare a moment longer than necessary.

   — You’re welcome. The sun’s nearly set.

   True enough, night loomed on the horizon. This time, it arrived as a clear sky studded with stars. Their flickering light swelled to claim the heavens, transforming the dome above into a treasure trove of diamonds scattered across black velvet. After the nightmare’s horrors, the sight was soothing—though the dissonance of admiring celestial beauty on a field where thousands had perished the day before wasn’t lost on her.

   Silence stretched between them. Only Alim seemed uneasy. Finally, he voiced the question gnawing at him.

   — These dreams… Truly the first time you’ve had them?

   Morrigan hesitated before answering reluctantly.

   — Yes.

   — Alright.

   Another pause. Again, the elf broke it.

   — Why Lothering?

   — Why not? As I said, the road—

   — Don’t. For you, I’d wager every path’s a road. Just pick a route.

   — I don’t know what you’re digging for. It’s the shortest way. Fewer dangers. Besides the Imperial Highway, the village sits on the river that splits the country north and south. A crossroads. Is that not reason enough? Fine! Where are your feet taking you, elf? Lothering has a dock. Upstream—a chain of lakes, then Calenhad’s expanse all the way to that tempting Tower. Any other route would leave a wretched pedestrian like you stranded till the first snow.

   Alim flinched—both at the blunt mention of his race and the merciless jab at his travel skills.

   — Fair. My goals are transparent. Well, one is. What are yours?

   — Concern? Or fear—wondering where the dreaded witch might slink off to?

   — A bit of both. Mostly fear.

   Morrigan laughed, though the sound held more chill than mirth.

   — First Duncan. Now you. Why the sudden interest? As if no mages exist outside the Circle. But you know… Perhaps I will head to Kinloch. Tell me your plan. You show up at the Tower, a Grey Warden listed as missing. How do you explain your return without the Templars stringing you up? Or are you just eager to die the moment you step foot inside?

   The mage shrugged, his voice dull with skepticism.

   — No grand scheme… But it’s not impossible. Entering Kinloch Hold’s easier than leaving. Alive. Over the years, I’ve heard my share of rumors. Strip away the tales and fantasies, and you’ll find thieves have breached the Tower before. That’s one option. Then there’s the whispers of mages who somehow maintain contact with the outside world, bypassing the Templars. Some even speak of an organization—mages living outside the Circle. That’s option two.

   — So, not hopeless. You’ve got things to ponder on the way.

   — And why do you care about the Circle?

   Morrigan’s smirk faded, her tone losing its edge.

   — Mother spoke highly of Kinloch Hold’s library. Though her praise often ended… oddly. A joke, as if she’d delivered the finest tomes there herself.

   She snorted at the absurdity, then continued.

   — I want to see those books. My goal’s no worse than yours.

   — Why?

   — For every question I ask, you lob two back. Who’s the fox here, and who the sheep? As I said—magic’s acting strangely. I hope those books hold answers.

   Alim nodded, sensing her simmering irritation. Instinct—or something deeper—stopped him from pushing further. Turning away, he gazed northwest. The last streaks of crimson and violet bled into the devouring blackness of night. As Morrigan stood and dusted herself off, she caught his expression.

   — Perhaps you’re the one who’d rather change course? I’ve seen you glance toward the treeline more than once.

   Alim shrugged, his reply calm.

   — The thought crossed my mind. More than once. But I left childish impulses behind with my youth. Weighed the odds, as the Circle teaches—let go of foolish illusions. So don’t fret. Unless you abandon me in the woods, we’ll be companions till Lothering’s outskirts.

   — Does the Circle teach a particular way of thinking?

   — Thinking?... No. I don’t know. From childhood, the Circle drills into you the ability to face facts coldly, to step back—to see a situation from the outside. To cut emotions out of your decisions. Without that, you won’t survive to adulthood, let alone your Harrowing. Life in a closed community, a confined space, under rigid rules… When nightmares aren’t just nightmares… When emotions can harm more than just yourself…

   Squinting, the mage turned to Morrigan, who watched his expression and tone with sharp intensity. A thread of grim amusement laced his voice as he asked:

   — Know why most great Circles are housed in towers?

   — How would I? Fondness for staircases? Or a need to mask the fragility of delicate temperaments?

   The elf snorted, tilting his head as if conceding the point.

   — Plenty of theories. Some say it’s easier to guard. Others—that it brings us closer to the Maker. Some argue it’s simpler to burn mages if needed. There’s the view from the windows, of course. And the symbolism—each tower a monument to the Chantry’s authority. But my favorite? More… interesting.

   He paused, as if giving Morrigan a chance to change her mind. She merely arched a brow, and he continued:

   — Every cell has a window. Not for light or stars. For the dark hour—not of night, but of the soul—when each mage faces a choice. Open it… and step out. Or shut it… and greet the dawn.

   — Charming. So towers are tests for suicides?

   — No. Trials. Magic isn’t just signs and spells. It’s power that burns the weak from within. Those who buckle under the weight—of fear, loneliness, madness—they’re dangerous. To themselves and others. The window is the line. If you’re ready to surrender, you will. If not… then you’ve something worth enduring for.

   — And how many… don’t surrender?

   — Enough to keep the Circle standing.

   Morrigan tilted her head slightly, recalling:

   — Duncan said much the same. But his words were about you.

   Alim’s brows lifted in surprise, then settled into a wry smirk.

   — Sharp. But remember my rebuttal. The Knight-Commander delivered my sentence. In my analogy, mages pass judgment on themselves.

   — You think those who judged themselves weak. True?

   — Suppose I do.

   Morrigan frowned, pressing:

   — You didn’t specify which. Those who jumped… or those who stayed?

   — Again, very precise. I didn’t. Shall we move? It’s getting cold.

   As the elf strode toward the treeline, Morrigan watched him go, shaking her head faintly in bemusement before following.

      * * *

   The night's trek through the forest passed without incident. The Imperial Highway lay utterly tranquil beneath the stars. Above, the young pearl-colored moon rose steadily while trees swayed softly in the cool wind, their leaves whispering. Only occasional night-bird calls and distant wolf howls pierced the silence.

   Each traveler measured their steps toward dawn, privately contemplating what had been said—and left unsaid—between them. Morrigan cared little for her companion's thoughts, especially as he maintained his position two paces ahead. Her own mind, circling like a hawk, returned relentlessly to the lingering weight of that nightmare, as if its images were stones dragging her under. Despite scrutinizing every detail, she found only cold traces and insufficient data for rational conclusions. Resolving to monitor her behavior and moods more closely, she faced two grim possibilities: either these oddities stemmed from a single source, or she'd simultaneously encountered multiple unrelated afflictions. Neither prospect comforted her.

   The monotonous march dulled awareness. The dark silhouette of a hill seemed distant one moment, then abruptly loomed nearby. Slow realization dawned: they'd left the lowlands behind. The Highway now speared through rolling foothills stretching from Southron Heights in the east to the Frostback Mountains' western reaches, its path riding the ridges while shadowed vales hid below.

   As eastern skies lightened, Alim conceded defeat without words, yielding the lead to Morrigan with only a tired sigh. She accepted with a neutral nod, devoid of triumph. When golden sunlight finally gilded the treetops, the forest awoke with cuckoo calls, raven caws, and a chorus of warblers. Morrigan paused beside a natural archway where ancient pines overhung the road.

   — We leave the Highway here. That vale eastward will add two hours, but see that gap between peaks? The ravine turns north—our path.

   The hilltops wore thick coats of sun-bleached pine needles, but descending into valleys revealed a different world: broadleaf trees, ferns, and moss thriving near hidden streams. Fatigue made the rough trail punishing. By unspoken agreement, they rested on a sunny fringe where wild strawberries bled crimson against the green.

   Leaving the brooding mage to his thoughts, Morrigan vanished into the woods without explanation. When she reappeared ninety minutes later, three large snow hares dangled from her grip by their broken necks.

   — Raw or cooked?

   She asked, dropping the game.

   Alim's bemused chuckle held an edge.

   — Is this your way of suggesting I gather firewood? Or do you not fear smoke signals in these lands?

   A shrug.

   — Merely asking. If smoke concerns you, use dry birch branches—still on trees, not fallen. Birch bark works too. Check the hollows. Pine kindling will suffice.

   His skeptical expression said everything about finding dry fuel in this damp forest. Yet he rose and departed. Morrigan snorted, selecting a shaded slope for her work. Drawing an ornate hunting knife—its rose-engraved sheath glinting with gold filigree—she began cutting away the turf with clinical precision.

   By Alim's return, she'd excavated two connected pits—one vertical, one lateral. He deposited an armload of birch bark and surprisingly dry branches. Watching her arrange the tinder with ritual care, he noted how her flint struck sparks into near-smokeless flames.

   With practiced efficiency, she skinned two hares over a second pit, later burying the offal beneath displaced sod. Impaled on sticks, the meat blackened deliberately over coals. Her silent, sidelong glance assigned roles as clearly as any proclamation. By mealtime, she'd even washed at the stream.

   — Admittedly, I feel rather foolish,

   Alim confessed while eating.

   Morrigan's shrug was all razors.

   — Then you're finally in harmony with your appearance.

   The elf merely smiled. As she bound the third hare's legs with twine, her palm hovered over its frozen flesh:

   — Fríos. Tenací.

   Alim observed curiously.

   — I've noticed you accompany spells with... ritual phrases. Why? That's Old Tevene—it holds no actual power.

   Morrigan stiffened while securing the carcass to her belt.

   — Nothing remarkable. My mother drilled those words alongside the runes.

   — Given what you've implied about her skills, I doubt she'd teach meaningless incantations.

   — Strange or not depends on perspective.

   She kicked dirt over the embers.

   — Habits outlast allies or enemies. She demanded those phrases be perfected like spells themselves. Often joked—"they’d give you common ground with any Magister you might meet."

   — A poor jest. Old Tevene would alert a Magister to your intentions faster than it’d spark conversation.

   Mid-step, Morrigan faltered—her head tilting in ambiguous response.

   — The thought occurred to me — Morrigan admitted. — Mother's humor was... peculiar. But beneath those careless jests, I suspect another purpose. She played skillfully upon my hunger for arcane secrets—distracting me while teaching that ancient tongue alongside true magic. No mere child would endure such tedious phrases otherwise.

   Alim rubbed his chin.

   — I must confess... if true, that's at least clever. Devious, even. Wise, perhaps? My own instructors could've used such ingenuity.

   — Everything was a puzzle to her — Morrigan said, kicking a pinecone aside. — Some intricate riddle demanding solution. Sometimes I wondered…

   Her voice flattened.

   — ...if I too was merely another problem she sought to unravel.

   The elf grew pensive, studying the path beneath his boots. When he spoke again, caution threaded his words:

   — Strange... You speak of her as though she can no longer explain her methods herself.

   Morrigan's pace faltered for half a step. She said nothing.

   — Forgive me if I overstep — Alim softened his tone — but you only speak of your mother in the past tense. Is she—

   A guttural sound of irritation cut him off before the question fully formed.

   — If apologies come before insults, perhaps the insult shouldn't be spoken at all.

   — No, I—

   He exhaled sharply.

   — Yes. Right. So...?

   — I...

   The witch's brows knitted. Emotions proved poor counsel here; facts were absent. Yet instinct whispered that his unspoken assumption held some truth. Still, reason refused to elevate this possibility from hypothesis to certainty. Stumbling over the uncharacteristic hesitation, she crafted an oblique reply:

   — I've not seen Mother for some time. What I haven't witnessed, I cannot know. But when last we met?

   Her shoulders lifted fractionally.

   — She seemed quite hale. Spirited, even.

   Alim noted the contradiction but retreated, accepting the evasion. The remainder of their daylight trek through the valley winding northward passed without incident, accompanied only by the forest's peaceful chorus.

      * * *

   Good things never last. By nightfall, stars vanished behind clouds creeping in from the east. Then, without warning, a chill rain began just before dawn. Fortunately, the travelers had taken shelter beneath a massive fallen tree blanketed in thick moss. The broad trunk shielded them from the downpour and trapped what little warmth remained. Yet by sunrise—when the sullen sky finally ceased its weeping—both were soaked to the bone.

   They awoke to a milky fog shrouding the forest, the aftermath of rain and cool air spilling down from the hills. Gone were yesterday’s birdsongs; even the wind had died.

   Morrigan, dispensing with greetings, curtly asked about her behavior during the night. Alim—who’d woken at the first raindrops and slept fitfully thereafter—reported only restless twitching. No screams. No convulsions.

   Ten minutes into their march, the witch halted with a grimace, leaning her staff against a tree. Without a word, she shed her woolen vest, then—back turned to the hesitating elf—peeled off her sodden shirt. Donning the vest again, she draped the shirt over her staff’s crook and marched onward. Over her shoulder came a taunt:

   — Envious?

   Struggling to master his reaction, Alim answered with forced indifference:

   — The staff? Yes… A pity I didn’t grab a suitable stick from camp.

   Morrigan’s laughter rang through the dreary woods.

   — First man I’ve met to lament his lack of one. Care to lead?

   — Another might trade double humiliation for such a prize. Might not even notice the cost… until the first misstep and your barbed remark. But I’ll decline.

   — Oh? So it is a prize—

   The elf exhaled loudly and trudged ahead, silently hoping his trousers might dry within hours.

   By noon, partial success. Morrigan, thanks to her clever method, fared better. Fog complicated their search for dry tinder, but after she demonstrated how to harvest dead branches’ dry cores, Alim admitted defeat—he’d never have managed alone. He even lamented neglecting fire magic. A handful of foraged berries and unripe hazelnuts supplemented their meal.

   The afternoon passed in silence through a fog-veiled forest. Then—suddenly—the oppressive weight of danger. Morrigan froze at the sound of birds taking flight from a copse a stone’s throw to their right. She whirled, hissing:

   — Run.

   They bolted left, uphill. False alarm? No—the noises of pursuit soon clarified: snorts, growls, the creak of worked leather, and heavy footfalls. Alim glanced back.

   — Genlocks. A dozen. Armored. With darts.

   — Bloody Void!

   Morrigan skidded to a halt, driving her staff into the earth. Drawing a deep breath, she intoned:

   — Somnia dirae tenebrae, animum furentē.

   Darkness surged outward—harmless to Alim, but washing over the genlocks. Birds erupted from the underbrush. Some darkspawn froze; others collapsed, twitched, or fled blindly.

   Without wasting time to observe the spell’s effects, Morrigan whirled and ran for her life. Alim strained to keep pace. Only after fifteen frantic minutes—scrambling over a hill, tumbling through slapping branches into a thicket, leaping a stream, and sprinting another fifty paces—did they stop. The elf gasped for air, fighting both ragged breaths and the urge to vomit up their meager meal. Morrigan fared only slightly better, though at least she could scan their surroundings with clarity. Minutes crawled by. Nothing. When Alim shot her a questioning look, she answered with a shrug and a nod.

   As their breathing steadied, they pressed northward. Neither wished to discuss the encounter, yet silence gnawed at them. The mage broke it first, grasping for familiar—and thus soothing—ground:

   — If your mother taught you spells like that... I’d say she rivals a First Enchanter.

   Morrigan snorted, her contempt bare.

   — A poor comparison. Neither honorable nor apt.

   — I speak only of skill. That spell... I’ve never seen its like in the Circle.

   Rubbing her brow, Morrigan privately conceded the point. Her resolve to track every anomaly demanded honesty, even when inconvenient. The spell’s efficacy did exceed her memories—but which was false: her recollection or the magic itself?

   — The spell isn’t... practical. Requires careful use. Still, it’s saved us twice. Doubt you’ll find one rooted in nightmares and mental darkness in any Circle tome.

   — You’d be surprised. The effect is debatable, but the spell’s structure...

   She waved for explanation without turning. Alim nodded reflexively, then smiled at the futility of gesturing to her back.

   — Yours is a structured spell with controlled parameters. Such constructs are... masterworks.

   Silence stretched. The mage awaited reaction; the witch pondered gaps in her education—and whether to reveal them.

   — “Structured”—this is common Circle terminology?

   — Yes.

   — Meaning?

   — Ah... It means expending a predetermined amount of mana for a consistent effect. Your spell can exempt targets—consciously or instinctively. Most structured spells lack such precision. Those that do are usually open-form.

   — Flattering. Though I repeat: the spell’s no marvel. Mother called it “a coward’s tool.” Then mocked that cowards’ privilege is burying the brave.

   Alim coughed, swallowing remarks about Morrigan’s mother—of whom he’d formed exceptionally conflicted impressions. The witch steered the topic back:

   — If rarity’s the measure, your spell takes the prize. Mother never mentioned its like.

   — Well... It’s unpopular. That might explain—

   — Let me guess. Because it’s open-form?

   — Yes. The rune chain doesn’t create the effect directly—it forms a mana node. Manipulating that generates the repulsive force. Incidentally, it’s also limited by line of—

   A grouse burst from the brush. Both froze, scanning the shadowed undergrowth. One minute. Two. Then—a snort. A bear shouldered through raspberry thickets thirty paces ahead. The lumbering lord of the woods eyed them lazily, sighed (or so it seemed), and ambled away.

   After waiting double the necessary time, they resumed their march—briskly. Alim’s voice held a tremor as he continued:

   — As I was... ahem... The backlash from a successful pulse strains the node, demanding compensatory mana. Mages disdain open-form spells—difficult to master, unpredictable, and prone to knocking you unconscious. You’ve seen the results.

   Morrigan nodded.

   — Nothing comes without cost. Yet flaws didn’t deter you.

   — It accomplishes what other magic cannot. That justifies the risks. Besides...

   He cleared his throat, adopting a deeper tone:

   — “To shield my brothers and sisters from threats within and without. To the last drop of mana. The last drop of blood. The final breath.” An old oath. Though nowadays, the “blood” part feels... complicated.

   A wry smile.

   — Still, I uphold every word. If I collapse, it’s after doing all I can. Then I trust my ally to see me through.

   Morrigan pounced on the last line, her jab devoid of malice:

   — Trust is a double-edged blade.

   — A cliché favored by cynics and the witless. Trust becomes inevitable when my death ensures yours, and vice versa. That said...— He grimaced.— I’d prefer not relying forever on some plate-armored sylvanite ally. Before... events, I’d planned to refine the Repulsion Field—eliminate its worst flaws, or at least mitigate them.

   — How very ambitious of you. None since the Imperium have famed themselves by crafting or improving rune chains. Those who succeed guard their secrets jealously—or die before speaking of them.

   — True. My optimism about the future was... excessive. Hence my current state.— A pause.— And yours? What did you dream of?

   Morrigan hissed, sudden venom in her voice:

   — There it is—another maneuver. The moment emotions settle, we circle back to where we began!

   Alim clicked his tongue, scratching his cheek as if approaching a wild beast:

   — I’ve no intention of probing your plans. Truly. I asked about dreams. Like mine. It slipped out unthinkingly. Answer or don’t.

   She scowled. Anger throbbed at her temples—not at his words, but at her own fear. Fear that he’d noticed her anomalies and drawn conclusions. Fear that her terror, festering beneath courtesy, might twist him into an enemy. Fear that it already had. Another strangeness to catalog: her instincts had never betrayed her so before.

   Eyes shut tight, she muttered:

   — That was unnecessary. Very well... A dream.

   She exhaled, gazing at the cloud-choked sky.

   — Freedom. To escape Mother’s smothering grasp. To flee where she’d never find me. A childish fantasy—unproven, unearned, just running. And now...— A hollow laugh.— Nearly a week of “freedom.” Still running. Only now it’s a chase.

   — Matrinalis isn’t the worst time for new beginnings.

   They made camp behind a granite boulder—an anomalous sentinel on the hillside, lone and eternal beneath the passing sun.

      * * *

   The next two days tested both will and character—an ordeal Morrigan weathered far better than Alim.

   Endless drizzle saturated every thread of clothing. Careless brushes against branches unleashed torrents of cold droplets. Clearings became shallow fords. Soaked boots promised blisters; clinging smallclothes chafed raw. During brief rests, Morrigan demonstrated a trick—stuffing wrung-out moss into her boots to absorb moisture.

   Melancholy... While his companion remained sullen but focused, Alim discovered a grim beauty in the mood. Pausing beneath a broad-limbed tree, his mind stilled, mesmerized by the rain’s white noise and distant thunder that prickled his scalp like ghostly fingers.

   That first evening, shivering and exhausted, the elf longed only for warmth and sleep—either would suffice. Yet Morrigan roused him to build a fire. Smoke concerns forgotten, they fed it pine resin and spruce boughs. As flames finally took hold, an unexpected gratitude swelled in Alim’s chest. Heat waves banished treacherous tremors, offering precious dryness.

   No time for hunting. Their diet dwindled to berries, nuts, and the occasional fire-roasted mushroom. Conversation faded to gestures, but exhaustion dulled the tension of silence.

   And dreams... Morrigan’s nights were haunted. Something indefinable, though Alim confirmed she twitched uncomfortably. By the third dawn, he had to slap her awake from a nightmare’s grip. She trembled long after opening her eyes. On the march, she admitted the dream’s unnatural vividness.

   What she withheld was its exact replication of the vision from Ostagar five days prior. Vivid dreams might be normal—but recurring nightmares? No accident. A symptom. The mage’s words echoed: “A mage’s nightmares are more than dreams.” Her mother’s warnings hissed louder: “Dreams are the gifted’s greatest weakness.” Consequences loomed, unexamined...

   Meanwhile, the drizzle thinned to sporadic drops that could no longer drench their already sodden clothes.

   Near midday, cresting a hill above a westward-bending valley, they beheld an arresting sight: a cleared lowland cradling a humble farmhouse, outbuildings, and tilled earth—classic Fereldan frontier stubbornness.

   Yet no movement stirred. Shutters fastened, doors barred, tools absent. Abandoned, but deliberately.

   Pausing before the locked dwelling, Morrigan gestured to a faint dirt track winding northwest.

   — Lothering’s two, three hours this way. Hardly worth the delay. Rain’s stopped. And I’ve no interest in breaking doors.

   At Alim’s terse nod, she turned with renewed vigor toward the road. As if in answer, the gray cloud blanket began fraying—pale sky peeking through like an army in retreat.

   After a time, Alim ventured:

   — You think they fled the southern troubles?

   Morrigan shrugged, eyeing the emerging blue.

   — Likely. Lothering’s troops passed through—yesterday at the latest, perhaps days before. Farmers here are canny. They scent danger early.

   The elf chewed his lip, studying the ground.

   — I’d rather not revisit this... but we must address what happened at Ishal’s Tower. I needed time to consider it calmly. That... transformation... resembles demonic possession. If we’re bound for town, I require facts to decide.

   Morrigan snorted, her tone flat:

   — Absurd. If possessed, why would I indulge this? Plan to duel me? Or hope I’ll confess and spare you the guilt? No—your fear seeks reassurance against your principles. Your logic fails. You want the witch to convince you there’s no problem.

   She paused.

   — And curiosity gnaws at you.

   Alim paled but nodded. Satisfied, she continued:

   — First answer: what options do you weigh?

   — I’ve rarely betrayed my conscience. I’ll sacrifice myself, but not for abstractions. So... templars in Lothering seem the least vile choice.

   — I’ve seen the Maker’s warriors. Killing you would be unpleasant.

   — Yet—

   — Yet necessity dictates action. Self-sacrifice isn’t my custom.

   Silence lingered as they marched. By journey’s end, the clouds had parted. Sunlight—first timid, then bold—set droplets on leaves ablaze. A warm northeastern wind celebrated the storm’s passing.

   Abruptly, Morrigan spoke:

   — What happened in the Tower was spellwork. Terrifying, but known even to Hasind nomads. Many witches learned from Flemeth, as I did. The runes are Imperial—of the kind the Magisters stole, crafted, or failed to replicate. The signature is unmistakable. But the spell itself...— she grimaced.— Like words scattered yet forming a pattern. It feeds on the caster’s flesh and blood.

   Alim’s mouth opened soundlessly. Minutes passed before he managed:

   — Thank you for that... It sounds like structured magic with control and no time limit. Not a masterwork—a violation. Absurd enough to be credible. And blood magic...— he exhaled sharply.— Your mother is... extraordinary. My earlier assessment was insulting. Yet...

   His head shook uncertainly.

   — Yet any magic scholar would call this maleficar. Others would cry possession. A compelling reason for silence.

   — Brilliant counsel. But I care only for your decision.

   — This clarified nothing. Honestly? After these days and words... I’ve no urge to flee. Is that wise? Weeks may tell...

   Morrigan’s smirk held no joy. The exchange pleased her and yet left a bitter taste—like a rigged bargain. Not trust’s dawn, but fresh suspicion: could he be lying? Only the emerging sun lightened her mood.

      * * *

   The road twisted one final time through the trees before spilling the travelers out at the forest's edge. Beyond lay rolling slopes of endless spring rye, their heavy heads rippling under wind-driven waves. Shadows of white clouds slid across the golden-green fields—still a month from true harvest, though those who'd sown them might not live to see it.

   The path meandered down into a valley where the river glittered like scattered coins. To the left ran the Imperial Highway—a dark, ruler-straight line that seemed toy-like from this distance. Where nature and artifice met, Lothering sprawled, its buildings clustered like thrown dice. Westward glimmered a chain of lakes; eastward, the river vanished into hills bound for Denerim.

   Descending revealed more details. Against the yellow-green fields, the village grew from a brown smudge to a mud-churned mess. An army's passage during heavy rains had turned the earth to slurry, rendering the already humble settlement downright ugly.

   Alim pointed toward refugees trickling along the Highway east of town—some with carts, some on foot—all funneling into chaotic crowds at the bridge, the sole surviving Imperial-era crossing over the River Dane.

   Morrigan clicked her tongue, squinting at the highway.

   — So this is their legacy. The road's shattered beyond the river as well...

   — That damage is older, — Alim corrected. — From the Orlesian occupation. A decisive battle was fought here—one Ferelden lost. For seasons after, Lothering housed their command.

   — Charming. But look closer. Their commander rebuilt bridges over broken segments... only to demolish them again when retreating. Surprising this one still stands.

   The mage frowned, then nodded.

   — How long until they reach here, do you think?

   — What am I, a seer now?

   — I value your insight.

   Morrigan's lips twisted. After scanning the terrain, she answered:

   — Persistence. Purpose. Foresight. Few people remain here. The horde burns and destroys without thought of plunder. An army digging in would only draw them. So your commander—clearly smarter than most—withdraws north. The horde won't come soon. First the Western Hills, then Gwaren and the other southern cities will burn. Then Redcliffe's populous valleys. But people expect the enemy to behave like any other army.

   Alim nodded slowly.

   — An interesting deduction...

   He changed the subject abruptly, shielding his eyes from the sudden sun.

   — Shall we blend with the refugees? A tavern with warm beds—perhaps even hot water—would be welcome.

   Morrigan stopped dead. Her gaze fell to the staff she'd carried for years. Pressing her forehead to the wood, she exhaled sharply—then flung it aside.

   — Very well.

   She marched on, eyes fixed ahead on Lothering's low sprawl.

    * * *

   The winding road finally delivered the travelers—along with a dozen other fortunate souls—to the village gates, where a refugee camp sprawled in all its miserable glory: carts, tents, mud, and the first fetid whiffs of a lazily dug latrine pit. The air thrummed with voices, movement, and that unmistakable tang of fear—woven into every hurried word, every nervous gesture.

   Two fully armored Templars stood guard at the entrance. Their gear bore the dull sheen of hard use rather than parade-ground polish, yet the scratched metal still commanded respect. The lightly stubbled men scanned passersby with disinterest, dismissing Morrigan and Alim after noting their lack of weapons or suspicious markings.

   The muddy track followed the river before ending at the village's central chantry. But almost immediately, the pair had to skirt a shouting mob surrounding a merchant's cart.

   — Highway robbery! — someone yelled.

   Morrigan's sharp eyes picked out the instigator—a woman in ochre wool robes that brushed her ankles, her hair pinned in a severe bun. A Chantry sister. While the crowd raged about inflated prices for travel supplies (especially dried fish from local waters), the sister maintained icy decorum, delivering measured arguments the red-faced merchant only deigned to acknowledge. Stranger still—the Templars, mere paces away, ignored the scene entirely.

   Another commotion awaited near the chantry steps. Here, the focal point was a wild-haired man in patched furs, his beard braided in the Hasind fashion.

   — My clan saw them in the woods! — he rasped. — Creatures black as the Void! They move silent—no war cries, just blood and the Blight in their veins! They come north—slow, but they come!

   Alim's whisper cut through the prophet's ravings:

   — Unusual...

   They paused at the bridge's foot, observing. The elf scratched his chin before nodding toward a Templar lurking near the chantry wall. The man's ornamented tabard marked him as the local Knight-Commander—and his expression simmered with contempt for either the Hasind or the spectacle itself.

   Morrigan's assessment was colder.

   — His clan stayed when others fled the Blight. Too greedy—or too cowardly—to abandon their hunting grounds. Now he spins tales of being the sole survivor.

   Alim frowned but nudged her toward the bridge.

   — Let's go. And... perhaps let me do the talking at the inn.

   — Why?

   — Your... phrasing tends to linger in memory.

   She scowled but didn't argue, muttering only:

   — As do certain ears...

   The Hasind's gaze followed them as they crossed to the riverside inn—its tile roof sagging but still the sole lodging for miles. Just before they passed from earshot, his tirade faltered. For one knife-sharp moment, his eyes locked on Morrigan's back. Then the crowd swallowed him again.

Chapter Text

   The darkened wood of the floor and ceiling beams, grease-stained and scratched tables, old melted candles on wooden trays—the establishment had long ceased to look fresh, let alone presentable. Yet the hall retained a sense of coziness. Perhaps the atmosphere was woven from the warmth, the thick scent of roasted meat from the kitchen, and the aromatic haze of pipe smoke. Or maybe the feeling lingered in The Dane’s Refuge simply because, compared to the mud and weather outside, a traveler didn’t need much to find rest and contentment.

   At that moment, three patrons sat scattered along the tables. A reddish-haired man in a plain linen shirt, likely not yet thirty winters old, with the build of both a warrior and a lumberjack. He lazily stirred his spoon in a bowl but snapped his head up at the creak of the door. His assessing gaze swept over the newcomers, shamelessly weighing and judging.

   To their surprise, a knightly figure stood out among them—a broad-shouldered man of middling years with rigid posture. The ser wore expensive burgundy flannel and puffed leisurely on a pipe. Short dark hair, a square jaw, and a gaze that feigned relaxation while retaining professional wariness completed the image. The last patron hunched in the far corner: a balding, slightly paunchy man in worn clothes, nursing a mug of ale, indifferent to his surroundings.

   At the sound of new arrivals, a figure emerged from the kitchen—either a worker or the owner. A dark-haired man, his fifty winters etched into his face, sporting a greasy apron and neatly trimmed mustache and sideburns. He offered a practiced smile—like donning a polite mask—and introduced himself:

   — Danal. How can I be of service?

   The elf stepped forward before his companion could speak, relief palpable in his voice.

   — Amica Familia. Glad to be at…

   He paused, waiting for a response. Morrigan turned away, covering her mouth as if stifling a cough. Danal answered with pride:

   — The Dane’s Refuge, dear guests.

   — Excellent. We’re road-weary. Any rooms available?

   — Aye, got a couple. Twenty silvers a night, half up front.

   Alim cleared his throat, locking eyes with the owner, but the man didn’t so much as blink. His gaze held thinly veiled indifference to the elf’s reaction. So Alim tried another angle.

   — Pleasant to find such a high-class establishment. Your rates could rival Denerim’s.

   A muffled snort came from the red-haired patron. No one else reacted.

   — High-class or not, dear guest, I wouldn’t know. — Danal spread his hands. — But tents outside the village? Plenty, and free. Morning breeze off the river, too. So...

   — Your logic is sound. We’d like a meal and a bath.

   — Glad to hear it. Ten silvers now—six for food and hot water, another ten tomorrow.

   Reluctantly, Alim counted out the coin from their spoils and handed it over. Danal pocketed it with a slick motion and a smirk.

   — Always happy to serve. Sit—food’s coming. I’ll heat the water.

   Once seated in a corner, Morrigan leaned in and whispered:

   — Amica Familia?

   Alim dropped his gaze, barely suppressing a smile.

   — Doubt anyone here speaks Tevene. Thought it’d... Well. Yes, it was foolish.

   — Clearly. I saw your face. The price shocked you?

   — Hardly. More like outraged. He’s charging five times the usual.

   — Hmph. Small villages like this—everyone knows each other from birth. Grudges and cheats are remembered for life. Simple rules bind them, like branches from one root. But the Blight? A gale. Some branches snap, others bend. Yet... Southerners have owners for every scrap of land. Is it so bad if they stop looking to them for answers?

   — Arl Leonas Bryland rules here. Never met him, but camp talk says he took the local guard and followed the King to Ostagar. Whether he died there or under Loghain’s command—no one knows.

   — But the hounds smell the master’s absence.

   Alim nodded, but before he could reply, Danal returned with two steaming platters. The fare was simple but plentiful. Still, both travelers would’ve been grateful even for hot gruel. Morrigan shot Alim a look, nudging him to speak. With only a flicker of irritation at the charade, he turned from the earthenware to the emptying plates and carefully asked:

   — All anyone talks about is the King’s army passing through Lothering. Did the Arl of the South Reach truly leave with them, instead of staying?

   Danal’s face twitched before settling into indifference.

   — Aye, dear guest. When His Majesty called the levy, Lord Bryland summoned guards from every major settlement to form the Reach’s contingent. He arrived in Lothering days before the main force and marched to Ostagar under Teyrn Mac Tir’s command. After the army’s return, the Lord met once with Elder Miriam. Then he left with his men, following the army.

   Leaning in, Danal lowered his voice, genuine irritation seeping through.

   — Rumor says the Arl ordered the Elder to organize evacuations—but first, to ship north the grain and dried fish stored in the chantry cellars for the winter. A retreating army needs supplies... Though no one says it plain, the battle’s outcome is clear. When nobles flee, what’s left for the common folk? Thankfully, the Revered Mother and Knight-Commander took charge, keeping order and aiding the Elder. Else, all would’ve collapsed.

   Alim nodded grimly.

   — Then why are you still here? Why not leave, like us?

   Danal sighed.

   — The Dane’s Refuge has stood in Lothering for three or four generations. Since before the occupation. My father got it settling a debt—gave him reason to settle down, start a family. It’s my inheritance, the reason I exist. These walls raised me. Abandoning it at the first sign of danger... would be betrayal. But you’re right. When Blight rumors started, everyone weighed their choices. Folk here hope for the best but prepare for the worst. So when silent nobles and downcast soldiers marched through, people began packing, saying goodbye.

   — So the chantry and Templars hold power now. But the Order’s stretched thin...

   — Aye. They do what they can. But it’s not enough.

   Alim feigned alarm.

   — So it’s unsafe?

   — Ser Bryant, the Knight-Commander, focuses on keeping folk safe in town and prepping a caravan north. His lieutenant, Ser Evou, insists on hunting apostates—the Templars’ true duty. Two weeks back, they found one hiding at a farm. He’d charmed a family and lived quietly for months. Ser Evou cornered him on the Imperial Highway and slit his throat. Rightly so.

   Morrigan barely masked her disgust, pretending to eat.

   — Another case, a week ago. A farmer named Vlasom—quiet but decent—took in a Hasind woman. Folk thought him odd. Turned out she was a witch…

   Danal nearly spat but caught himself:

   — Beguiled him with magic. Ser Evou dealt with her, too. Problem is, he didn’t clear it with Ser Bryant. Caused a stir. Only then did folk realize enemies lurked among them. Now bandits plague the highways—a dozen or more, armed, shaking down refugees. Templars can’t spare the manpower.

   Alim leaned back, grim.

   — Dark times.

   — Aye. And worse... Five days ago, a live qunari appeared. Here. Can you believe it? Like the tales come to life. Showed up weeks ago, but no one knew about him. No one saw the giant... till he butchered a family that took him in. Man, wife, ten-year-old daughter—all dead. They caught him sitting outside, covered in blood, staring blankly. Strange times. Not in a good way.

   Alim nodded gratefully.

   — Thank you for the news and the meal. If it’s no trouble—

   — Of course. Eat well. Need anything, I’m in the kitchen.

   As Danal left, Alim raised a brow at Morrigan.

   — Well?

   She shook her head, eyes flicking to her cooling stew.

   * * *

   Alim and Morrigan lingered at the table for over an hour, savoring their first proper meal in ages. Neither was in a hurry, basking in the warmth of the dry hall. By unspoken agreement, they postponed discussing Danal’s revelations until nightfall, when the absence of prying eyes would make it safe.

   During that time, a dozen or so patrons drifted into The Dane’s Refuge. The first was a well-dressed local—likely a prosperous villager—who exchanged pleasantries with Danal before announcing his departure for Crestwood the next day. The rest were a motley crew: craftsmen, farmers, hunters, all hardy men under thirty winters. They arrived singly, locked eyes with the red-haired patron, and huddled in murmured conversation. Terms were clarified, agreements reached. After a handshake, each visitor left.

   Facing the hall, Morrigan noted something peculiar: the knight’s reaction. Motionless save for the occasional puff of his pipe, his stony face betrayed more than any grimace. Each time a newcomer approached the red-haired man, the knight’s gaze sharpened—alert, expectant. Then came disappointment, followed by contempt as they turned away. His piercing eyes would drift to the rafters, clouded, as if sifting through old wounds and doubts.

   At some point, Morrigan lost herself in the smoke curling toward the ceiling. The room seemed to flatten into a stage, its occupants reduced to caricatures—shallow masks that would inevitably notice the one who didn’t belong. The thought coiled like fear in her gut, formless and cold, until the door slammed. The noise jolted her back to reality.

   Two unshaven men swaggered in, the first patrons openly armed: grimy gambesons, sheathed knives, cudgels. Their threat was performative, unlike the redhead’s or the knight’s. After demanding mead and tossing coppers at Danal, they scoped the room and locked onto Morrigan.

   She nudged Alim. One glance told him all he needed. The men gulped their sickly-sweet brew, then launched into lewd boasts about imaginary conquests, culminating in a slur against the elf:

   — Hey, pointy-ears here’s the lady’s errand boy.

   — Bet she’s tired of his twig. Might prefer real steel.

   — And if he objects, he can cry about it in an alley. Right?

   A calloused hand clamped Alim’s shoulder, reeking of sweat and ale. Morrigan’s frown deepened. The pattern was familiar: Alim tensed, magic-less and outmatched. The redhead watched sidelong, spoon gripped white-knuckled. The knight set down his pipe, rigid but waiting—for provocation, for imbalance, for a victim.

   If violence was inevitable, she’d dictate its terms.

   Morrigan shot to her feet, her chair clattering. Before the thug could react, she slapped him hard.

   — La puante merde, — she sneered. — Swine. Begone.

   Silence followed the crack. Alim stared as if she’d shed her skin—grace replaced by crudeness, caution by contempt. The redhead’s jaw dropped; the thugs gawked. Then a fist smashed into Morrigan’s face. Blood speckled the table as her skull hit the wall. She crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut.

   Alim lunged for her, drawing both men’s attention—until a bench, formerly occupied by the redhead, cracked against the lead thug’s skull. The knight moved like lightning, driving his fist into the second man’s mouth. Teeth flew. The fight was brutal, one-sided. The knight and redhead traded blows but never let their opponents draw steel.

   As Alim crouched by Morrigan, checking her head, a shout came from the kitchen:

   — Templars coming!

   The doors burst open. Two plate-armored figures strode in, swords at their hips—summoned, no doubt, by a kitchen boy’s sprint for help. The brawl died instantly under their weighty presence.

   The knight, who introduced himself as Ser Donall, gave a blunt account: the men had insulted a lady, then struck her unprovoked. But the Templars hadn’t come for ale. They were tracking two armed suspects seen entering the village from the north—tips from swift-footed runners.

   The redhead, still unnamed, checked Morrigan’s steady breathing. He gave Alim a brief nod, then returned to his table.

   After curtly thanking the knight and eyeing the battered troublemakers with suspicion, the Templars kicked the bruised strangers out. Judging by the dour expressions of Lothering’s sole lawkeepers, the pair’s future looked bleak.

   Ser Donall turned to the elf, glanced over his shoulder, and asked politely:

   — Are you unharmed?

   Morrigan had already propped herself against the wall, gingerly probing her split lip. She looked up at the knight and nodded her thanks.

   — Perhaps... ahem. Thank you.

   The man frowned, keeping his composure, and offered carefully:

   — I carry salves. For inflammation and for healing wounds on the road. Not a healer’s work, but...

   Before the witch could refuse, Alim nodded eagerly.

   — Gratitude. We’d welcome your kindness. Though my companion should rest now. Might I fetch the salves from you later?

   The knight inclined his head in assent. Supporting Morrigan, Alim guided her to their rented room.

   * * *

   The room was unremarkable and drab—a square space barely large enough for two cots with no table between them. The small window seemed designed more to prove it wasn't a shed than to admit light. Not that it mattered; in the South, keeping warmth in winter trumped views. The beds, while worn, were clean enough.

   Alim finished applying salve to Morrigan's split lip and stepped back to assess his work, lifting the oil lamp higher as night claimed the room.

   — Could've been worse, — he muttered. — Care to explain?

   She winced but spoke.

   — One moment you boast of logic, the next you dance around words... Yet the well of foolish questions never runs dry.

   — Well—

   The elf rubbed the bridge of his nose, shaking his head in mock wonder.

   — You took that hit on purpose, — he hissed through clenched teeth. — Violence against a woman stirs more outrage than beating an elf. And since those two targeted you from the start, avoiding a fight without magic became... difficult. Spare me your concern for my pride.

   — As if I would!

   He exhaled silently, refusing the bait.

   — Thank you. Though... their reaction was surprising.

   Morrigan snorted—then regretted it, grimacing.

   — Why? Both men—knight and commoner—are slaves to external rules. Brutes offend them, but they need pretext to act.

   — You say that like it's a bad thing.

   — Bad? — she scoffed. — A childish word. There are only choices and consequences. Donall and the other made theirs within imposed limits.

   — Hm. Fine. Suppose I believe you predicted them. But my real question: where did that act come from? Hard to believe a backwoods witch from the Korkari Wilds is a polyglot.

   Her brows arched.

   — Act?

   — That phrase. You called one a swine, then something in Orlesian.

   — I threw his own filth back—called the motherless wretch a whore. Nothing more. I speak only Trade and Tevene.

   They locked eyes—hers tense, his jaw working silently.

   — Fine. Suppose I misheard.

   She nodded, barely relaxing. The slip hadn't escaped her. Walking here, she'd catalogued it with dawning dread. The true horror? Though she didn't know Orlesian, she'd flawlessly reproduced the phrase—understanding every word.

   With a tired sigh, Alim set the lamp down and smoothed his blanket.

   — Given the rumors, we shouldn't linger.

   — Ah, Ser Evou's... enthusiastic activities?

   — Yes. We lack details, but by all accounts, the Templar's turning over every stone—even as it strains relations with his superiors.

   She threw up her hands.

   — What's strange about a wolf hunting prey? Every season, witch-hunters scoured the Korcari Wilds. Until the Wilds—or Mother—or I—devoured them.

   Alim frowned, choosing his words carefully.

   — Those raids weren't about glory—or even hunting. The Chantry cares nothing for the Wilds or its witches. Only indifference. Those sent there are exiles—given one last chance: return with a witch's head. The South made it a tradition by being... expendable.

   — So the fact that barely one in ten returned... made it appealing?

   — Exactly. There's a Tranquil phrase for it—“guaranteed high attrition rate.”

   Morrigan growled, driving her fist into the cot.

   — Disgusting—to be their unwitting tool.

   — Welcome to the club. Back to Templars: they usually ignore minor offenders. Why? First, it's not worth the hassle. Second, antagonizing villagers risks backlash. Some hedge-witch with barely enough magic to light candles? But if she's beloved, removing her means bloodshed—petitions to the Bann, grudges. Next time, the Order finds closed gates, lame horses, endless waits. Small rebellions wrapped in deference.

   She narrowed her eyes.

   — But here, the landowner fled. No one to complain. And Ser Evou seizes cheap glory. Though... is his leash truly held only by Ser Bryant?

   Alim scratched his chin.

   — You mean the Revered Mother? The chantry's head?

   — The huntmaster leads the pack. But who opens the kennel?

   — True... True. That paints a grim picture. The Mother is all politics. If she's silent, letting the Knight-Commander—or worse—run unchecked... she means to stir panic and shape opinion.

   — Against the merchant?

   — Perhaps. Prices, the Hasind at the chantry riling frightened folk. Done right, blame falls not on her, but the land's owner.

   — The Arl.

   — Yes. But why? What grudge could the Chantry have against Bryland? The only rumor is he's half-Orlesian—old politics. Best to stay far from such games...

   A polite knock interrupted them. They exchanged glances. Alim approached the door.

   — Who's there?

   It was Ser Donall, with boys hauling a tub and buckets of hot water.

   * * *

   After the tub was centered and filled with steaming water, Morrigan and Alim found themselves alone. Without hesitation, she shook loose her raven-black tresses, shrugged off her woolen cloak, and began unbuttoning her shirt. The elf's face slowly fell, flushing despite his efforts. He turned sharply toward the darkened window—perhaps too sharply—and asked over the rustle of discarded garments:

   — A foolish question, but... Do you possess any modesty, tact, or decency?

   Her bare feet padded across the floorboards. Water sloshed as she sank into the tub.

   — Modesty? — Her voice dripped amusement. — Fear of being seen? A masquerade to appear better than you are? Mother cured me of that when she stripped me bare, mocking my girlish shame. Words are like nettles—first you fear their sting, then they burn, until... the scars harden. Tact? — A derisive snort. — Foolishness spills so easily from your lips. As for decency—useless. Only choices and consequences matter. Or did you think a witch too simple for layered motives?

   Alim clenched his fist, exhaling slowly. When he turned, she lounged against the tub's rim—amber eyes glinting in the gloom, wet hair clinging to skin, the perfect curve of her breasts displayed with deliberate provocation.

   — Well? Am I pleasing to look upon?

   He met her gaze—though his eyes took a heartbeat too long to rise. Her laughter chased him to his cot, where he scowled at the ceiling.

   — You're unusually witty tonight. Must be the hot blood... or that knock to your head.

   Fingers trailed through the water.

   — Or perhaps I enjoy watching you blush. A rare pleasure.

   She might have continued the game, but Alim's next words stilled her:

   — Your mother... is an extraordinary woman. By any measure.

   Her smile froze. Only water's whisper filled the silence.

   — Sing her praises all you like. She'll never hear them.

   — I didn't mean—

   — Nothing is ever simple. — Her sigh carried a hint of sorrow. — “Extraordinary”—a fine word. Precise. Empty. Worthless, in the end.

   — Why? Is there no pride in—

   — Fool. — The water trembled. — When I spoke of dreams, you didn't listen. What use is epiphany now? A child cares not for complexity. Try explaining truths to your younger self—would you have listened? Or called yourself a cruel, tedious liar? — A pause. — No more talk of her.

   Alim nodded grimly.

   A splash. She rose, lingering just long enough for him to glimpse her silhouette before draping a blanket over skin and memories alike. Water dripped from her hair as she tilted her head.

   — Your turn. Before it grows cold.

   Wincing, Alim sat up. Her narrowed eyes tracked his every move as he undressed—slowly, methodically—folding each garment before slipping into the tub. Only his clenched jaw betrayed him.

   Morrigan studied him openly. Elven frames lacked human bulk, and Alim had clearly never tried to build muscle. Yet Tower discipline had left him lean, if stooped. The road to Ostagar had bronzed his face, though his body remained pale beneath clothes.

   Teasing him wasn't her aim—though it amused her—but she knew his true shackles: not magic, but the Chantry's taboos. As Mother had said with pity, intimacy in the Circles was forbidden until a certain age... or forever. Some dared anyway, but Alim? He bore the marks of one who'd never risked it.

   Yet when she'd mentioned Mother, something had shifted. A weight in her chest. The game was over.

   Alim submerged briefly, then surfaced.

   — The matter of payment remains.

   She paused midway through wringing out her hair.

   — Ah. We'll leave at dawn. Without farewells.

   — Theft.

   — After battlefield looting, is this the gravest sin? If guilt plagues you, we should've slept in a ditch.

   — ...You win.

   * * *

   In the pallid morning light that leached color from the world, Morrigan woke first. Dressed and silent, she approached the small window where a sliver of dawn's blue peered through the glass. But her thoughts wandered toward the retreating night, hardening into something unyielding, wearing at her mind with relentless persistence.

   Her gaze flicked to a trembling tree branch outside, then back to memories of their journey from Ostagar. Each time she'd stolen solitude, she'd tested spells painstakingly mastered over years. The results chilled her:

   "Lightning" was gone—vanished from memory—along with its weaker cousin, "Shock." Fragments of runes surfaced, but their sequences had been excised as thoroughly as if she'd never known them. Only "Horror" behaved abnormally, its effects grotesquely amplified beyond its design. Blood magic? She dared not touch it after... that experience.

   Then came the true terror.

   To feel robbed was familiar, even if the stolen thing was unusual. But how does one feel upon finding a foreign object by their bed—something impossible, inexplicable? Among her known spells lurked one utterly alien: "Death Hex." Its runes burned in her mind with cruel clarity. A spell for killing. Pure. Uncompromising. Requiring living flesh.

   Her eyes darted to Alim's sleeping form. Her fists clenched—not from desire to test it, but from horror at the thought itself. No, even in theory, using it on her only ally was unthinkable. Yet to ignore this knowledge... She swallowed hard. Would that it had been stolen rather than planted.

   Can memory be trusted when it trips over unfamiliar ground?

   Explaining selective memory loss was easy. Explaining new memories? She had no comfort there. In her darkest moment, she wondered: Is this mine? New? Old? Only willpower kept her from that precipice. Yet one explanation loomed, inevitable:

   Possession?

   A shuddering breath escaped her. Dawn came, and with it, her fears should have weakened. But her trembling betrayed her.

   The bed creaked.

   — Morning already?

   Alim yawned, scratching his ear. His gaze lingered on her by the window.

   — Up long?

   — No.

   He dressed briskly, and soon they were ready to slip from The Dane's Refuge at first light—as planned.

   Then footsteps thudded down the hall, halting at their door. The latch shattered as the door burst inward, and suddenly the room was cramped with three armored Templars, blades bared. Their commander's voice was like steel:

   — Keep silent and follow. Any resistance will be treated as an attack.

   Alim shot Morrigan a worried glance, but her face was calm, almost docile.

   In the hall, they nearly collided with Ser Donall. The knight's jaw tightened as the lead Templar explained:

   — By Ser Evou's orders. The bandits captured here yesterday named these two as associates.

   Donall's face darkened—with anger? Regret?—before he turned away without a word.

   Outside, Lothering stirred fitfully. A northern caravan readied for early departure; its workers ignored the Templar procession. Only one figure paused: a red-haired sister emerging from the chantry, her pale green eyes tracking them thoughtfully.

   Through a discreet annex, they descended a spiral stair into subterranean cells—a cramped, grimy space beneath the chantry's bulk. The Templars shoved them into the same cell. The door clanged shut, plunging them into gloom pierced only by stairwell light. Fresh straw covered the floor, its grassy scent masking worse odors. Two buckets sat in a corner.

   Morrigan stretched against the wall and murmured:

   — Notice our neighbors?

   — Yesterday's troublemakers? Must be exhausted to sleep through that.

   — Or at home here. Unlike us.

   — Given what we heard... likely.

   — And no other prisoners? With refugees flooding in?

   — Implying...?

   — Stating facts. Either Templars grew harsher overnight, or petty crime no longer concerns them.

   Alim managed a weak joke:

   — At least we saved on lodging.

   — Silver linings?

   In the dim light, his frown was barely visible.

   — Got a better plan than keeping our spirits up?

   Silence.

   — If it comes to it, could you—

   — An elf's wits fail when survival’s at stake, — she cut in. — If you've nothing useful to say, say nothing.

   * * *

   The hours crawled by. At some indeterminate point, the two men who had falsely accused the mage and the witch awoke to find new neighbors. The discovery didn't seem to delight them, but neither did it stir much concern—as if patience alone were required. Yet no one came—no guards with news, food, or threats, not even Ser Evou himself. As time stretched on, the so-called "bandits" began to fidget with nervous impatience.

   Neither Alim nor Morrigan were at ease either. Uncertainty gnawed at them, feeding the darkest corners of their imagination.

   Near midday—by Morrigan's estimate—footsteps finally echoed down the stairwell. But the visitor was unexpected: the Hasind from yesterday, the one who'd prophesied the Blight's approach before the chantry. He leaned casually against the cell bars, grinning with grim satisfaction.

   — Well, witch? — he sneered. — How do you like your cage? No escape now.

   Then, in his native tongue:

   — Den arrogante toyta khyerer yemme i et merkt yorne.

   Alim tilted his head.

   — Was that Hasind?

   — Yes, — Morrigan replied flatly. — The coward said I belong in the dark.

   The Hasind spat.

   — You talk brave. Not for long. When our chief brought gifts to Flemeth for you, she scorned us. All our tribe got from your blood was shame. And you... — His grin widened. — Twice our hunters met you in the woods. This one was there. You only laughed. Now it's my turn to laugh. My tribe is dead, but I live—to see your end.

   Alim stood, stretching.

   — True?

   — As if Mother would waste time on petty thieves, — Morrigan scoffed. — His bravado lasts only while iron bars protect him. So—it was you who had us arrested, not those louts?

   — Them? This one knows nothing. — The Hasind puffed up. — I told the Templars: a strong witch, child of greatness, walks among them.

   Morrigan slapped her thigh in irritation.

   — Of course! He'll mock me to my face, yet speak of Mother with respect, even in hatred.

   — Never mind that, — Alim cut in. — If he informed the Templars, why were we detained as bandits, not apostates?

   The two actual bandits listened intently, reassessing their predicament. Morrigan shrugged.

   — A fair question. But conclusions are premature. Had the Templars proof, they wouldn't investigate. Other factors are at play. — Her eyes narrowed. — A better question: how did this coward enter the chantry dungeons? Where are the guards?

   — Hah! Because this one is cleverest! This one spits on rules! Goes where—

   A wooden club cracked against his skull, smashing his face into the bars. He slid to the floor with a groan. Behind him stood two chantry sisters—neither older than twenty nor physically imposing in their floor-length wool robes. But their leather shoes were silent, their grips on the clubs firm despite trembling hands.

   A third woman emerged—the redhead with pale green eyes. One bandit whistled; she ignored him. Lighting a candle shielded by glass, she unlocked first the outer gate, then an empty cell. Together, the three women dragged the Hasind inside and dumped him unceremoniously.

   Dismissing the sisters with a bow, the redhead waited until their footsteps faded before speaking in a husky, melodic voice:

   — My name is Leliana. Though I wear a sister’s robes, I’ve taken no vows, non? The Revered Mother lets me stay without them.

   Her gaze flicked to the bandits, then back.

   — I overheard this southerner and Ser Evou. Yet ze good ser did not act immediately—he sent a rider first. Per’aps to confirm some... arrangement?

   While Alim processed this, Morrigan—still seated—responded first:

   — You cram facts down our throats, hoping we’ll choke—then offer aid. A pretty picture, but the shadows snarl with questions. Why would a chantry girl care about a Templar’s affairs?

   Leliana’s frown sharpened.

   — Because one might care, non? About these people—better than they seem. About the Mother, who shelters me. She is trapped in politics with ze wrong allies.

   A gloved hand touched her chest.

   — And about my own conscience, chérie. To stand by and do nothing? That, I cannot.

   — Ah, noble pups grow teeth. — Morrigan's smile was knife-thin. — So Ser Evou is your enemy. His scheme involves that bandit camp, yes? Your word against his won't suffice.

   — Faith guides me, — Leliana said softly. — But I also know men like Ser Evou. The entire garrison left Lothering at dawn—Commander Bryant included—to raid a "bandit camp" he reported. They won't return before nightfall.

   At these words, the two prisoners in the adjacent cell flinched and paled but held their tongues. The redhead continued:

   — If ze Templars return victorious, Ser Evou will cement his reputation with the Revered Mother. Nothing will shake her trust then, and Ser Bryant’s authority will exist in name only. — She adjusted her gloves. — Before, Ser Evou always kept loyal Templars nearby. He needed only opportunity and time. Your arrival provided both. And this Hasind’s fate—fool enough to disrespect ze chantry—shows what I can do, non?

   Alim scratched his neck.

   — One thing puzzles me. Why such effort? Are you certain you’ve chosen the right audience for such weighty matters? We’re hardly in a position to refuse. Or do you mean to open this door?

   Leliana flushed but steadied her voice.

   — It’s... a vision.

   Alim smirked, but Morrigan cut in sharply:

   — A vision? What meaning do you assign to that word?

   Lowering her voice, Leliana explained:

   — In ze chantry garden, I sometimes... see things zat are not there. Recently, when dark tidings piled high, it happened again. — Her fingers traced the air. — A drakeweed root—thick as my arm—coiling around an old but sturdy pillar. It both supported ze stone and clung to it, straining for sunlight. Yet both were choked by a shadowed thicket. But one could simply... part ze branches. Let in ze light.

   Alim narrowed his eyes.

   — Drakeweed—‘elfroot’ to commoners?

   — Oui.

   Morrigan exhaled.

   — Visions come to you alone?

   — Yes.

   — A cruel gift. Were I you, I’d doubt. Wishful thinking often drowns harsh truth. Self-deception becomes second nature—especially for those skilled in deception.

   Morrigan leaned forward, eyes glinting.

   — And you are skilled. Sometimes perfection betrays more than clumsiness. What do you want from us? Be brief.

   Leliana tensed, then relaxed.

   — Brief won’t suffice. You’re stray stones—easy to fit into any wall. To Ser Evou, outsiders are perfect: your disappearance won’t be questioned, your identities malleable. Zat Hasind merely struck tinder, but Evou fans it to flame. — She hesitated. — Your part is small, but framed as apostates tied to bandits? It becomes his final argument. Two spies become four—two of them dangerous mages. Such a triumph would crown him and ruin Ser Bryant.

   Her fingers twisted.

   — I won’t let ze chantry become his tool. So non, you’re not ze main players, but through you, he’ll win everything.

   Morrigan snorted.

   — How wise—leaving snakes to guard henhouses. My companion’s question stands: the door?

   Leliana eyed the lock and shook her head.

   — Not yet. At dusk. Your sudden appearance would cause panic. And trust—

   — …is a double-edged sword, — Morrigan finished.

   Leliana’s brows shot up.

   — Zat’s a bard’s saying from Orlais. How would a supposed witch from Korcari know it?

   Alim studied Morrigan, but she only laughed darkly.

   — And how would a supposed ‘sister’ know Orlesian bardry? Best go. Never postpone the inevitable.

   Leliana whitened, nodded jerkily, and fled—but not before relocking the door with precise turns.

   Once her steps faded, Alim chewed on his lip.

   — You know...

   — How odd it all seems?

   — Yes.

   — Exceedingly. Clever. Quick. But visions? Like blood smeared on innocent sky. Or perhaps... a performance.

   * * *

   The light seeping into the dungeon from the stairwell dimmed. Bellies growled. Evening approached.

   Hours after Leliana's visit, the Hasind stirred. Predictably, shock gave way to curses, accusations, and threats before the man retreated into his cell's shadows. Morrigan smirked, imagining his grim realization: his usefulness to Ser Evou had expired. The bandits, too, had lost their swagger, whispering anxiously. The witch privately agreed with Leliana’s assessment—these men’s fates looked bleak, whether their gang bested the Templars or not. Even victory would brand them snitches. Alim, like the others, brooded in the gloom.

   After a prolonged silence, Morrigan addressed the bandits:

   — What think you of yonder coward’s claims? Did his words hold weight... or not?

   A pause. Then the one who’d struck her at The Dane’s Refuge growled:

   — Drivel about you being a witch? We’re more concerned with that girl’s prophetess fantasies.

   — Strange. Self-preservation should scream at you: What if it’s true? — Her voice dripped mock concern. — Then you’re caged with something rumor says scorns your laws. These bars? — She flicked the iron. — To a mage, they’re air. I could drink your lives dry. You’d writhe until the last drop fled your veins.

   A tremor entered his voice:

   — Empty threats.

   — Is it? — She laughed sharply.

   Alim leaned in.

   — Is this necessary?

   — Must all things be necessary? — she purred. — My head’s full of dark ideas. This is... a diversion.

   Light footsteps interrupted them. A figure emerged—not Leliana. A woman in rough-spun linen, her shirt loosely laced to emphasize curves bolstered by hidden corsetry. Knee-high boots, a raincloak, and two belt pouches completed her utilitarian garb. No jewelry.

   She clapped twice—her palms flared burgundy-red—then seized the door’s lower hinge. At first, only her labored breaths filled the silence. Then came the crackling. The metal under her hands darkened to umber, then crimson, finally blazing scarlet. Shadows danced like dying embers.

   With a gasp, she kicked the door near the hinge. Once. Twice. On the fifth strike, the frame groaned. A prybar appeared in her hands, which she wedged into the gap. A final heave—the hinge snapped.

   Panting, she slipped inside and squinted into the dark.

   — You!

   Alim blinked.

   — Us. But who are you?

   She eyed the other cells.

   — Not here. A moment—

   Morrigan rose smoothly, intrigued. Up close, the intruder’s face was soft—librarian’s features framed by sweat-damp chestnut curls—but her brown eyes burned with fearful resolve.

   — I’ll help, — the witch offered. — We’ll alternate—you, then me—on the lock.

   Relief flooded the stranger’s face. She clapped again; the lock glowed cherry-red. Morrigan assessed the crude ironwork, then nodded.

   — Now.

   A glance at Alim, then she cast a frost spell. Metal screeched as ice battled fire. The stranger reheated the weakened metal. On the second freeze, the lock shattered under the prybar’s tap.

   — Thank you, — the woman panted. — I... overestimated my strength.

   — Your fire control is a rare skill, — Morrigan mused. — As my learned friend would say: such spells mark the bold, the desperate, or the curious.

   Alim sighed.

   — Which am I, I wonder?

   — Unique, I’d wager.

   The stranger stifled a tired laugh.

   — Quickly, — she urged. — I’ll explain en route. The Templars could return any moment.

   Alim hesitated, then nodded at Morrigan’s questioning look.

   — I see no point in deception, now that we’re here. Especially after going to such lengths.

   Passing by their fellow prisoners, Morrigan cast them a glance brimming with contempt and a hint of mockery. Both men looked grim. Even the Hasind hadn’t screamed. Each understood the threat posed by two sorceresses—especially after the “Witch’s” earlier words. And what good would screaming do, when the girl who freed them had come and gone unscathed?

   As they ascended and hurried through the long evening shadows along the flagstone path toward the temple’s corner, the trio collided with Leliana, who came barreling around the bend. The redhead was rifling through a massive keyring without looking, while somehow clutching a conspicuous leather bundle of documents under her arm.

   The woman leading Alim and Morrigan gaped in surprise and blurted out:

   — Sister Leliana?

   — Little Bethany?

   “Little” flushed instantly and retorted sharply, though incoherently:

   — Haven’t been ‘little’ in years!

   Blinking, Leliana took in the others and quickly composed herself.

   — I was coming to you with proof of Ser Evou’s misdeeds. But it seems another savior took an interest in your fate.

   Her pale green eyes returned to Bethany, now cold and detached.

   — There were rumors about Malcolm and his offspring… Never thought— Well, lesson learned. So, you’re a mage?

   The brown-eyed girl tensed and spat out the question with veiled resentment:

   — Does that change anything?

   — What?.. Non. How could it change the girl who hung on my stories, mouth agape? The one who’d pelt me with endless questions till my head spun? But it’s vital information. It affects—

   — No.

   Bethany clenched her fists, chestnut curls flying as she moved. Her eyes burned with resolve, fueled by more than mere nobility.

   — Father always said, “When the hunt grows fierce, we stand together.”

   Her voice wavered, then steadied:

   — Today, I risked not just myself, but my family’s safety. When I heard the Hasind denounce you—

   She cut herself off, as if catching her own recklessness:

   — I couldn’t do otherwise. Even if you’re strangers. Especially because you’re strangers—with no one here to help. That’s why we must leave Lothering. Tonight. And since fate brought us together, Sister Leliana comes too. Neither the Mother nor the Templars can know until we’re at least a day away. Then you can return and do as you please.

   — By then, it’ll be too late! You can’t possibly—

   The young mage frowned, projecting unwavering confidence. Leliana turned to Morrigan.

   — Listen—

   But Alim’s quiet voice cut in:

   — Truth is, we could leave now. Far from this mess. But… the only way to avoid mounted patrols here—unless we head south—is by river. Boats aren’t exactly lying around. And Lady Bethany owes us an explanation. That tale promises to be more interesting than Ser Evou’s crimes… and likely includes an escape plan.

   Morrigan nodded and added:

   — I say we follow the one who risked her hide. Not the shadow-dweller with her schemes. Relax and keep up.

   The elf eyed the three women, then mouthed “sorry” to Leliana with a shrug. The redhead pursed her lips but stayed silent, frantically weighing options. Assured she wouldn’t bolt, Bethany pressed onward.

   — About the boat—you’re right, ser elf. Anyone with a rotten tub sailed for the South Reach a day and a half ago. Father had three, but the oldest is worthless. Two will suffice. I hid mine in the reeds behind The Dane’s Refuge, on the far bank.

   As they crossed the bridge, the group noted the eerie absence of townsfolk—as if they’d hidden at Bethany’s approach. Yet a crowd had gathered near the departing caravan Alim and Morrigan had spotted that morning. Whatever was happening there worked in the fugitives’ favor, drawing eyes away. But Morrigan caught Leliana’s tense stare—as if she expected no good from the mob, or knew something grim.

   Nearing The Dane’s Refuge, they heard a man’s furious cursing, a woman’s shriek, an axe splitting wood, and shattering glass. Bethany paled, eyes wide.

   — Carver… Idiot! He followed me with some suicidal robbery plan!

   Leliana gave her a disbelieving look.

   — That’s Ser Donall—a battle-hardened knight—with a Blackstone Volunteers recruiter. Your brother hasn’t a chance.

   The young mage bit her lip and whirled toward Alim and Morrigan. Tears welled as she met their gazes, but she steadied herself.

   — Please—help me save him! Just buy time! That fool will listen to me. The boats are twenty paces past the yard. I… I don’t have enough mana, and—

   Alim glanced at Morrigan, who seemed lost in thought. He nudged her shoulder.

   — Debts repaid, no?

   Morrigan scowled and muttered:

   — Idiocy… Do as you like. Count me out.

   Leliana stared at them, aghast.

   — You’re mad!

   Already striding toward the inn, Alim called back without hiding his tension:

   — Don’t judge yet, sister. This might aid you too. Trust’s a double-edged sword. Right, Morrigan?

   Face twisted with fury, the witch stormed after him, venom in her voice:

   — Shemlen bastard! Selaerat!

   * * *

   Three years and a handful of dawns before.

   As twilight bled into night, Benedict climbed steadily toward the encroaching darkness. Since his last visit, every trail here had shifted, forcing the man to rely on instinct, skill, common sense, and agility. Fortunately, the Fereldan stallion trailing behind him—guided by reins clenched in his fist—was calm and bold enough. Had the horse panicked or balked on these slippery ledges, Benedict might as well have kissed his means of travel goodbye. Ahead, nestled in the deep shadows of a narrow gorge, lay Aeonar, a secret prison for mages. Not the most pleasant place. But the man secretly rejoiced at the clear weather—the first days of summer had been dry and bright.

   After twenty arduous minutes, the traveler stood before a modest gate that allowed passage for exactly one rider—and only if dismounted. The doors stood invitingly open, twisting Benedict’s lips into a wry smirk. Of course they’d spotted him long ago. No doubt two or three crossbows were trained on him right now. He’d have been disappointed with less.

   Inside, he found himself in a cramped courtyard. At its center loomed a single structure of massive basalt blocks, partially built into the sheer cliff rising a hundred paces behind it. The stone was lined with dozens of Templars in full armor, standing in disciplined ranks. Before these seasoned warriors, the prison’s overseer paced with measured precision: impeccable uniform, broad shoulders, average height, shaved head, and a square jaw. His Orlesian heritage was faint but detectable. Benedict didn’t recognize him—evidently, the Knight-Commander had appointed a new overseer in his absence. The theatrics, however, weren’t for his benefit. Leaning against the gate, Benedict waited patiently.

   The inspection ended swiftly, conducted in utter silence. With a curt nod, the overseer dismissed the Templars and strode toward Benedict. His posture, gait, and gaze radiated wariness and readiness for combat. Good. That’s exactly what Benedict expected in Aeonar.

   The overseer halted precisely two Fereldan sword-lengths away and spoke first:

   — Brunet. Sloppy or indifferent about appearance—judging by the hair. Distinctive Orlesian nose, but clothing favors practicality over fashion. Stance, lack of visible scars, and wear on your scabbard and sword grip suggest frequent, proficient weapon use. And you’re acutely aware your life hinges on my next decision. State: your name, purpose here, how you know of this place, and who you’ve told. This is an order, not a request.

   Benedict offered a conciliatory smile—futile, but habitual. Slowly spreading his hands to keep them far from his body, he replied:

   — You’re mostly right, colleague. I’ll admit, a year in Kirkwall’s sewers left little time for grooming. That’s where we differ. But practicality? That unites us. Nicoline drills that into all her subordinates. As for the sword—sharp observation. A hundred swings each morning, and if the day’s lucky, another hundred at night. We’re not Templar hunters, brawling every other day. Ours is a subtler tool. And you’d likely best me in blade work. Fine inspection at a glance, by the way. Between us, your predecessor never commanded such respect. My name’s Benedict. A Seeker of Truth, like you. This isn’t an inspection—those don’t happen here. I’m returning home to report a failure. Detoured to Aeonar on a slim hope of salvaging something useful. All Seekers assigned as overseers or inspectors know of this prison.

   The man frowned and enunciated slowly:

   — Therinfal speech.

   Benedict sighed, nodded, and recited crisply:

   — Many complain. They don’t understand why we train in a remote castle if our duty is rooting out impiety among the masses. You—

   A dry voice cut in:

   — Who sits on the throne at Therinfal’s heart?

   — None. The throne awaits the Maker. But remains empty, for He has forsaken us.

   — Suppose so. Seekers informed of Aeonar aren’t barred entry. But unwelcome. Especially by me. Vincent, at your service.

   The overseer gestured toward the stables hidden within the building.

   — Your mission, if you’ll share it.

   Benedict rubbed his stubbled chin.

   — Hardly secret. I was to find Kirkwall’s “mythical” Black Emporium. Result? Drivel—tall tales warped with each retelling. Tristan and I scoured that cursed city for a year without a real lead. Hard to believe Xenon the Antiquarian—not even a mage—could hide such a “shop” so thoroughly. Though the man himself is as grotesque as the rumors. My partner’s less skeptical, so he stayed despite our deadline passing.

   — Hm.

   — Appreciate the restraint.

   After stabling his horse and checking its hooves, Benedict turned to Vincent.

   — Truthfully, this wild nugs chase wouldn’t sting so much if not for Cahail breathing down my neck.

   The overseer raised a brow, guiding him toward the living quarters.

   — What of Cahail? Before my posting, I knew him as a seasoned Seeker.

   — You crossed paths?

   — More like ran errands for him. Different generations. But he had much to teach. That black mane of his—

   — Ah… more of a blond, really. Saw his team a month ago, before they descended into Kirkwall’s crypts again. Some grand-scale blood magic from the Old Imperium. Far weightier than chasing rumors. My grumbling’s just sour grapes. Ha! So much focus on one city, while we’ve an international scandal brewing.

   Vincent opened a narrow oak door—thick enough to withstand an assault—and gestured Benedict into a spartan yet functional chamber. Jaw tensing, the overseer asked:

   — What happened?

   Dropping his pack by the bed and unbuckling his sword belt (never turning his back to his host), Benedict continued:

   — News travels slowly here. There’s been a coup in the Tevinter Imperium. I’ve my own troubles, but when a high-ranking Templar got involved, I dug deeper. Lambert van Reeves—liaison between the Imperial Templars and the Chantry of Andraste, their official ambassador. Somehow, routine anti-corruption efforts escalated into overthrowing the entire political and religious elite. Not my place to dissect the intrigue, but no one saw this coming—not the Templar Order, the Chantry, the White Spire, or the Imperial Palace. Chaos reigns. Got any food?

   Vincent nodded absently, processing. To him, the coup was distant, irrelevant to Aeonar’s operations. Leading Benedict to the kitchen, he remarked:

   — When was your last inspection here?

   Benedict’s eyes gleamed with knowing amusement. Trust was a luxury Aeonar couldn’t afford.

   — Hmm. Let’s see… Maker! Four winters—no, four and a half—ago. How time flies. This place terrified me then. After Kirkwall’s sewers, though? Pfft. Seen worse. And your autumn roads—vivid memories. Suppose I must’ve pissed someone off to get assigned here so late in the season.

   In the near-empty kitchen, Benedict loaded his bowl with porridge, bread, nuts, and berry-infused liquor. As they sat across the oak table, Vincent pressed:

   — What do you hope to learn here?

   Benedict shrugged between bites.

   — Anything about the Black Emporium that isn’t the same tired tales I’ve memorized—origins and all. With your permission, of course. No official request exists.

   — So this detour was just… a gamble?

   Disapproval laced Vincent’s tone. Benedict grinned.

   — Ah, you prefer certainty—no room for failure or luck. Nicoline trained you well. Me? I’m a hound. Sent where they point, sniffing what they want. In this world, you must account for chance. Take Kirkwall: the plan’s flawless, until a stray crossbow bolt finds your skull during some alley scuffle between nobodies fighting over beggar turf. Poof! No report, because you never pondered your own mortality. Days of investigation—gone. Bad luck, eh?

   He winked over a mouthful of bread. Vincent’s brow twitched—acknowledging the logic without endorsing it.

   — Where will you start?

   Benedict leaned back, swallowing loudly.

   — Frankly, I’d rather not spend days in your pits. Heard you’ve a dozen guests from Kirkwall.

   Vincent narrowed his eyes.

   — Seven now. Incidents happen. All linked to blood magic, incidentally.

   Benedict’s delayed grimace left it unclear which fact disturbed him. Pushing away his empty bowl, he sighed.

   — Seven it is. If you’ve no objections, I’ll hunt by day, work by night.

   — Game’s scarce here. And I dislike frequent excursions.

   — Birds still fly, yes?

   — They do.

   — Then I’m set.

   Downing his liquor, Benedict gathered both their dishes with a smile, earning a glare from the cook—a full-fledged Templar. Vincent shadowed him to the exit.

   — I’ll escort you to your room.

   Benedict gestured for him to lead.

   — From your tale, Kirkwall brought you nothing but misfortune. A streak of ill luck?

   — Well, I’m alive…

   Vincent turned, skeptical, but met genuine bewilderment.

   — That bad?

   Benedict weighed his words.

   — Tristan and I weren’t mingling with nobility. Kirkwall isn’t just filth, stench, blood, whores, addicts, and crime—but scour the slums and sewers, and that’s all you’ll see. It’s not Orlais, where even backwaters spare you the “floating corpse at dawn” greeting. Let alone a corpse you know. Kirkwall’s overcrowded, impoverished, corrupt, inept at every level. Never recovered from Perrin’s assault on the Templars or the Qunari occupation during the Storm Age. Maker—I doubt it’s recovered since its founding. But you’re right. There was one bright spot. Immoral to admit, but… Melsendre. A gorgeous Orlesian bard with raven hair. Three glorious nights. I’m no charmer, but mystery sufficed. Yes, her “profession” became obvious swiftly. Thankfully, her aims never crossed mine. We parted without paranoia… or attachments.

   At the guest chamber, silence fell. Vincent had no reply; Benedict traced the seamless basalt walls, murmuring:

   — You know what truly astonishes me about Kirkwall? Centuries of darkness, violence, horror—yet the Gallows, the harbor, its countless statues stand as silent tributes to its founders. Soaked in innocent blood, yet… timeless. Like this place. Don’t you think?

   Vincent’s gaze skimmed the walls.

   — I value their practicality. Nothing more. Sleep well. Rest is rare in Aeonar.

   Once alone, Benedict rubbed his eyes and sighed:

   — Yes, I remember…

Chapter Text

   Alim managed to cast "Arcane Shield" just before the door swung open violently in the mage’s face. Out burst a familiar figure with a wild mane of red hair and a short blade drawn. Upon spotting the pair he’d aided earlier, the man froze, wasting precious moments to process the scene—more than enough time for Morrigan to rapid-fire the incantation "Corpus et animus separat", enveloping him in "Disorientation". A heartbeat too late, the warrior’s instincts kicked in: a wild slash aimed at the elf standing closest. But the swing went wide, granting Alim ample room to dodge. Even so, had the protective spell not deflected the blade’s tip, the elf would’ve spent the rest of his days sporting a facial scar.

   Next, a clod of half-dried mud—scooped from the road by the girl—smashed into the redhead’s face. Dodging another blind swing, Alim lunged forward, driving his shoulder into the man’s solar plexus. The impact knocked the wind from him and sent him sprawling back through the doorway of The Dane’s Refuge. Chairs toppled as the warrior crashed noisily between tables, yet he clung to his weapon and rolled aside. Morrigan, gripping the doorframe, vaulted over her kneeling companion. In a flash, she closed the gap, denying the man any chance to regain his footing. Snatching up a chair mid-stride, she brought it down on his collarbone and skull. The first blow caught him off-guard, flattening him anew; the second, despite his attempt to shield his head, forced his blade from numbed fingers. The third shattered the chair—yet the redhead, hissing garbled curses through clenched teeth, still struggled to rise.

   Enter Ser Donall. Though dressed plainly, the knight held a naked longsword. His icy voice cut through the chaos, commanding attention:

   — I assume there’s a rational explanation for this?

   From outside, an angry shout:

   — Let me through, Sister—I must help!

   A sharp retort followed:

   — Quiet. You begged for aid, claiming weakness. Stay here and don’t worsen things.

   Morrigan, catching her breath, flicked back a stray lock and met the knight’s gaze. Unlike the redhead, this foe anticipated surprises—evident in his taut stance and blade’s angle, both screaming lethal readiness. A pall of danger hung over the scene. Alim crouched motionless, eyes darting between Morrigan and the knight. The redhead lay still, blood pooling from his head. The other girls remained outside. Seconds stretched. With each passing moment, Morrigan’s confidence in her control grew. Despite the carnage, the knight hesitated. Somewhere beneath his resolve lurked doubt... and weariness.

   Trusting her instincts, Morrigan spoke, slow and measured:

   — A man with a drawn weapon burst forth, swinging at my companion. What followed was... hasty decisions in a fraught moment. Call it a misunderstanding, if you will.

   Donall’s brow twitched. His blade wavered but held steady. Undeterred, Morrigan pressed on:

   — Doubtless, honor compels a knight to take sides. Yet this is no simple case of a brute assaulting a woman. No Templars stand as authority here. You’re no vassal to the local Arl. Why spill blood needlessly?

   — You’ve a strange manner of speech, my lady.

   Morrigan’s lips curled.

   — And that’s all the noble Ser cares to note?

   From the floor, the redhead spat blood:

   — While we chatter, their allies loot this inn’s stores. Danal’s bound in the kitchen. It’s obvious.

   Morrigan didn’t blink.

   — Interpretations abound. Between life and death, there’s often but a single word.

   The knight’s blade dipped almost imperceptibly.

   — So... none are dead.

   Seizing the lull, Alim straightened and interjected:

   — Perhaps we might divert the noble knight from petty pilfering of provisions to graver matters—say, the Blight’s march through these forsaken lands.

   Donall barely reacted, but Morrigan’s eyes narrowed, scanning past his shoulder as if tracing an invisible thread. A smirk dawned as she grasped Alim’s ploy:

   — Clever.

   The mage scowled. Donall’s glare hardened—he disliked the cryptic remark—but Morrigan pressed on, honeyed and sly:

   — My companion speaks true. In part. Certain words make men forget all else. For you, one such word is “brigands”—those harrying the Imperial Highway. Ah! I see it now. But if Templars pursue them, what good comes of it? Unless... you wonder who pulls their strings?

   The knight’s swordpoint dropped to the floor, his features sharpening. Dryly, he demanded:

   — Speak.

   Morrigan turned to the doorway and called out:

   — Leliana! Someone here wishes to see your evidence. Little Bethany? Time to confirm—has the thief fled, or not?

   Crouching beside the prone warrior—who awaited the resolution of this murky affair—she whispered coldly:

   — Stay still. Let the elf tend your head. Then forget this ever happened. I’ve recently discovered I possess a particularly vile magic. So even if you somehow squeeze the life from me... yours won’t last much longer. See these black veins on my nails? Not dirt. No. Each is a thread of your fate. And I’ve already begun... unraveling them.

   She traced a finger lightly over the man’s veins, her voice a blade:

   — Care to see what happens when the last one snaps?

   With a glance at Alim, still tense but unmoving, she added:

   — My name is mine alone. Today, you’ve convinced this southern witch of how perilous it is to ally with northerners.

   The mage’s cheek twitched. He turned away, scavenging for bandages, his voice sharp:

   — Oh, we’ve both seen the “exceptional” qualities of southerners lately. Filth rises to the surface, no matter where you stand. Save your venom for others.

   The barb struck. Morrigan’s fists clenched—but then Bethany and Leliana entered. Bethany darted past, vanishing into the kitchen. Leliana, with surprising composure for a Chantry sister, assessed the scene instantly and addressed Ser Donall with a graceful curtsy.

   — Ser Donall.

   The knight rested his sword like a cane, nodding respectfully.

   — Sister Leliana.

   A flicker of regret crossed Leliana’s face at the title, but she pressed on, stepping closer:

   — The... lady is right. These documents confirm what I wished weren’t true. The Maker forgive me, but truth is rarely kind. They reveal a sustained, mutually beneficial link between Ser Evou and the brigands near Lothering. No direct proof, but they align with my fears. He may have orchestrated their formation, then turned a blind eye—using them to pressure locals, all while hiding their camp from the Knight-Commander. Clever, but reprehensible.

   A leather bundle of letters thudded onto a table.

   — If you wonder how I obtained these—

   — No. I’ve long since lost my concern for methods. Just the facts.

   From the kitchen, Bethany’s voice escalated to a shout:

   — Carver! Open this damned door before I burn through it! Why’s Ebryn bleeding?!

   As Alim bandaged the sullen redhead—who watched with simmering hate—Morrigan stood detached, absorbing the chaos. The knight’s restraint, Leliana’s veiled emotions, Alim’s flickering thoughts, Bethany’s transparency—it all fractured before her like a mirror breaking, each shard a separate tale.

   Leliana, ignoring the tumult, continued methodically: Ser Evou’s manipulation of Templars, villagers, even the Mother, to build a network of informants. Using brigands for personal gain, silencing dissenters—all to burnish his reputation.

   A sigh escaped her, drawing Morrigan’s focus.

   — Forgive me. I suspect why Ser Donall took interest. Though you’re just passing through... Evou’s papers mention a knight’s murder on the Imperial Highway—one bearing House Guerrin’s crest. And since you—

   Donall cut her off, his voice heavy:

   — Correct. Both of us rode under Lady Isolde’s orders, seeking the Sacred Ashes of Andraste. Her last hope to heal her husband. We were to meet here, share news, and ride on. But... I sensed something amiss. Rumors... A lone traveler is no match for an ambush. Yet hope held me here. Thank you for the truth.

   He weighed his sword, then nodded—more to himself. A glance out the window:

   — You should go.

   Morrigan and Leliana turned. Through the dusk, riders approached. Leliana exhaled:

   — Templars.

   — Leave the wounded to me. Hurry.

   As Leliana gathered the documents, Morrigan and Alim slipped into the kitchen. Outside, Bethany finished bandaging Ebryn—a russet-haired girl in a simple dress, her freckled face pinched with pain. Nearby stood Carver, broad-shouldered and tense, a splitting maul grounded at his feet. He bristled at the newcomers, but Bethany barked:

   — Carver! Stand down!

   Morrigan’s gaze flicked northwest, where an unnatural glow bloomed above The Dane’s Refuge. Leliana’s mask of calm cracked—beneath it, fury simmered.

   — Does this concern us? — Morrigan murmured.

   Leliana shook her head.

   Hooves clattered. Carver dragged Ebryn toward the boats. The group followed, scrambling into the flat-bottomed vessels. Poles pushed them into the sluggish current.

   From afar, the Templars emerged—angular shadows in starlight. Then the moon broke through, illuminating their grim faces. A hissed command, and they vanished inside.

   Alim trailed fingers in the water, murmuring:

   — Bad luck? Or...

   Bethany said flatly:

   — It changes nothing. We were leaving regardless.

   Leliana whispered:

   — Maker. Let it be so.

   Morrigan frowned.

   — How long?

   — An hour by oar. Without? Three or four. The current’s weak here.

   Morrigan looked to the stars, silent.

   * * *

   Amidst the river’s dark waters, time flowed as languidly as the current. If one let go of reality, it seemed the boats stood still while the world moved around them—the clouds, the shadowed shores, the cool wind carrying night’s fragrances, even the stars overhead. All breathed with life. Yet dipping a hand into the icy stream, feeling the water slip between fingers, shattered the illusion. Motion returned.

   From the neighboring boat came murmurs, too soft to decipher but rich with the intimacy shared between a man and woman. On the mage’s vessel, silence reigned. The elf seemed to doze. Bethany was a curled shadow—asleep or merely withdrawn. Only Morrigan and Leliana remained awake, both peering into the dark, though their thoughts diverged wildly.

   Morrigan’s voice cut through the stillness:

   — Rivers breed grim thoughts. At least in this darkness. But since my own worries are familiar company—what plagues you?

   Leliana shrugged, the gesture lost to night.

   — Many things. I scarcely know… Per’aps… I should be grateful for that?

   — Unexpected.

   — Agreed. Once, I needed refuge—from chaos, from events that outpaced me. A friend brought me here. Strangers took me in. That first year at the Chantry… it was peace. I thought time would heal all wounds. Simple lives. Petty squabbles over a goat eating someone’s cabbages. Grudges that never grew beyond gossip. Harsh weather and wild beasts bind people, make them honest. But as years passed… I began to suffocate. Secretly, I longed for change. Foolish to think this turmoil answers those wishes—yet who am I to question the Maker’s paths? The weight grew daily. More than I’d asked for. More than one can bear alone.

   Morrigan tilted her head to the stars.

   — Strange to hear a confession. Stranger still to learn of another’s tangled mind.

   Leliana’s smile hid in the dark like a veiled secret.

   — Well… Our circumstances excuse much. Visions pointed me to you and ze elf. And instinct whispered the only way to reach you was to bare my soul completely.

   Morrigan’s lip curled, disdain slipping through.

   — Oh, visions… Spare me. Knowing your contradictions—like those of some madwoman—should make me fond of you? Flattering.

   — Peut-être... Per’aps... Believe me, it surprises me more than you. And… who asked after my worries first?

   — Worries. Only that.

   — Very well. Worries, then… I’ve seen how a whisper can break the weak or make ze strong falter. I may have even wielded such words myself. Didn’t you say interpretation shapes fate?

   — Sharp ears. Good memory.

   — My “talents.” Not the only ones…

   A bitter laugh.

   — Once, I “sang in ze Choir of Andraste.” Now I hunt a murderer. What glory. To watch a good man diminished by half-truths and timed whispers… It’s a pain I’ve never known. Blinded by trust, I ignored the signs. That glow over Lothering? Not a celebratory bonfire. Not justice. Only murder—by one who should have been the first to protect.

   Morrigan trailed a hand in the water.

   — Ah. A tale lurks here. Your hints beg explanation. If we speak of northern “virtue,” you mean the Mother?

   Leliana nodded, slumping forward.

   — Just so. The Chantry… It’s more than faith in ze Maker’s love, and less. It shelters orphans, tends the sick, fights hunger and horrors. Yet ambition festers beneath. The higher orders tasked the Mother of Lothering with turning folk against Arl Bryland. A burden too heavy for a gentle soul. At first, she only tempered his harshest decrees. It might have ended there—had the Arl not marched with the king’s army, stripping the village of guards. The Mother protested, but… it was Ser Evou, lurking in the Knight-Commander’s shadow, who seized the moment. He blamed the Arl for every woe, whispering “reason” to the Templars—that their duty lay not with the people, but their own orders. Doubts festered. The Mother kept the Templars in Lothering, clashed with Elder Miriam over harvests. Then “apostates” were found—harmless folk, I now know. Ser Evou wielded fear like a club. The Arl returned, demanded supplies for the north, and left again. A Hasind at the Chantry? Ser Evou claimed southern refugees fleeing the Blight were no threat. Dishonest merchants? He questioned confiscating their goods. And then… ze qunari.

   Her voice frayed.

   — A warrior slaughtered a family, then surrendered. Ser Evou declared him a monster, a lesson for the people. I begged the Mother to see—this was the Arl’s matter, not ze Chantry’s. But the lie had rooted too deep. Foolish sisters spread tales of qunari savagery. That fire? A pyre for the “monster”—and for the good woman who burned beside him. We tell ourselves we can always turn back, choose another path. Yet each step makes it harder. My fear is… whether I can lead the Mother back to that crossroads at all.

   Morrigan let the silence linger before raising her numbed fingers from the water, droplets glinting like shattered stars.

   — My point is this: mind your own mistakes first. Others’ are beyond counting. Trying to fix them is like wrestling the wind. Nobility is a luxury for those who’ve never starved—not some “worthy path.” Know the difference between my mother and yours?

   A cynical smirk curled her lips.

   — Mine would never play the “saint” while sending folk to the pyre. When a tyrant errs, it’s expected. When a saint errs, it’s tragedy. Choose whose mistakes to mend. But… our paths diverge. If you return, try. I suspect… the answer will guide you.

   Leliana bit her lip, her voice a whisper:

   — Advice no worse than any other. Yet it changes nothing of my intent.

   — So visions outweigh answers?

   In the dark, Leliana shook her head.

   — They spare a lost lamb from dying at the crossroads having chosen nothing. The fear of perishing uselessly, having chosen nothing… that terrifies me.

   Morrigan nodded.

   — An explanation I’ll accept. Truer than drivel about “destiny.”

   Silence reclaimed the boat—until Leliana’s voice rose, clear and melodic, singing:

   "I am my own executioner, it seems,

   My blood a murmuring lament of dreams,

   Whose rhythmic sobs in distant echoes keep—

   But where, oh where, does my suffering sleep?

   Through city streets a crimson river flows,

   Cobblestones now isles where the red tide grows..."

   [Excerpt from "Le Flacon" — Charles Baudelaire (1821–1867)]

   The song cut off abruptly. This time, the quiet lasted only moments before Bethany spoke, hesitant:

   — Beautiful. And sad. I’d never have guessed our ever-sunny Leliana had such… shadows.

   Darkness hid Leliana’s face, but all felt her smile—though what else lingered there (sorrow? regret?) remained for imagination alone. Bethany pressed on, testing each word:

   — So… Ser Evou orchestrated those murders. The “apostates”?

   — Oui. By nurturing paranoia and zeal in weak minds, he harvested accusations—some with kernels of truth. The first was a mage who’d lived years on a farm with a family. None knew… save one fearful neighbor. When rumors spread, he fled—perhaps to protect his hosts. They caught him on the Imperial Highway. The second… A hunter took in a Hasind woman. They lived as man and wife. She was a hedge-witch. A trifle, but enough for Ser Evou to fan into flames.

   Bethany’s voice hardened.

   — That mage—the first. His name was Seyd. He came to Lothering when Father lived. They spoke politely, as distant acquaintances might. After Father’s death, he returned. Visited Mother. Always courteous. I… think he watched over us.

   — Triste à entendre.

   — Not as sad as learning a qunari slaughtered a family I broke bread with as a child! — Bethany’s anger bled through. — What can we expect from Evou? Is he dangerous?

   — Bien sûr. He bided his time, but I see now—he always had designs. Clever, ambitious, methodical. Impatient, perhaps. Yet such grand schemes… they’re beyond his reach. Petty intrigues within the Templar Order? Oui. But at this scale? If it unravels… I fear the true Ser Evou will emerge.

   Alim’s voice cut through, cold and alert:

   — Too many pyres tonight.

   All turned. Beyond the hill, a fire raged—its sparks clawing at the sky, smoke churning in black billows. The wind carried the stench of char, mingled with river damp. From the other boat, Carver shouted:

   — Sister! The farm—!

   Bethany clutched the boat’s edge, her other hand pressed to her mouth. A prayer, repeated:

   — Maker, not Mother… not Mother…

   Morrigan’s golden eyes caught the firelight.

   — Fear not. Your Maker has clearly chosen no side at all.

   * * *

   The rhythmic splash of oars and Carver’s muttered curses—berating himself for his laziness and poor decisions—were the only sounds breaking the silence. Bethany bit her lip until it bled, the unbearable anticipation gnawing at her. The boats swiftly rounded the hill, docking amidst a thicket of reeds. Abandoning their supplies haphazardly, the group scrambled up the shallow riverbank—only to be met with the grim spectacle of the burning farmstead.

   Half a kilometer away, the farm was already collapsing into embers. The house and barn had caved inward; only charred remnants of the stable remained. The fire’s glow painted the rye field a furious red, casting long shadows where three figures stood motionless against the blaze.

   Carver hefted his axe, but Morrigan’s voice cut through like a blade:

   — Brave fools die first. Honor is vast. Usefulness—none.

   — Not your mother out there! — he snapped, raw emotion stripping his words of courtesy.

   — Will proving your sister right matter when Templars trample your skull?

   Bethany’s voice was hoarse.

   — Templars…

   — Three of them. Look closer.

   The firelight glinted off their plate armor—unmistakable even at this distance. Few in these lands wore such mail, and now, only the Chantry’s warriors did. Alim hunched slightly, muttering:

   — This… is bad news.

   Morrigan smirked.

   — Among us, only I have slain the Maker’s warriors— I presume. — Her gaze flicked to Leliana. — And likely I’m the only one here who’s killed at all. No bows. No swords or armor. Hmph. Normally, the answer is simple: turn and leave. Such suicide is… messy. Yet… — She studied their faces. — I understand your motives. And the tragic end awaiting you. Strangely, I find I’d rather not see some of you as corpses. If the siblings’ resolve holds, I’ll kill the Templars. But if lives are the stakes, I’ll demand no less from you. Here are my terms.

   Her words were brisk, tactical:

   — Carver, you stay here. If we fail, your life ends with mine. Leliana—you walk the same path, since you’ve tied your fate to ours. Alim—I’ll need you in the fight. No holding back. Bethany—you wait here with your brother’s sweetheart. Decide. Quickly.

   Bethany blinked rapidly.

   — Wouldn’t attacking together be wiser?

   — You’d be useless. Walking corpses, no more. Trust me.

   Carver glowered.

   — What do you mean, I die if you die?

   — How fickle youth is—“you” one moment, “thee” the next. The answer is magic. We’re wasting time. They’ve seen us.

   One of the distant figures pointed toward them. Swords flashed as the Templars advanced.

   — Three minutes, and we’re dea—

   — Do it. I agree. — Carver’s voice was steel.

   Bethany nodded shakily. Morrigan didn’t wait. A spell tumbled from her lips:

   — Tua vita mea est.

   A translucent ribbon of magic lashed toward Carver, making him flinch. She repeated the spell for Leliana, who accepted it without a flicker of discomfort. Then—shocking them all—Morrigan stripped to the waist, her skin luminous in the firelight.

   The cold hardened her nipples, but she showed no shame, only smirking as she slapped a stunned Alim back into focus.

   — Strongest spell. When I’m a step from them, shatter their formation. Cause chaos. Burn yourself out if you must.

   She sprinted toward the Templars like a vengeful spirit, golden eyes locking onto their lyrium-lit gazes. Two younger warriors flanked their leader—all bearing the braided hairstyles of Lothering’s Templars.

   Alim’s magic surged ahead of her. The spell parted around the leader, faltered against the right-hand warrior, but slammed into the left, sending him reeling—though not disarmed.

   Blades lanced toward Morrigan in perfect sync—one at her throat, the other her heart. She twisted right, but the leader’s sword grazed her cheek, drawing blood. The second Templar adjusted mid-swing, his longsword biting deep beneath her ribs.

   Leliana gasped as if struck herself. Yet Morrigan only grinned, impaling herself further on the blade, and spat:

   — Nigrum putredo quad devorat anima.

   As the last syllable left her lips, Morrigan’s slender hand lashed out in a lightning-fast motion—more a slap than a true attack. Gritting through the pain, she threw her body rightward, wrenching the blade from her flesh as the armored figures stumbled past from their own momentum.

   Somewhere behind them, a muffled cry of pain echoed. But more importantly, the Templar who had dealt her the grievous wound now staggered, his face paling as blood vessels burst in his eyes. He whirled around, frantically searching for the witch.

   Time refused to stand still. Pushing off the ground with one hand to keep her balance, Morrigan spat blood and charged toward the Templar Alim’s spell had repelled. The terrible wound at her side wasn’t bleeding; it was visibly closing. The hairs rising on her neck warned her—instead of pursuit, the leader and his remaining comrade chose to strike her with “Smite,” the Order’s signature technique honed to reflex perfection. The one ability that could drain a mage’s mana while inflicting excruciating pain.

   Without hesitation, Morrigan threw herself left in a desperate roll. The wave of force meant to expel her mana missed by mere inches. Ignoring the bruises and stones cutting into her skin, she pushed up from all fours and charged again.

   Alim’s magic struck the men from behind once more. While it washed harmlessly over the leader, it sent the remaining Templar to his knees, his sword planted in the earth for support. Looking up, he saw only a dark silhouette with burning golden eyes looming over him.

   Delicate hands moved with viperish speed, gripping his head as thumbs pressed mercilessly against his eyeballs. The coppery scent of fresh blood filled his nostrils as a voice dripping with malice whispered:

   — Nigrum putredo quad devorat anima.

   The Templar screamed in fear and rage, fumbling for his dagger to plunge it upward beneath Morrigan’s ribs. She recoiled reflexively, mouth working soundlessly as she stared at the hilt protruding between her breasts. Then a throwing knife embedded itself in her left thigh with a sickening thud, drawing out a long, agonized moan.

   As the kneeling Templar struggled to rise, blinded by pain, the wind carried excited shouts from afar—and much closer, furious cursing.

   With a hoarse cry, Morrigan wrenched both blades free and hurled them blindly behind her. Though blood flowed from new wounds, it was less than there should have been—her body now crisscrossed with rapidly closing injuries like some invisible spider hastily stitching her flesh with crimson thread.

   Some distance away, Carver collapsed to his knees, choking. Leliana lay pale as death on the ground. Their strength faded with Morrigan’s blood. Forcing herself forward through sheer will, the witch dodged left as the remaining Templars closed in—a storm of muscle, metal and fury.

   “Strike!” the leader roared, thrusting his free hand forward in anticipation. His comrade tried to mimic the motion but stumbled and fell clumsily into the grass. Knowing she couldn’t stop in time, Morrigan accelerated right instead, teeth gritted against her burning lungs. Smite barely grazed her flying black tresses as she dove between the two men.

   The leader moved with shocking speed for his armor, intercepting her. Morrigan twisted desperately to avoid the heavy fist aimed at her jaw—only to take a brutal spinning backhand that sent her reeling. She shifted just enough to spare her spine as a sword plunged wetly into her side from behind, slicing through flesh and organs barely an inch from her kidney.

   This time there were no screams—only pain that nearly sent her into oblivion. But relaxing her failing body, letting it turn with the blow, Morrigan lashed out with her left hand like a whip. Bloody lips formed the incantation one last time:

   — Nigrum putredo quad devorat anima.

   Her fingertips brushed the Templar’s mouth as she fell, giving him one last pain-twisted smile of triumph before darkness took her. Her once-flawless skin was now scratched, grass-stained and smeared with blood—pale and slick with sweat.

   The Templar leader didn’t look much better, though his bloodshot eyes still burned with fury. His sword trembled as he raised it for the killing stroke against the broken doll sprawled before him.

   Then something slammed him aside with a pained cry, sending him tumbling swordless across the grass. By some miracle, Morrigan clung to consciousness despite merciless mana exhaustion. Silver-edged clouds drifted indifferently across the star-strewn sky. Nearby, someone groaned and coughed wetly. At the edge of fading awareness came the sound of running feet and an angry voice:

   — What in the—

   Then darkness took her.

   * * *

   The first sensations to greet Morrigan as she emerged from merciful oblivion were gentle sunlight and timid gusts of wind. Then came the dull, all-encompassing pain that made her long for the darkness again. But her will remained unbroken, her mind sharp. Cracking open her eyes, she saw a blue sky dotted with indifferent sheep-like clouds. Morning had come—she hoped it was the next morning, and not some distant future day.

   She lay in the grass in a posture more reminiscent of someone taking a nap than a survivor of brutal combat. Alim’s travel robe had been draped over her bare torso. The elf’s familiar voice came from her side:

   — Welcome back to the mortal world. I must admit... you certainly know how to make an impression. Pity it’s usually for the worse.

   Turning her head slightly—the motion sending waves of nausea—she saw the mage sitting a few meters away, gazing into the distance with a relieved smile creeping across his face. Morrigan snorted at the sky, though even to her own ears it lacked conviction.

   — Water... — she croaked.

   — Of course.

   Alim fetched a dipper of warm water, which she gulped greedily.

   — More?

   — No... Not yet. How long?

   — It’s noon now.

   — Hmm…

   The elf scratched the bridge of his nose before asking hesitantly:

   — You know... normally I admire elegant magic. But what you did was like watching a venomous snake—beautiful yet spine-chilling. The plan bordered on madness, and seeing it in action... Did your... unique experience with the Order inspire such tactics?

   Morrigan licked her cracked lips, taking a slow breath. Though pain lingered, breathing came easily.

   — “Experience.” A quaint term. Yes... Southern hunters rightly call witches “sky-tricksters”—a compliment for those who can kill mighty beasts without weapons or even line of sight. Templars are no laughing matter, especially with lyrium boiling in their veins. “Smite” is but their most obvious trick, like a leopard’s spots. Their true danger lies in “Purge”—that pretentious name for the space around them where magic dissipates. The stronger the mage, the quicker their power fades. Hence why mighty apostates become helpless as kittens against them. Mother always said: “A predator without claws is just a big cat.” Though she forgot to add... even kittens bite when cornered.

   Her fists whitened.

   — My “experience” revealed their secret—their power doesn’t work inside their own bodies.

   Alim ran a hand through his hair, piecing together the implications.

   — Incredible. So that’s why... Touch became the conduit.

   After a pause, he voiced the inevitable question:

   — It all makes sense. But even with your knowledge... Why in the Void did you strip naked?! Please don’t say “tactical advantage.” I can’t fathom any worthy justification.

   Maintaining perfect seriousness, Morrigan replied:

   — I like my clothes. Didn’t want them ruined. Though they still pierced my trousers. Should’ve removed those too.

   The elf snorted, froze, then burst into full-bodied laughter, wiping tears. Collecting himself, he sighed:

   — That’s... disturbingly logical. And hilarious. Though only because the fight’s over. Not exactly a laughing matter at the time.

   — The others?

   — Those bound by your spell... Carver fell first. Poor Leliana lasted slightly longer before fainting silently.

   — “Poor”? Is that concern I hear?

   Alim coughed and continued:

   — His girl tended to Carver—sweet creature. He woke at dawn and, despite looking dreadful, went to help Bethany. Leliana remains unconscious. I’m no healer, but her breathing’s steady. Just exhaustion, I hope. That magic was meant for killing after all. Bethany...

   He rubbed his face wearily, but Morrigan deduced the truth first:

   — Their mother’s dead. I guessed as much. Hope blinds better than any foe. The horses?

   — One horse’s lungs were torn. The Templars rode them hard to get here in twenty minutes from Lothering. Even if they dallied in town, they had over an hour here.

   Morrigan winced.

   — Evou?

   — Their leader. Dark-haired.

   — Every cloud...

   — That’s one perspective.

   — You’re alive. They’re alive. Stop whining. Help me up.

   Alim offered his hand. Gripping it tightly, Morrigan rose with a groan—first to her knees, then unsteadily to her feet. Without hesitation, as if grabbing bread from a table, she dug her fingers into his shoulder for support. The contact stirred nothing in her—no disgust, no warmth, just practical stability. After a minute of ragged breathing, she stood unaided. Then, with equal nonchalance, she returned his robe.

   This revealed the full glory of her form—the muscular definition of her abdomen, shoulders blending feminine delicacy with trained strength, and breasts that needed no artifice. This time, Alim didn’t blush. A fleeting glance sufficed before he tactfully turned away.

   Examining the places where sharp steel had pierced flesh, Morrigan found only a faint pale stripe on her side where the final blow had landed.

   — One of your traits that doesn’t grow tiring—somehow, you’ve managed to carry dignity and manners into adulthood. Combined with your wits, it makes you unique. But let’s not waste time on niceties.

   Raising an eyebrow and glancing over his shoulder, Alim saw the witch already pulling a woollen cloak over her shirt. Her gaze flickered to Leliana, pale as death, lying nearby, and she shrugged.

   — Am I wrong to assume you’ve no objections to her joining us? Given the talk of visions and the Maker. And the fact that, like me, she’s a killer. That behind the guise of a smiling “sister” lies something broken. Tangled in contradictions.

   The mage studied the figure on the ground—not as a “body,” but as the sum of his companion’s words. Slowly, the elf nodded.

   — I don’t see that deeply. Nor will I ask how you drew such conclusions. Voicing them only makes you seem all the more suspicious. But the answer is yes. Let her come. Honestly, I doubt a firm “no” would stop Leliana from following anyway, given her convictions. Better to have songs and stories at our side than a pursuer at our backs.

   — And there’s that trait again. Remarkable. Just remember—it narrows your options.

   — What? Are there even other choices? Wait… No, killing her is out of the question!

   Morrigan sighed and shook her head.

   — Overrated that wit of yours. A broken leg would suffice… No, a toe. One on each foot. That would end the redhead’s plans. But never mind. Let’s find the others.

   Her gaze swept the surroundings. Nearby lay three armored bodies, drawn together as if in a macabre embrace. Each resembled a week-old corpse: skin translucent, revealing dark veins; flesh touched by decay; eyes sunken. Morrigan suppressed a shudder, betraying no reaction to the aftermath of the spell—one whose knowledge had appeared in her mind unbidden. Its brutal efficiency surpassed even her mother’s repertoire. She’d anticipated the result, yet imagining it was one thing… The true discomfort lay in pondering the source of such vile magic, designed solely to inflict slow, agonizing death. On the bright side, the practice had been successful.

   Her eyes drifted further—past a dead campfire with soot-blackened pots, toward the horizon. The ruins still smoldered, thin white tendrils of smoke curling skyward. The air reeked of char. The field and garden were scorched wastelands, save for a few stubborn plots and haystacks—exceptions that only underscored the devastation. Nothing remained worth holding onto. Soon, her wandering gaze found the others among the rubble.

   Limping forward, Morrigan wasn’t surprised when Alim stayed behind with Leliana. Bethany noticed her uneven steps first and turned.

   — Oh! Morrigan. You’re awake—

   The witch’s lips twitched in irritation at the casual use of her name, given so freely without permission. It reignited her resentment toward the elf and his motives. Again, she forced such thoughts down, her composure unbroken. The young self-taught mage missed none of it. Straightening, Bethany bowed clumsily.

   — Thank you. We owe our lives to you and Alim. Whatever Carver says—I mean, when he inevitably blurts something disrespectful—please don’t hold it against him. I saw. My magic and his sword would’ve been nothing against those three Templars. I just…

   She swiped a soot-streaked hand under her nose, inhaling sharply. Her eyes flickered to the ruins of the house, her lips twisting against a surge of emotion.

   — I don’t… I… If only…

   Morrigan shook her head and glanced at Carver, who was rummaging through a shed with his girl.

   — Fight it or not, you won’t win. “What ifs” don’t let go easily. I’ve little patience for attachments to family or home—I find it foolish. But seeing you… I understand. This pain is now part of you, like an arm or leg. You can cut it off, but you’ll never be whole again. Better to face doubts head-on than flee. Saves time. Yes, trading your home, childhood, and mother for me and the elf was reckless. A poor bargain, frankly. Even I see that. But it’s the only one you’ve got. Move forward. And don’t be ashamed to hope the wound might heal someday.

   Bethany stared, unblinking, as a tear traced a dirty cheek. Then another. Her face crumpled, and with a raw sob, she flung herself at Morrigan. Her fists beat weakly against the witch’s chest—desperate, futile, like a nestling’s last struggle. Soon, her trembling form collapsed into Morrigan’s arms. The witch’s hands closed mechanically around her shoulders, just enough to keep her upright. There was no sympathy in her gaze, only irritation at the emotional outburst. Beneath it simmered something akin to disgust—not for the touch, but for the snotty, snivelling weakness. Yet logic whispered coldly: this was inevitable. Patience was required.

   — Shh… Did you find your mother’s body?

   Bethany nodded, but the tears kept flowing. Her shoulders shook, fingers clawing at Morrigan’s shirt as if clinging to the last anchor in a crumbling world. Across the distance, Morrigan’s eyes met Carver’s. The boy had aged overnight—more inside than out. Not growth, but the first frost of autumn in his soul. His glare hinted at sharp words, even now. Sensing it, Ebrin gripped his broad shoulder tightly. With a pained groan, Carver seemed to wake from a daze. He gave a grim nod—to the girl behind him, or his own thoughts—and turned back to his task.

   Finally, the sobs subsided. Bethany pulled away, wiping her face childishly with her sleeve, leaving smudges of dirt on her cheeks. A deep breath in—out. Another. Her eyes, still red from crying, suddenly took on an odd firmness.

   — There... in the garden...

   Her voice cracked on the first word. She swallowed, clenched her fists, and tried again:

   — We... buried her there.

   Walking slowly to the spot, Morrigan found a miraculously untouched flowerbed amid the charred trees. A shovel stood planted in the loose soil at the edge, and at the center of the trampled flowers lay a fresh grave, stark as an open wound.

   — Carver helped... but he’s still weak. Ebrin and I did most of it. Mother...

   A shaky exhale escaped her before she continued:

   — There were signs of a beating. Not much. She died from a clean strike to the heart. Probably... almost painless. They executed her. Like she was worthless. Then waited for us. She loved flowers... Father’s grave is in the hills nearby. Maybe it was wrong to separate them, but... Mother loved this garden, and I... I...

   — Memory matters more than the dead’s whims. Don’t burden yourself with guilt. What of this place? Sooner or later, others will follow Evou’s trail. I’ve no desire to repeat today’s “heroics”—especially if more than three come knocking.

   — Carver insists we head to the South Reach. Then either downriver to Denerim or with a caravan to Bannorn. It depends on Ebrin’s family. They’ll worry for her. And she’s torn between them and Carver. My brother waits for my decision, but I...

   Morrigan grimaced inwardly.

   — Cut the dithering. The fact you’re hesitating speaks volumes. You’ve another path in mind. Out with it.

   The girl fidgeted, then haltingly began to explain. The more she spoke, the steadier her words became:

   — Father tried to teach me everything he could, but I avoided true mastery. Being “special.” His life proved it meant hiding, enduring, abandoning roots—forsaking any chance at greatness. Sometimes I even thought the Circle might offer more than skulking in the wilds as a rogue mage, forever a Templar target. Why bother? Better to be normal. Less knowledge, fewer mistakes. We had an elder brother—more gifted than me, Father’s pride. After Father died, he left us behind like dead weight. I’ve heard nothing since... But perhaps he was right. By leaving, he spared us the danger of his presence. All this time, we were safe. Now... it’s late, but I want to learn. You’ve shown me what’s possible. I must face where I stand. I doubt another chance like this will come. Take me as your apprentice!

   She turned, but one glance at Morrigan’s face reignited her fear.

   — Don’t—don’t refuse yet! What must I do to convince you? Swear loyalty? Serve you? If—

   Morrigan recoiled, disgust plain on her face. Bethany clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified she’d made things worse. Yet the witch’s revulsion wasn’t for the plea—it was for the sudden memory of women grovelling before Flemeth, writhing for power like worms in dirt. Willing to trade freedom for scraps of knowledge. A sight Morrigan had scorned, though she’d fed from the same hand. But a whisper in her mind hissed the truth: those women felt no shame in admitting their place. Purpose defined them; pride alone defined Morrigan. And now, she stood in her mother’s role—object of devotion and loathing. A twist of fate she’d never anticipated.

   Silence stretched, but her thoughts raced. Shock gave way to cold clarity.

   — Enough, — Morrigan finally said. — From this moment until your last breath, remember: never swear oaths. Never barter freedom. Loyalty’s value lasts only until surrendered. Oaths are nooses for fools. I swore them to my mother thoughtlessly, and paid a hundredfold each time. Decisions and consequences—all else is smoke. Yes, the gap between us is as wide as the Dragon’s Peak. But if you’ve resolve, I’ll not bar your learning. Yet your path diverges from your brother’s.

   She arched a brow, waiting. Bethany lowered her eyes, thinking, then nodded slowly—once, uncertain; again, firm.

   — I’ll speak to him.

   Morrigan suppressed a smirk, settling for a twitch of her lips. With a curt nod, she turned back toward the elf.

   By luck, Leliana had regained consciousness. Alim hovered nearby, torn between helpfulness and awkwardness. After drinking, the bard’s gaze flicked to Morrigan, then to the three corpses. Voice carefully guarded, she murmured:

   — Everything Ser Evou touched rotted. Those Templars once earned only respect—and smiles for their youthful zeal.

   — Spare us trivia. We’ve a road to choose. The river must be crossed; north lies our path.

   Alim glanced toward the siblings. Beyond earshot, Carver gestured fiercely while Bethany stood her ground. Ebrin shifted between them, lost. He frowned but stayed silent. Leliana, however, countered firmly:

   — I must return to Lothering.

   Morrigan cut in:

   — No one’s stopping you.

   The “sister” wrinkled her brow and tried anew:

   — Listen, Morrigan—

   The witch turned away, skewering Alim with a glare so sharp he forced a nervous smile. Reading their silence, Leliana pressed on:

   — Skirting Lothering adds days through hostile land. By boat, you’d reach the lakes near Calenhad far faster. With a fishing line, food’s secured. I must face the Mother—tell her how her blindness cost lives. One last try... I’ve friends in ze Chantry. They’ll hide me.

   — How touching. May your epitaph read: “Died for principles.”

   Alim interjected with cold pragmatism:

   — What of the Templars? Do you think Ser Evou kept our faces secret? Those who jailed us aren’t among the dead here.

   Leliana nodded.

   — Oui. But there’s a difference between a hunt and the risk of recognition. Without Evou, the network of informants is headless. No one to shield his sympathizers from scrutiny. I’d call it safe—enough. Not that you should stroll through town, but if you stay unseen, trouble’s unlikely.

   Morrigan scoffed, hands on hips.

   — “Safe—enough.” “Unlikely.” A heap of vagaries.

   Undeterred, Leliana listed supplies with startling precision:

   — You need a guide. A boat. Flint, rations, thick cloaks, spare smallclothes...

   The men’s brows climbed at her unexpected expertise.

   — And that’s just the start. Risk Lothering, or waste days until your feet are raw and bleeding, starving, only to reach ze lakeshore—boatless. The northern woods thin; game’s scarce. Don’t count on foraging.

   Alim turned to Morrigan, but her glacial stare halted him mid-breath. The witch drawled:

   — Did you overlook the obvious? The river cuts through Lothering. Every boat’s worth gold now. Wait for nightfall, then pray for blind, chaste guards?

   Footsteps approached. Bethany joined them, somber but composed. Morrigan pivoted:

   — Well?

   — After a fashion. We parted without a fight. But... it was loud. We agreed on where to send letters. What’s your plan?

   — Ah. “Plan.” Back to Lothering. For convenience and warm fuzzies. Sneak in by night—

   Bethany touched her arm gently.

   — Forgive me, but dawn’s better for slipping a boat out. The fog lingers at sunrise—like this morning. With a pole in mist and half-light, splashes could be fish, not fugitives.

   Morrigan’s smirk was faint but unmistakable. She gestured to Bethany:

   — Our guide.

   As if punctuating the debate, the redhead clapped her hands. The younger girl blinked, suddenly aware of Leliana’s unspoken role. Morrigan scanned each face, then growled in resignation:

   — Fine. Have it your way.

Chapter Text

   The brother and sister parted without unnecessary drama. The words that needed to be said had already been spoken. The final stroke was a long, mutual glance and Carver’s nod, releasing Bethany and himself into the unknown. Two boats drifted along the same river in opposite directions. One slid effortlessly into the rapids and raced downstream. The other, hugging the shore, began a slow, laborious climb against the current.

   The journey back to Lothering took nearly twice as long. Alim worked the pole for most of it, though the passengers took turns giving him brief respites. As the sun dipped toward the horizon, stretching shadows from one bank to the other, the boat finally grounded. The settlement lay hidden beyond a bend in the river and a gentle hill, shielded from casual travelers by a lone, ancient willow and waist-high wild grass. After hauling the rickety vessel ashore, everyone but Leliana settled in the tree’s shade. The sister, smoothing and dusting her clothes, locked eyes with Morrigan and said:

   — Wait for me at nightfall. I’ll return before the fog rolls in.

   — If that’s the case, there’s no need to wait at all.

   Leliana nodded, swept her gaze over the others—lingering a heartbeat longer on the elf—and strode across the field toward the settlement. Her yellow eyes darted from the retreating figure to the man, but after licking her lips, the girl decided not to needle her companion about his obvious weakness for redheaded beauties. The thoughts plaguing the elf were new to him—and that alone was amusing. The witch harbored a genuine curiosity about how this dance between opposites would unfold. Until now, Alim had been driven by his bond with his sister, a rope woven from affection and duty. But another woman’s image was slowly encroaching on untouched territory, seeding doubt in his mind.

   Silence settled over the remaining companions, each lost in their own thoughts. Alim sat at the water’s edge, scowling at the river’s capricious yet unchanging flow. Bethany, eyes closed, lounged comfortably in the grass, clearly trying to think of nothing at all. Morrigan…

   Morrigan stretched out on the ground, her gaze fixed on the swaying weave of branches above, and mentally retraced the events of recent days. Amid the straightforward facts, visible only in isolation, lurked oddities that emerged when viewing the bigger picture. The idea of possession festered in her mind—a parasite claiming more and more of her attention. And beyond that, a question: how deeply had these events altered her very self?

   It began simply. Morrigan wondered—why had she chosen to pass through Lothering? That decision was the root of all subsequent misfortunes. Had she truly needed respite, a warm bed, food, and comforts? Upon reflection, no. Without undue sacrifice, they could have avoided… all this. Yet she had always regarded Lothering as a focal point for her curiosity. After all, it was the largest settlement in Ferelden within walking distance of her home in the Korcari Wilds. She recalled visits to other outposts at the edge of the Wilds, but none had yielded truly memorable adventures.

   It began with reckless behaviour in Merinwood, a hamlet of a dozen homes. Her "mischief" drew a patrol of Lothering’s Templars. Of course, they found no trace of the young mage. But her next visit happened to coincide with the ill-fated patrol’s posting there. The temple, massive by Korcari standards. The strange mills with their incredible spinning blades. The teeming crowds. These sights etched themselves into her memory. The girl’s sharp eyes immediately fixed on the local attraction—merchant wagons laden with dozens of curios, some of which later found a new owner without anyone’s knowledge.

   The defining memory of her childhood, however, was an encounter with an unknown aristocrat visiting what northerners would call a backwater. The impressive carriage, the lady’s resplendent gown, and the glittering jewels left an indelible mark on the wild girl. Her prize from that meeting was a miniature lady’s mirror, framed in gold and lacquered wood—a treasure that became a wellspring of vivid emotions. The triumph of possession, wrapped in girlish daydreams, and the deep, childish resentment when it vanished into the depths of her mother’s worn clothing. For a week after, Flemeth called her a foolish magpie, whose nest could be found by the glint of shiny trinkets.

   Thus her childhood fascination ran in a straight line to the present. Absently plucking a blade of grass and pressing it between her full lips—untouched by cosmetics—Morrigan seized the elusive thought. In her youth, she had indeed been fascinated by bright, glittering adornments. Back then, she couldn’t tell the difference between cheap baubles and true treasures—amber or glass beads strung by the Hasind from the Frostback Sea’s sandy shores, east of the marshes near Gwaren. Later, it was the gleam of gold, silver, and gemstones that captivated her. But now…

   The witch raised a hand to her eyes, studying the scratched gold band on her finger. A strange gift from Flemeth, like everything else tied to that woman. One day, the unremarkable trinket had simply appeared on a cord by her bed. Despite Morrigan’s delight, Flemeth later ignored all questions about it, as if the ring and the legendary Witch of the Wilds shared no connection. Yet, to Morrigan, it remained precious—both as a memento and as the only real treasure her mother hadn’t coveted. Now, the ring evoked only memories. The gold’s luster and its material worth no longer stirred her. After some thought, Morrigan concluded she had outgrown that old craving.

   She tore up another blade of grass, rolling it between her fingers. The previous thought was supplanted by a new one: had she truly outgrown it? Or merely found a new obsession? Irritated, she watched as the over-twisted stem split, leaving a sticky residue on her skin. Was she still a child, trading one shiny trinket for another? The comparison made her shoulders tense involuntarily. The jab was too accurate. Too… humiliating.

   And was this, too, another oddity? Undoubtedly. Resisting the notion that this change was for the better required focus. Logically, while trapped in dependency, it’s hard to imagine one’s behaviour without it. The reverse holds true as well. It was, she had to admit, always easier for others to weigh the pros and cons than for oneself. But the fact that this shift hadn’t been her choice painted the picture in undeniably grim tones.

   Having set aside the question for now and spat out the chewed blade of grass, the witch turned to another topic. Moving deliberately through the torrent of her thoughts, she asked—how had the chain of events led her to the Templars’ dungeons? After consideration, Morrigan shook her head. The crux wasn’t why. That answer had a solid logical foundation and no contradictions. Who would risk an open confrontation against three Templars in a confined space with only one exit? Especially in a settlement rife with rumors of brutal reprisals against anyone who even vaguely resembled an apostate?

   What troubled her was something else. How little the dungeon—and the prospect of it—had frightened her. In the past, enclosed spaces had been a source of genuine discomfort. She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes, sifting through memories of her brief imprisonment. There had been nervousness, fueled by uncertainty. Anxiety… But not a trace of panic at the thought of execution. Carefully sorting through her feelings, Morrigan—first skeptically, then with growing certainty—recognized the obvious. Lurking beneath the surface was an unshakable confidence, just as in Ostagar, that at the last moment, she could "transform". Having experienced the capabilities of that form firsthand, she harbored no doubt about escaping the dungeon. It seemed even Alim had ultimately entertained the same possibility.

   Yet, while Morrigan didn’t debate the validity of such expectations, her reflections snagged on a subtle inconsistency. Something unsettled her. A dissonance in the natural flow of her thoughts. Closing her eyes, she tried to recall—exactly what conclusions had she reached, time and again, about the spell and the strange new "form"? Day after day. Just as a furrow of tension had etched itself onto her brow, so too had a discrepancy taken shape in her mind—palpable on an instinctive level, yet hidden in her blind spot.

   Since the transformation atop Ishal’s Tower, Morrigan had faced countless situations, from trivial to dire, where "transformation" could have been invaluable, if not decisive. Yet in each case, she’d rationally weighed the risks and refused to rely on magic whose outcomes were no longer predictable. She’d been lucky once. There was no guarantee a second attempt at body-altering magic would end as harmlessly. Running a hand slowly over her face, as if brushing away an invisible web, Morrigan shuddered inwardly. Despite consciously rejecting the spell, she remained subconsciously convinced of its inevitability in a crisis. Even now, she was prepared to take that step.

   Twisting the ring on her finger absently, she added this new dissonance in her thoughts to her growing list of concerns. Her gaze drifted back to the tree branches, bitter epithets and a grim conclusion lingering on her tongue—it seemed the discipline it demanded might even exceed Flemeth’s self-control.

   With a fleeting glance at Bethany, Morrigan took the next mental step. Why had she followed this girl? The need for transportation sprang to mind first. She clenched her fingers around a willow branch until the bark bit into her skin. Transportation? On second thought, the idea was laughable. She could have stolen horses. Or turned the fool Templars into a smoldering barrier while fleeing through the hills. Morrigan abruptly released the branch, studying the red marks left on her palm.

   Yet here she was. With her. Her eyes slid to Bethany—to the absurdly tousled chestnut locks, to the fingers nervously crumpling the edge of her cloak. What was so special about her? A foolish girl with a handful of spells barely fit to kill a fly… Then she remembered how the "foolish girl" had behaved in the dungeon. How her eyes had flashed—not with fear, but something else—when she first witnessed "Flaming Hands" in action. Even as a child, drawn to shiny trinkets, Morrigan had at least been honest: "I want this!" Now… Now she hid behind pragmatic lies, as if ashamed of her own desires. Pathetic.

   Morrigan inhaled sharply, as if the air had thickened. No. Just… professional curiosity. The young mage’s magic was clumsy, unrefined, but… The dark-haired witch caught herself staring at how the sunset played in Bethany’s hair and bit her lip hard. Pain brought clarity. And with it, a simple answer: the girl was a walking library of forbidden knowledge. Her father had transcribed formulae. Who knew what other treasures lay hidden there? Irritated, Morrigan realized she was fidgeting with her ring again.

   Her lips curled into a greedy smirk—just like when she’d first seen that little mirror. Only now, the prize wasn’t a trinket, but… Bethany herself had been the reason. Curiosity. Admitting it made her cheeks flush faintly. For some reason, the thought felt embarrassingly foolish. But Morrigan suspected—nature abhors a vacuum. One obsession inevitably replaced another.

   Striving for rationality, she reviewed their encounters since that ill-fated morning at the Grey Wardens’ outpost. By her reckoning, not everyone evoked this… interest. Silently mouthing names—Alim, Alistair, Duncan, Bethany… After a pause, Leliana was added with hesitation. In Morrigan’s view, all were complex, through and through. (She wrinkled her nose and made an exception for Alistair, though grudgingly.) Each shared a capacity for hard decisions and single-minded focus. Yet, instinctively, the elf and the young Hawke stood out from the rest. One might conclude she favored mages, but… Weighing the idea, Morrigan shook her head. Too simplistic. No, it wasn’t mages themselves. It was the spells.

   Retreating into memory, she recalled how magic had dominated her interests since childhood, rivaled only by mischief and exploration. But new spells had never been objects of possession, of greed. Now? The mere thought of the intricate formula behind Alim’s "Repulsion Field" made her pulse quicken. Biting her lower lip, she realized—from this perspective, both the elf and her new companion were merely elegant vessels, holding tantalizing knowledge for the right moment.

   And… Cold logic deemed this abnormal. Goosebumps prickled her skin as fear loomed over her emotions. Fear of the growing rift between her memories of herself and her current state. With each revelation, the picture shifted—from circumstances where only some traits or thoughts had changed, to ones where only some had remained unchanged. Rubbing her forehead, Morrigan exhaled slowly, steadying her heartbeat and forcibly subduing the storm of fragmented doubts threatening to drown reason in chaos.

   One question remained, one the witch had been avoiding. Acknowledging the cowardice in this, she closed her eyes. Had she truly risked her life only for Alim and Bethany? Memory reminded her: every Templar she’d killed in the past had been on her terms, in her territory, and strictly one at a time. Confronting three head-on in the open was reckless by any measure. Alim, Bethany, and the knowledge they harbored paled in comparison to her own survival. Unless…

   Setting the problem aside, she revisited the tactics she’d employed against the Templars. They’d shown a glaring disregard for her own safety. Morrigan tapped a finger against her lips, then shook her head. The physical toll had been mitigated by spells—cold logic and a willingness to step beyond the familiar. Every detail seemed calculated. But could the collateral damage be so easily dismissed?

   More than once in her youth, curiosity had led her to fall from great heights. Flemeth, never one for coddling, had once remarked with a smirk: "Pain is the truest teacher." Two broken bones had taught the girl—who’d become the witch—to treat pain with utter seriousness and avoid foolish mistakes. But now… something had changed. Pain no longer seared or clawed at her consciousness. It came—then dissolved, as if filtered through water. As if her body, battered repeatedly, had learned to shut itself off. Or… as if it were someone else’s body.

   Confronting the facts, she faced the conclusion: her impulsive decision had been made without a trace of fear, as if the instinct itself had been erased. Once, every cut and bruise had forced her to weigh risks instantly. Now, even wounded, she felt no primal dread—only cold calculus, as if her mind had severed itself from her flesh. Worse, that decision had reeked of arrogance, a disregard for her companions’ lives…

   Morrigan froze, unwilling to scare off a flicker of insight. Whose lives had she disregarded? Who, exactly, had she bound herself to with that spell? Carver, who’d sparked no curiosity in her. And Leliana, whom instinct demanded she distrust. But there’d also been Carver’s quiet companion. Morrigan twitched her cheek dismissively, focusing instead on her reaction to Bethany’s brother. She’d taken an interest in the young mage first, only learning of him later. Recalling her fleeting irritation—she hadn’t liked it… Greed. The realization that her object of interest was tied to another had rankled.

   The discovery felt both simple and wrong. A wry smile touched her lips as she remembered her own response to the loyalty oath. It seemed hypocritical now, but… The truth was, the oath had always been superficial, insubstantial. Like summer flowers vanishing without trace in autumn.

   What, then, of Leliana? Morrigan tilted her head, selecting the most fitting words—depth and perception. An unknowable motive force. The fear that the bard might effortlessly read her hidden fears and wield them as weapons.

   Rubbing her eyes, Morrigan reached a verdict: in moments of haste, she weighed lives like objects, shedding self-preservation as one might a cloak. And it was beyond her control… Her thoughts flowed like the river—relentless, yet strangely faceless. As if another mind were dissecting her fears and changes.

   One truth remained. No one can lift themselves from a swamp by their own hair—they need at least a branch to grasp. For Morrigan, that branch must be Kinloch Hold’s knowledge of possession. And her drive to unravel the problem grew daily, fueled by encroaching dread. As did the problem itself.

   The silence between them shattered with a loud, pointed growl—so expressive even the introspective Morrigan couldn’t ignore it. She turned slowly to Alim, as if returning from a distant journey through her mind’s labyrinth. The elf sat with arms crossed over his stomach, the very picture of a man betrayed by his own body.

   — We managed a snack on the way here. Has it truly been so long?

   He snorted.

   — Stale flatbread—a feast in times of plague. Especially when split between two, and you "graciously" yielded. You might not need food, but remember, it’s been a day since we last ate properly. Amusing. Even during the trek from… ahem. We fared better then.

   — And whose fault is that?

   — Yours. Obviously.

   She nodded. Rolling onto her side and propping her head on her hands, she said:

   — You’re right about one thing. Food wouldn’t go amiss. And the best way to endure hunger is to sleep.

   * * *

   — ...an...

   — ...gan!

   Morrigan's eyes flew open as she gasped sharply for air. A scowling elf crouched beside her, while Bethany peered anxiously over his shoulder. The fading twilight wrapped gently around them, the first impatient stars already dotting the clear sky. Glaring from one to the other, the witch growled in irritation and rose to her feet.

   — Was I thrashing again?

   Too matter-of-factly for his own liking, the man confirmed:

   — Yes. I thought—

   — Thank you.

   Striding to the riverbank, she knelt and scooped handfuls of icy, dark water to wash away the remnants of sleep. After three splashes, she turned back.

   — How long was I out?

   — Remarkable—even an innocent question sounds ominous when you say it. Or is that just me? No matter. Three hours, at most.

   Her gaze shifted to their new companion, and she sighed.

   — This is new to you, I take it? Yes, nightmares plague me sometimes. Strange ones. But pay them no mind.

   Alim snorted but offered no further comment. After a pause, he asked:

   — Remember anything?

   — Why the interest?

   — A thousand apologies for the intrusion, but if you must know, you were thrashing again. And yes, I’m curious if you recalled anything this time.

   Bethany stared at the mage, wide-eyed. Even Morrigan’s brows climbed at the uncharacteristic outburst from the usually reserved man. The unexpected turn left her scrambling for a response. Licking her lips, she turned back to the water.

   — Well... Hmm. Clever.

   — What?

   — Have it your way. Fine. It’s always the same. A strange forest, as if freshly scorched by fire. Sometimes the plants shift—one moment familiar, the next utterly alien. A haze blurs everything beyond ten paces. Ash falls... except it’s not ash. The only change is the... presence. Movement at the edge of vision, growing stronger each time. This time, I almost saw a figure in the mist. No clearer than a silhouette in evening fog.

   — That sounds... less than ideal.

   — You asked for truth, not comfort. Surprised?

   — No... It’s not that. I think I understand now why you need the Circle’s library.

   As he finished, Alim shot Bethany a long, odd look, making her glance away awkwardly. Morrigan didn’t miss it. Was there some pact between them, forged behind her back? What were they plotting? Had this entire exchange been staged to pry nightmare details from her? Suppressing the chaotic thoughts, she splashed her face again.

   — Bethany. You’d best occupy that mind of yours. If you’re to master your art, I’ll need to know what spells you’ve learned. Unless you object.

   The girl flushed but nodded, sitting cross-legged beside her.

   — Um... I know ‘Flaming Hands.’ My father adapted the ‘Flaming Weapon’ formula so I could use it without burning myself. But... he said it only works safely with a strong predisposition to pyromancy. Which I have. There’s also ‘Blazing Flash.’

   — Rewriting formulae... We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we? So this is where the true masters hide—on farms, amid fields and hills, avoiding notice. Go on.

   Bethany clenched her fists, as if angry with herself:

   — That’s... all I know. For now.

   Alim, leaning against the willow, was little more than a silhouette in the dark. His voice was flat when he remarked:

   — Not much.

   The young mage nodded, unashamed.

   — It isn’t.

   Morrigan let out a derisive snort.

   — And how many spells have you mastered?

   The elf raised a hand, starting to count on his fingers.

   — Well—

   — Exactly. Not many more. Bethany—does anger often grip you? Or do you act rashly, where emotions outweigh logic?

   — Hmm... Sometimes. Not often, but in my youth, I’d act on impulse and regret it later. My father made sure I recognized the flaw. I learned to think twice. Why?

   — Such traits are common in fire-witches, pyromancers. Mother called them ‘rabid bitches.’ Yet she never refused to teach them. So—was your decision to join us truly not impulsive?

   The young mage shook her head solemnly. Morrigan nodded in satisfaction at her “student”. The mentor quickly whispered a dozen questions about the runes likely used in the spells Bethany knew. Confirming the girl's solid foundation, she moved to a trickier topic. Clearing a patch of earth between the willow roots where moonlight provided enough illumination, Morrigan snapped off a low-hanging branch. After stripping it of leaves and flexible shoots, she handed the stick to Bethany.

   — Can you map the runic structure of 'Flaming Hands'?

   — But—

   — The structure. Not the runes themselves.

   — Oh!

   Eagerly, the chestnut-haired girl nodded and began digging small holes in the dirt. They formed a chain that spiraled outward in a square pattern, branching into five or six offshoots at each turn on the final loop. Over sixty rune positions in total. Morrigan squinted at the design and muttered under her breath:

   — Overcomplicated. Clumsy. Redundant...

   Then, eyeing Bethany—who was unconsciously bending the stick—she clarified:

   — This is all of it?

   — Yes.

   — Six dozen runes?

   — Yes.

   — But... why single-layered?

   Bethany fell silent, bewildered by her own work. Alim, however, stepped forward to examine the diagram.

   — I don’t see the issue. How else would it look?

   Morrigan cleared another patch and swiftly sketched a six-rayed figure with three holes per ray, deliberately making the central and terminal holes larger. A second design followed: three rays connected by a circular band, with the same emphasized points. A third resembled the first but with three elongated rays. Together, they matched the sixty rune positions exactly. The elf scratched his chin, his eyes glinting in the dark as he studied them.

   — Three different spells?

   — One. 'Disorientation.' A hex. Three-layered. The larger points are interlayer connections.

   Alim’s brows shot up.

   — Three layers? A sixty-rune hex... Remarkable.

   Morrigan frowned, glancing at Bethany to confirm this wasn’t a jest, then said slowly:

   — Correct me if I’m wrong. Is this your first time seeing a multi-layered rune structure with more than one paired connection? Both of you?

   Bethany nodded eagerly; Alim, pensively.

   — This... is fascinating. The Circle teaches only single-layered arrays—traditional methods for parchment, sand, or wax tablets. Simple, rule-based, meant as a 'foundation'. But foundations shouldn’t limit thought. Yet here... no contradictions. The Circle’s approach is just a subset of yours. Intentional choice, stupidity... or decay?

   Bethany added:

   — Father never mentioned this, nor did his occasional guests.

   Rubbing her temple, Morrigan sighed.

   — Of course. In the Korcari Wilds, we have no parchment or wax tablets—only beeswax in hives. Mother taught me theory with colored pebbles, assembling any pattern needed.

   Alim stiffened, gripping his cloak. He shot Bethany a glance—gauging her absorption in the diagrams—then spoke carefully, pausing to let Morrigan interject:

   — Hasind magic—

   — The Hasind have no art of their own. Those who’d be witches learn from Mother.

   A wry smile touched Alim’s lips as his gaze flicked to her ring. The name slipped out:

   — Flemeth.

   Bethany gasped. Morrigan’s face twisted into a mask of fury, carved from moonlit marble. She jabbed the mage’s shoulder hard, hissing through clenched teeth:

   — How long will you pilfer what isn’t yours? The worst guest is the welcomed one who steals first! And stupidity is no excuse!

   Alim blinked.

   — When was I ever 'welcomed'?

   Bethany stepped between them.

   — Please, calm down. Alim, she’s angry because you mentioned her mother’s name without asking. Like when you revealed hers earlier. I think—

   — Angry?! Furious!

   The elf threw up his hands.

   — Bloody Void—what kind of—

   Cutting himself off, he rubbed his brow and spoke deliberately:

   — Truthfully, this is an odd grievance…

   Morrigan jabbed her finger into Alim's chest again, cutting him off mid-sentence.

   — You don’t see the point of my reaction? Yet you don’t rush to share details of your own life. I’ve never heard you casually drop your sister’s name in conversation. But others’ secrets? Those you scatter freely. I—

   Her fingers dug into her forearms, leaving white streaks under pale skin. Her breath hitched momentarily before steadying—as if an invisible force were squeezing her ribs, wringing out the fury drop by drop. Her face twisted not with anger, but something sharper: the dawning realization that she was losing control of herself, and that frightened her far more than any mention of Flemeth.

   When her hands finally unclenched, red crescents marked her skin. She dragged a palm down her face, wiping away emotion like rain from a window. Her voice, when she spoke, was eerily calm—but brittle, like thin ice over black water.

   — I’ll call this a misunderstanding, not malice. On one condition: it doesn’t happen again. Any name or fact tied to me, no matter how freely shared, you’ll guard. Not as your secret, but as mine. And I’ll reciprocate.

   The mage frowned and nodded. But three minutes of silence passed before he replied.

   — Very well. My mistake. I judged the value and sensitivity of information solely from my own perspective—showing shortsightedness, not insight. I was no socialite in the Circle, nor an eloquent speaker. Frankly, I sought no company but my sister’s. Mentioning names carried no hidden meaning. More jest than manipulation. I apologize.

   Morrigan said nothing, but her posture eased. She glanced at Bethany, who nodded back with a crooked smile. Alim licked his lips and cautiously steered the conversation back.

   — Now that we’ve... cleared the air. A question. Are all your spells structured this way?

   — Yes. Except the transformation. That one’s... different.

   — And... you visualize the entire spell at once? All layers, every interlayer connection?

   A single nod. The elf’s brows shot up. He stared at the diagrams, shook his head in disbelief, then began tracing the patterns in the air—like a novice archer trying to hit a moving target at fifty paces. The principle seemed sound, but success was unlikely. After a minute, he grimaced and dragged a hand through his hair.

   — Your mother had good reason to drill incantations into you until they became reflex. It’s not just about learning an ancient tongue. They’re mnemonic keys—letting you reconstruct a spell’s entire three-dimensional structure flawlessly.

   Morrigan blinked at the diagrams, her lips shaping a silent “oh”.

   — Regardless... thank you. This gives me much to ponder.

   He retreated to the water’s edge, deep in thought.

   Bethany seized the pause.

   — Could I learn this method too?

   — If you can teach a goat to turn a millwheel, why not? The question is how much time you’ll invest. But…

   Morrigan tapped her lips, considering. Unwittingly, her mind drifted to Flemeth’s lessons—discarding the mockery, focusing on the tricks. Meaningless drills had later anchored complex skills. The realization unsettled her. Yet, as ever, she dissected it: Even in rebellion, I reach for her wisdom first.

   Shaking her head, she decided: If it serves, why discard it?

   — We’ll start simple.

   She wiped the diagrams clean.

   — I’ll name the number of runes and connections. You devise possible structures that fit.

   Bethany nodded eagerly and began.

   * * *

   The night passed more quickly and with far less worry than the travelers had feared, filled with problem-solving and fleeting conversations in which Alim occasionally participated. The only real discomfort—aside from hunger—was the bone-chilling cold.

   As the eastern horizon shifted from black to deep indigo, a silvery mist began creeping over the river, ghostly in the moonlight. Conversations died away, replaced by tense anticipation of their final companion's return. The thicker the milky veil grew, swallowing the faint stars, the more impatient Morrigan looked, the more Alim fidgeted, and the more detached Bethany became. They all knew: Lothering would be safer to traverse before dawn. But first, they had to row upstream.

   When the eastern sky turned ultramarine—soon to be hidden by the rising fog—rustling grass and footsteps broke the silence. They tensed, ready to leap into the boat, but the lone figure approached openly. Even through the mist, her silhouette was unmistakably feminine.

   Morrigan exhaled quietly—whether in relief or regret was unclear—and greeted the newcomer:

   — How touching. I’d begun to fear you’d changed your mind—run back to your "Mother".

   The voice that answered held neither joy nor satisfaction:

   — Remarkable, isn’t it? Even fate grants reprieves sometimes.

   Leliana’s lips curved into a faint smile, but her eyes were distant. With a precise motion, she shed her cloak like years of pretense. Her fingers found the gambeson’s familiar clasps—muscle memory overriding conscious effort. The “sister” was gone. In her place stood a woman transformed.

   Sturdy leather boots—with a slight heel—rose to her knees, paired with dark-green woolen breeches that accentuated her legs. A cream satin shirt peeked from beneath a thigh-length gambeson dyed a pale green to match her eyes. The ensemble was completed by leather gloves, a short woolen cape draped over her left arm, and, in her right hand, a well-used longbow (its string removed) and a fishing rod. This was no ornament but a weapon with a weathered grip. A full quiver jutted over her shoulder; a broad-bladed dagger and two pouches hung at her belt. Every trace of meekness had vanished, replaced by confidence edged with gloom.

   After stowing her gear in the boat, Leliana sighed audibly—as if unburdening something far heavier than mere objects. Alim shook his head, skeptical but unsurprised. Bethany, however, gaped:

   — Sister... You look ready for war, not flight.

   The redhead turned, her smile tinged with sadness:

   — No need for shock, little Bethany. My distant past was hardly as peaceful as my years in Lothering. Beneath that veneer of warmth lies much... best forgotten.— She touched the girl’s shoulder.— But the sister you knew hasn’t vanished like morning mist. If you need sunlight or embraces, ask.

   When Bethany reached for the new dagger, Leliana caught her wrist—too swiftly for a simple sister.

   — Don’t.

   Her voice stayed gentle, but her grip was iron. Releasing Bethany, she ran a hand along her bow—a gesture as natural as a limb rediscovering its purpose.

   Morrigan, already settling in the boat, tossed over her shoulder:

   — Focus on training instead.

   As they pushed off into the fog-cloaked river, the witch spoke again:

   — How went your grand mission? I see no triumph—not even a ghost of satisfaction.

   Leliana shrugged, gaze averted:

   — I reached the Mother. Her execution left the town buzzing like a stirred hive. At night, amid flames and shouting crowds, it all feels righteous—unifying. But dawn breaks the illusion. People scatter. Alone, watching sleeping children or silent parents... doubts creep in. They want to forget, to scrub the night away. Every reminder repels. Rumors fester. And those who feed on them thrive.

   She adjusted her grip on the oar.

   — The Mother’s act didn’t secure power or win hearts. Only fear—and a desperate exodus. The Templars’ victory over that band of bandits spurred the chaos further. They’re too busy herding panicked crowds to hunt us. Slipping into the Mother’s chambers was simple. The rest... less so.

   Yellow eyes fixed on the storyteller as their owner leaned forward, elbows resting on knees.

   — Did expectations shatter against reality’s jagged rocks?

   — A fitting comparison.— Leliana adjusted her gloves.— The Mother is utterly convinced of her path. To her, awakening from doubt and inaction was a greater sin than... making hasty decisions. Especially with the Blight looming. I, of all people, understand such reasoning. But where it leads...— She exhaled.— No argument swayed her. Each was met with pitying smiles that only spurred questions I’d long silenced.

   Bethany arched a brow.

   — Questions?

   — About my past. Who I truly am. Whether I, burdened as I am, have any right to speak on such matters. Whether the Mother ever truly knew me.— Leliana’s fingers tightened around her bow.— Every query carried Ser Evou’s ghost. And naturally, questions about him followed. Her concern felt performative—but the mere fact they arose hints at suspicions. She knows more than she admits.

   A dry chuckle escaped Morrigan:

   — Choice is every fool’s luxury. Though... half-truths and theatrics—aren’t those the hallmarks unifying all faiths?

   Leliana winced but nodded.

   — True, yet untrue. People aren’t so monochrome.— She recited softly, her voice melodic in the fog:

   One’s but a quarter steeped in grime,

   Passes for decent all the time.

   Another’s drowned up to their hair,

   And reeks no matter how they fare.

   Meeting Morrigan’s gaze with a sidelong glance, she added:

   — Hardly profound. The Chantry has saints, scoundrels, and mostly mediocrity. But the Mother once commanded respect. Now... even veils of faith offer no armor.

   Alim’s pole splashed as he interjected:

   — A grim topic for a misty river at night.

   — Isn’t a misty night the best time? Everything feels phantom—even doubts.

   — Regardless. Leliana, I’m sorry trust was repaid with indifference.

   — What’s more regrettable? That, or my blindness? Or the Chantry squandering opportunities with blunt methods?

   — Our mage excels at missing cues. Feel free to ignore him.

   — Still cross? Very well.— Bethany stifled a giggle as Leliana gestured to her attire.— Ah, this? I’ve always kept... travel clothes handy. Personal reasons. The fishing rod required creativity, though.— Her smile turned wistful.— Had it been crimson satin with a burgundy jacket and heels, I’d be happier. But no balls await us.

   Bethany’s eyes sparkled imagining such finery; Morrigan studied Leliana with narrowed eyes.

   — One thing gnaws at me,— the witch said.— Why did the Knight-Commander stay so passive? Especially regarding Evou. What restrained him?

   Leliana tilted her head back.

   — The Order has undercurrents—alliances, debts. Perhaps Evou’s advantages were secured by another, long before him. But without proof, this is grasping at smoke.

   Alim hissed:

   — The village approaches. Silence.

   The shoreline blurred into dark shapes—a looming temple, the orange glow of lanterns. Only the lapping of water against the boat broke the quiet... until a dog’s frenzied barking erupted. Alim’s gaze flicked to Morrigan; she clenched her fists but stayed still. Minutes crawled before the shadows faded behind them.

   — The lake,— Alim announced as they passed a crumbling arch.

   Leliana nodded.

   — The largest of this chain. Though it pales before Calenhad’s expanse.

   Morrigan stretched like a cat along the boat’s length.

   — A guide is useful. Water may calm fools’ blood, but our vessel is fragile. We’d best hug the shore.

   As Alim adjusted course, he couldn’t resist:

   — Let me guess—Flemeth taught you to swim by throwing you off a cliff?

   — Don’t be absurd. I’d have drowned.— She smirked.— No, she ensured I swam like an otter—in Korcari’s icy marshes. Left me with a lasting distaste for baths.— A pause.— That bow isn’t ornamental, is it?

   Leliana’s chuckle was dark.

   — Wait and see. Actions outshine words.

   A growling stomach punctuated the statement. With a sigh, Morrigan closed her eyes, determined to sleep through hunger’s pangs once more.

Chapter Text

   The world around them could change relentlessly, its seasons and balance of power shifting in turn. Even the rules by which these forces were measured could shift. But in the rickety boat stubbornly following the shores of the great lake, there was not a single chance to glimpse even the faintest trace of these changes. Once the group of unusual travelers left the chain of lakes stretching west to east—the drainage basin of the River Dane, beginning at Lake Calenhad—they began moving north with only minor deviations. Chasing the summer that fled in the same direction, the travelers found themselves suspended in mid-August, despite autumn’s pursuit.

   Yet before and after this moment, the lives of these disparate companions had seen no shortage of events.

   With the settled monotony of their painfully slow journey came a leveling out among the boat’s passengers. Surprisingly, Leliana took center stage. Even amid Morrigan’s bouts of paranoia, the witch detected no signs of calculated intent or deliberate effort from the girl. Nevertheless, the sorceress devoted time to pondering it. In the end, every oddity found a logical explanation.

   In a party of three humans and an elf, only two could hunt efficiently. Yet the archer alone managed to provide enough for their meals in a couple of hours, saving them half the day’s light. On lucky days, she’d even shoot an unlucky bird from the boat, effortlessly showcasing skills that hadn’t rusted after years in the monastery. Later, Leliana admitted modestly: though rarely, she still practiced archery weekly, away from prying eyes. Morrigan conceded superiority easily, preferring a full belly to starved pride. Besides, this arrangement left the boat ten to twelve hours each day to press stubbornly toward the horizon.

   But there was more. Only Leliana could fish. Perhaps she wasn’t as adept as with a bow, but the others had never held a fishing line. Alim, the islander who’d spent most of his life in captivity, had seen shores more through windows than under his own feet. Bethany, a riverside farm girl, viewed water only as a bottomless drinking source or an alternative to winding hill roads. The cool lake teemed with fish, and even on foul days, the redhead’s rod left everyone decently fed. Some days, each tried their hand at this meditative pastime, which demanded patience, focus, and quick reflexes. The younger mage’s results were passable. The lone man, however, dismissed the skill as impractical—though Morrigan suspected he feared the close contact with his instructor it initially required.

   The list of the redhead’s strengths didn’t end there. Leliana was also an inexhaustible wellspring of tales: local gossip, distant lands, fantastical events, Ferelden and Orlesian fashion, and tidbits of noble intrigue. Three-quarters were hardly spine-tingling, but as they say, any port in a storm. More importantly, her storytelling talent was undeniable. A velvet voice and rich intonation turned even trivial facts into something hypnotic and profound. She answered questions with ease, radiating openness—though her singing was rarer. When she did sing, her repertoire spanned rowdy tavern ditties that would make seasoned ruffians blush to ballads woven with meaning and emotion, weaving tapestries of tragic fates. Most carried a tinge of old sorrow or outright gloom, each episode etching itself into memory—not least because her voice evoked Lake Calenhad’s waters: clear, deep, and boundless.

   Morrigan maintained an air of detachment, feigning disinterest. Alim, in contrast, hung on every verse with rapt attention. Bethany, when not drowning in dark thoughts, became the most active critic and conversationalist, free of hidden motives.

   Beyond daily routines and boat-bound gatherings, other relationships simmered. The elf gravitated silently toward Leliana’s company, even without conversation or the mages present. Sometimes it seemed natural; often, it didn’t. To the untrained eye, nothing of note surfaced. But to Morrigan, the undercurrents were plain. It seemed impossible the sharp-eyed huntress hadn’t noticed the mage’s inner turmoil—yet she remained neutral, as if lying in wait. The only time she showed genuine care was on the journey’s second day, when the elf, inexperienced and overzealous, predictably bloodied his hands with blisters. Leliana skillfully applied herbs Morrigan had gathered and bandaged his wounds with near-tenderness. Afterward, only rare, thoughtful glances at his back betrayed any reaction.

   To the perceptive witch, Alim resembled a clever beast frozen before a trap baited with meat—locked in a life-or-death struggle with base instincts. And the harder he fought to suppress them, the more inexorably the pressure grew.

   Morrigan and Bethany developed their own hierarchy and routine day by day. Predictably, the elder took the lead. Though she preferred a contemplative role, circumstances forced her to initiate constantly. Every problem in teaching her first witch posed a challenge demanding solutions. Following Flemeth’s footsteps—within reason—Morrigan treated them like puzzles. The toughest nut to crack was Bethany’s "curse" of apathy, creeping like tar over her naturally vibrant mind. At times, the girl drowned in memories of her mother or thoughts of her brother. In those moments, she needed a friend’s shoulder, a patient listener, and an anchor against guilt’s weight. Each role repelled Morrigan, yet distracted her from her own anxieties. So she shuffled masks like trump cards, playing them honestly (if dryly), pulling her pupil back from the brink. Occasionally, this drew glances—Alim’s weary confusion or Leliana’s quiet contemplation.

   The lessons progressed… adequately. Bethany wasn’t one to reach for the stars with bare hands, but while she kept her thoughts clear, she clawed her way forward. Each hard-won victory earned a respectful nod from the elf, who’d faced similar trials in the Circle. Morrigan’s sole reward? A trickier task.

   Yet the elder mage broke ground first. By the second day, she’d grasped the theory behind Flaming Hands—though casting it would’ve taken ten minutes of concentration and charred her hands to bone. As she traced runes, Alim voiced his bafflement at such a "useless" spell. A sharp glare from those yellow eyes silenced him, then slid to Leliana before returning with a silent sneer. To him, magic was a tool; to her, it was life. Useless now, but its principles might unlock greater things. Privately, Morrigan relished the small triumph.

   Time, however, was a luxury.

   By the third day, Alim had optimized poling intensity—one knot was the boat’s limit. Convincing the women of this pace took longer. When logic failed, he resorted to math, sketching calculations in sand: higher speeds initially seemed efficient, but fatigue compounded, reducing daily progress. Even rotating shifts barely helped. Leliana grasped it instantly, explaining to Bethany. Morrigan, though, just stared—until she finally broke her rare silence:

   — Like the rules of counting. Mother made me learn it with pebbles until I could do it in my sleep. These scribbles say: if our estimate to Kinloch Hold is even close, the journey takes a month. And that’s if weather, sickness, or hunger don’t intervene. By then, autumn will grip the land. No warm clothes, on open water… Sounds delightful.

   The elf froze, stick hovering.

   — Let me clarify—you, raised in the wilds, understood this immediately?

   Alim’s eyes narrowed.

   — Either you’re prodigiously talented or Ferelden’s finest actress. Given our acquaintance, I’ll assume the latter. Have you truly never seen numerals?

   — No. This notation is unfamiliar. As is any other. Mother just tallied—she dragged a finger through the sand—one, two, three... Your symbols just replace these, but shorter. Isn’t it obvious?

   The stick dropped. He’d expected anything but this.

   — And you just—

   — If "three" is "three," does it matter if it’s lines or squiggles?— Her eyes glinted.— Or did you think only city folk can count pebbles?

   Alim exhaled, grimacing—his triumph stolen before he’d tasted it.

   * * *

   The journey continued under fair skies. True, most days were shrouded in fog or drizzle, but in between came sunlight and downpours. Every other evening, the eastern horizon glittered with stars, while the western sun sank into purple clouds clawed by the Frostback Mountains. Those churning masses birthed snow on white peaks, later swelling Lake Calenhad with glacial streams.

   On one such clear day, before venturing onto the great lake, Leliana spoke with Bethany about Carver—his abandoned dream of becoming a guardsman, his distant hope of rising to sergeant or even captain in sturdy Highever. Naturally, the talk turned to Ostagar and the Blight. For reasons of his own, Alim interjected, offering "firsthand" impressions of Ostagar. A simple nod from the redhead spurred him on, though he prudently omitted sharp edges—like a certain witch and royal correspondence—to spare Morrigan’s fraying composure.

   Leliana rewarded him with a grateful nod.

   — A remarkable tale. In another time, with a few colorful embellishments and verse, it might become a ballad. But in the current political climate, even mentioning Ostagar is already becoming unwise. Military strategy eludes me, but Loghain Mac Tir’s actions intrigue me most. Arguably the pivot of this story.

   Morrigan, lounging at the bow and gazing into the endless blue frayed by wispy clouds, snorted without looking.

   — The commander decided only one thing: where he’d die and the size of his mass grave. A flank attack wouldn’t have changed the outcome.

   — We can’t know—

   — We’ve the wit to ponder. And conclude.

   — Très bien. My conclusion, then. Other motives drove him beyond survival. Else his actions, however shrewd, seem too cold—betraying his daughter’s husband, his friend’s son, the King himself. And the captains who saw the battle’s tide yet obeyed without dissent… Such maneuvering requires groundwork laid in men’s minds beforehand.

   Alim shook his head faintly but nodded in agreement. Leliana pressed on:

   — Whatever Loghain intended, Ferelden now faces lawlessness and division.

   The elf frowned.

   — Why? The army remains. The Queen. The Blight looms.

   — All eclipsed by one fact: for the first time since Ferelden’s founding, the Calenhad bloodline is broken. Eight generations, ended. The Blight achieved what Avvars, Hasind, or Orlesian occupation could not. Say what you will of this damp, dog-scented land—but the oldest noble houses of Thedas once vied for Calenhad ties. The question of "who rules" is what first united pirate lords, warlords, and brigands into a nation. It’s what bound banns, teyrns, and arls for centuries. Unless… perhaps Maric’s bastards survive…

   She sighed:

   — No. Even if none exist, they’ll emerge within years. Every lord with a drop of royal blood will recall distant kinship; every opportunist will "find" a "lost prince" in their cellar. And true bastards?—A bitter smile— Would Maric have acknowledged them in life? Now their legitimacy will hinge solely on the swords at their backs.

   The elder mage chose her words carefully.

   — The Queen. Wouldn’t her kinship with the general be enough to rally temporary support?

   Leliana sighed, shaking her head as she gazed northward.

   — I think not. Were there a clear heir… But the latest rumors from the capital suggest none exists. The issue lies in Anora Mac Tir’s unique position and character. From what I know, she wasn’t merely Loghain’s favorite. She inherited his will and wit. Raised in the capital, she became neither spoiled nor naive—but politically astute. That woman won’t yield the throne, even to her father. Whispers claim it was she, not charismatic Cailan, who presided over the Landsmeet and filled the royal coffers. Though one shouldn’t trust such tales entirely. Young as he was, the King earned the nobility’s loyalty, and many among them are no fools. Even Teyrn Gwaren initially followed him as he had Maric. Anora is the last legitimate tie to the old order—and to royal blood...

   Bethany leaned forward, interrupting with lively curiosity.

   — How so? She’s a Mac Tir.

   Morrigan answered instead.

   — Matters not who she is. Matters what pup she might carry.

   The green-eyed lady smirked darkly, tossing her red mane.

   — Aptly put. Whether she carries one or none, I’d wager her womb is empty. But hope—ah, that blinds even the wise. Mark my words: Loghain, knowing his strong-willed daughter, will seize control upon reaching the capital. Declare himself regent. Then—anticipating civil war—he’ll announce her pregnancy with a "trueblood heir." That buys him half a year of noble hesitation. Beyond that? Depends on his preparations. What alliances he’s forged. But already we can say: any opposition rallying to the Queen’s side is doomed.

   Alim scratched his chin.

   — No leader? I heard of Arl Eamon’s illness—Ser Donall mentioned it. Doesn’t he speak for the southwest? First among equals?

   — Aye. The throne’s power rested on three pillars: House Guerrin of Redcliffe, led by Arl Eamon; the wealthy Couslands of Highever, with Teyrn Bryce; and the upstart Mac Tirs—now just the Queen and her father.

   — Led? — The elf’s head snapped up.

   Leliana blinked at the group, but only Bethany seemed to grasp the past tense.

   — A month ago, perhaps less, Highever was attacked by a well-armed band. So the rumors go. The Teyrn’s eldest son had left with most guards, answering the King’s call. Before mercenaries could arrive… none survived. Now the lands fall to Rendon Howe, the late Teyrn’s friend from the occupation. So—three legs of the stool shattered at once. Only scattered loyalists will rise for the Queen. Without change, the regent will face no united opposition.

   Morrigan’s gaze locked onto Leliana’s probing green eyes.

   — How do you know this?

   — The rumors? Or my guesses about Loghain’s plans?

   — Your sources. Hmm… Keen ears, sharp memory. But the latter interests me.

   — Oh, that’s simple. Were I in Loghain’s—nay, soon-to-be His Lordship’s—place… I’d do the same.

   As the elder witch’s lips twisted into a grin, the others sat in stunned silence.

   A few days later, on Lake Calenhad’s waters, a quiet rain veiled the world, hiding the shoreline and wrapping the boat in intimate stillness. Another languid conversation unfolded—one that had circled before, weighing the merits of travel. Alim methodically, if lifelessly, listed reasons to never repeat this ordeal. Only Morrigan countered, her arguments haphazard at best. Leliana seemed absorbed in her fishing line, while Bethany, having solved the elder mage’s latest puzzle (this time involving the elf’s "mathematical squiggles"), suddenly asked:

   — How did you end up in the Templars’ dungeon?

   The simple question brightened Alim. Unaware he was mirroring the wind tugging at red curls, he began at Lothering’s gates—but Leliana interrupted at The Dane’s Refuge. A bright laugh escaped her.

   — Truly? La pute—

   She started the Orlesian curse flawlessly, then froze. Tucking a stray lock under her hood, she smiled nervously and pressed on.

   — Morrigan swears like a native, yet never left the Korcari Wilds till recently. From Alim’s tale, even that we owe to the legendary Flemeth? One lives and learns...

   Morrigan, already irked by Alim’s pedantic storytelling, snarled:

   — Not remotely. My phrases are my own. And none of your concern.

   Leliana sighed under the elf’s scrutiny.

   — What troubles me is... coincidence. Or seeming so. But the attacker fixated on an Orlesian insult.

   Bethany, elbow on knee, leaned in.

   — What’s it mean?

   Red brows lifted. Silence fell, broken only by rain and the pole’s soft splashes. Adjusting her bait, Leliana relented:

   — If Alim’s mangled pronunciation didn’t mislead me... it called his mother a whore.

   Bethany’s jaw dropped—then she nodded, impressed. Morrigan, studying Leliana’s profile, barely noticed.

   — Yet the reaction betrays strangeness,— Leliana mused, tracing the boat’s edge—forest brigands—coarse, uneducated, yes? But one erupts at an Orlesian slight like a chevalier defending a lady’s honor.— Her gaze snapped to Alim— You said they looked local?

   He frowned.

   — In dress, yes. Though... the one who attacked Morrigan might’ve had an accent. Still,— he shrugged— nothing odd there.

   — Truly?— Leliana countered— Orlesian isn’t Rivaini. After the occupation, it spread, yes—especially west, near Lothering, where Meghren’s army camped. But that’s true for elders. That band? Drifters, young. Ser Evu’s reports claimed they were trappers, prospectors, borderland farmers. Hard to imagine such rabble knowing a second tongue.

   Leliana fell silent, pondering the conclusion her words implied. Alim pressed impatiently:

   — Well? Go on.

   — Mmm? Yes...— She bit her lip.— Then the picture changes. The band might’ve been locals... save for a few "guests." Ones who knew Orlesian beyond tavern curses. Who reacted to it... like those raised in that culture.

   Rain drummed against the hull as she hesitated.

   — Orlais has a saying: "A borrowed cloak won’t hide your accent." These men played brigands, but their true faces— She cut herself off— Still, mere conjecture. Though it explains why they were in the right place at the right time.

   Alim grimaced, displeased by her reasoning. Shoving the pole harder than intended—rocking the boat—he muttered:

   — Sounds like a cautious guess at a problem I’d rather not suspect exists. Bethany, how did news of our capture reach the Hawke farm so quickly?

   Bethany’s eyes widened.

   — I’d love to claim mystical Hawke talents... but it’s simpler. A hunter—a friend of my parents—stopped by that day. He’d been in Lothering that morning, leaving early with his group. Saw the Templars leading you two. Later, he heard of their raid on the bandit camp. His path to the Brecilian Pass took him near our farm, so he detoured to warn us. Brought some game, shared gossip... hoped we’d meet again.— She looked away sharply.

   The conversation died there, drowned out by the rain.

   But not all found peace in the white noise. Morrigan had endured two nights of worsening nightmares—vivid visions of ash she longed to taste, mist seeping through cracks in her mind, and a stranger’s silhouette behind the veil, no longer hinted at but clear: a woman seeking a path to her corner of the Fade. It left her staring northward, toward Kinloch Hold, weighing futures and fighting poisonous doubts.

   When sunlight finally broke through the clouds, Morrigan broke the unspoken question everyone had avoided—how they’d infiltrate the Circle. Bethany and Leliana hadn’t asked, unaware of its importance; the mages hadn’t shared their goals.

   — Alim,— she began, tracing the boat’s worn planks,— what thoughts have you given to breaching the Tower? We’ve had ample time for heavy labor and little else.

   The elf winced.

   — What do you want to hear? A plan? I’ve offered ideas before. But we don’t know the state of the Hold, the docks, even Ferelden. Our best chance is contacting the elusive "free mage" network. At least to send word inside. I know that suits you poorly—

   — You assume correctly,— she snorted, splashing him with lake water.— Are you ashamed to voice such drivel? Though I’m... surprised. I’d thought the journey’s length troubled you more.

   Wiping his face, Alim blinked—then glanced at Bethany (cautiously curious) and Leliana (briefly startled). Frowning, he conceded:

   — Why should it trouble me?

   — I don’t know how you parted from your sister,— Morrigan began,— but to her, you left for war—albeit less dramatically than some. Time passed. No ravens flew from Ostagar. Leliana’s right: Loghain keeps Denerim silent. But the Circle mages who marched with him? They’ll return. By highway. Horses, wagons. A head start. They might already be there. And tongues wag—oaths won’t stop them. Whispers in corners, rumors... What will that mean for your sister when she learns of Ostagar’s fall? You have the facts now. Kinloch Hold is still half a month away. Plans?

   Alim froze, his pole halting mid-motion—a rhythm so ingrained it needed no thought. His face darkened, jaw clenched visibly.

   — Such thoughts... never occurred to me. Which reflects poorly. But I see no obvious solutions.

   — Obvious? No. There are none.

   Days prior, watching Alim’s calculations, Morrigan had grasped how distance became days, and days became risk. She’d studied Lake Calenhad’s currents, trade routes, how far a sailboat might travel in a day—each answer weighed with cold precision.

   — From our companions, I’ve learned: the River Dane’s mouth lies a day and a half ahead. The only thread linking the lake to the Waking Sea. A trade route... but autumn’s short skirts hide winter’s teeth. Ice and boats don’t mingle. Shipping must dwindle—yet the Blight and news from the capital may spur risk-takers. I expect sails. Wind moves seven, eight times faster than our elf. Doesn’t eat. Doesn’t tire...

   Alim scratched his nose, then eyed Leliana—testing her bowstring—and asked:

   — Your thoughts?

   The bard shook her head.

   — Non. But Morrigan asked... odd questions. Some unrelated. It felt... inconsistent. Alarming. These conclusions are hers alone. Though...— She trailed off.

   Alim’s gaze returned to Morrigan’s unreadable back.

   — Fine. Trade ships under sail. One flaw: unless the ladies are willing to pay in kind, we lack even coin to bribe a deckhand.

   Morrigan waved him off.

   — No payment. We’ll take the ship.

   Silence. Bethany looked stunned. Leliana bit her lip. Alim blinked.

   — You—what? Four against a crew? Even if they’re merchants, not mercenaries—

   — Dockhands and drunks—Morrigan cut in.— Against a witch, an archer, and a mage.

   * * *

   As the enchantress had predicted, by noon the next day the shore began to curve sharply to the right, revealing an endless expanse of water. The party had grown accustomed to the presence of distant peaks to the west, where the Frostback Mountains rose with no shoreline in sight. But now, it seemed their rickety boat had dared to venture into open waters. The necessity of following the shoreline, veering ever eastward while their destination lay strictly to the north, cast a gloom over everyone—save Morrigan. Casual conversations withered. Mundane tasks were postponed. Anxious glances scanned the dark-blue surface, dotted with lazy waves. As if that weren’t enough, Alim soon detected a current—subtle at first, but steadily pulling the boat eastward.

   The outflow of the River Dane, unlike the slow, lazy waters of the Dragon’s Peak basin, resembled a broad, almost triangular funnel. The water-filled valley between the surrounding hills narrowed steadily over the span of a day’s travel, eventually funneling into a river channel no less than a hundred paces wide at its narrowest point. Here, the current revealed an invisible, inexorable force. Ships sailing from the Waking Sea to Lake Calenhad, lacking favorable winds, preferred to drop anchor rather than fight the indifferent elements with oars. Upon exiting the channel, they hugged the shores, avoiding the central current as much as their draft allowed. Had it not been for the season, the travelers would have likely encountered a vessel in their path.

   The main trade route ran south to Redcliffe Fort, the foundation of the Guerrins’ wealth and influence. Through this great southern stronghold of Ferelden flowed goods from the independent villages in the Frostbacks’ foothills, the Western Hills, and the Hinterlands. Yet at this time of year, ships sailed only north—to the capital of Erling Calenhad, to Kinloch Hold itself, and to the docks at the mouth of the wide valley leading to Garlen Pass. This meant any potential ship would appear only on the far side of the vast watery expanse.

   After an hour of this new course, Morrigan turned to Alim. Pointing northeast, as if tracing a sharp diagonal away from the shore, she said:

   — We must decide. Two options, both well-considered. The safe-then-dangerous path: follow the shore and face the rapids at the end. Or turn now, surrender to the current, and let it carry us where we need to go.

   Alim froze, his grip on the pole turning his knuckles white. His face darkened—clearly weighing the witch’s idea, recalling its potential benefits. The chance to reach “home” before winter might outweigh the madness of it. Yet the mage bristled at openly agreeing.

   Bethany, meanwhile, gasped:

   — But without oars or sails, we’d be at the river’s mercy! No way to steer.

   — We’re in its clutches either way. But if we turn now, we’ll reach the midpoint sooner. And thus, the sightlines of oncoming ships.

   The huntress suddenly laughed, tossing her red hair:

   — A helpless damsel, then. Four maidens crying for rescue.

   The young mage opened her mouth to correct her, but the elf cut in:

   — Aside from the difficulty of mistaking my gender…

   Morrigan interrupted, dripping scorn:

   — With your hood up, your posture, and our company, you’ll pass for a maiden better than the real thing. Men and women see only what they expect—or desire. And all gladly delude themselves, so long as there’s no penalty.

   — Well. Ahem. Still, the plan is to… play victims on the river? That’s… an unexpected reliance on goodwill from you.

   — I’m learning to exploit human frailty. Leliana’s chatter proves surprisingly useful. Unlike yours.

   For the first time since their journey began, the mentioned girl flushed faintly and muttered in her own defense:

   — I told you… The questions were odd…

   — I don’t know whether to be frightened. Or rather—confused, for multiple reasons. Fine. But what’s your move when luck favors us? Say we’re spotted, and a ship comes to aid. Board it? Like pirates? The four of us, even if three wield magic? Never mind the consequences…

   — Leave such complications to me. I’ll need only Leliana’s bow—and I trust the “sister’s” hand won’t shake. Consequences? I mocked your morals in Ostagar. They amuse me still. Guard your conscience, but spare me yours. If there are no objections, we change course.

   With a resigned sigh, avoiding the eyes of his companions, the man slowly turned the boat’s nose from the shore and pushed hard, gathering as much momentum as the riverbed allowed before it dropped away, leaving the pole useless. Once adrift, Alim stowed the pole beneath the forward bench, slumped down, and muttered:

   — Done. We’ve surrendered to the whims of water spirits and chance.

   Bethany twisted nervously, her gaze lingering on the receding shoreline. Distracting herself, she asked:

   — Is that an elven belief? About spirits?

   Alim shook his head, smiling faintly:

   — I know little more of elven beliefs than any Circle mage with library access. Namely, that they don’t categorize shadow creatures as “good” or “evil.” Perhaps in ancient times, that held true. Now, it’s a dangerously narrow view. But the phrase wasn’t elven. The Dalish never believed spirits govern nature or creation. Mightier than mortals? Yes. Godlike? Certainly. But no ties to the act of creation. The Avvar, however, see it differently. To them, every gust of wind, every stone, is a divine message—the very essence of gods. And the shadow beings they call spirits are just part of the world, like birds or rocks.

   — Fascinating. I’ve heard of the Avvar, but near Lothering, they’re just legends. The Hasind tales unsettled me far more.

   Morrigan, lazily scanning the horizon, joined in:

   — The Hasind trust only in their own strength, bowing to no higher power. What use are mysterious gods? Will they feed you? Stop a blade at your heart? Survival on the harsh southern plains breeds pragmatism. Even Flemeth, who lived among them for ages, never changed their ways. Nor tried. She earned respect as the strongest—and fools still challenged her yearly. A mother’s apprentices are vital to the tribes’ survival. Hence, revered. There are shamans, too, but pale shadows of witches when men try teaching magic. Shadow creatures are dangerous tools—like tamed wolves that may still tear your throat out. No wonder soft northerners fear the south. So long as the tribes fight amongst themselves, they’re no threat. But united? One southern warrior could slaughter ten northern weaklings.

   Alim nodded.

   — Firsthand knowledge is priceless.

   Time crawled as the sun inched across the sky, slower still the more one willed it forward. The farther the shore drifted, the more their boat seemed to hover motionless on the gentle waves. In truth, the current carried them faster than Alim’s pole ever could. Yet no ship lay ahead. The brooding elf distracted himself by calculating the odds of meeting a vessel before reaching the River Dane’s channel—a grim exercise yielding no optimism. Bethany fidgeted, squinting at the horizon until Morrigan diverted her by reciting the runes for “Winter’s Grasp.”

   Then, without warning, the elder witch turned, grinning, and announced:

   — Time to play the victims.

   Following her gaze, they saw it: a ship growing rapidly larger, riding the wind and current. Alim barely managed:

   — How—

   Before clicking his tongue in realization:

   — Of course, a southwestern wind. Waiting for an eastbound ship was pointless. You planned this?

   — Naturally. Leliana’s chatter proved instructive. There was a tale of a ball where heroes drew attention one way to act elsewhere. I wondered: fact or fiction? The storyteller never confirmed, but her evasion spoke volumes. Mother used similar tricks, I suspect. But enough talk.

   Leliana nodded, tucking her bow and arrows beneath the bench. Bethany rose, making herself visible. Alim sighed, straightened, and avoided looking at the ship. Morrigan, ever the disruptor, shed her cloak and unlaced her shirt without hesitation. At their stunned silence, she stripped to the waist, stretching languidly—her nipples hardening in the cool air—then kicked off her boots.

   — Wait. Why—

   Before Alim’s flustered mind could form a coherent question, her pants and smallclothes joined the pile. Mage-trained propriety made him turn away, flushing. Leliana, to his surprise (and a prickling jealousy), appraised the naked witch with undisguised interest. Bethany wavered, torn between averting her eyes and failing spectacularly, her cheeks pink.

   Morrigan winked at Alim.

   — Be ready when they near.

   With a fluid motion, she slipped into the water, barely a splash. The elf shivered at the imagined cold, muttering:

   — She’s oddly fastidious about her clothes. Just occurred to me: Korcari must lack decent tailors.

   Leliana tapped her lips, nodding.

   — Indeed. Such a body deserves silks, satins, and lace.

   The others blinked. Meanwhile, the witch had vanished like a water spirit. The ship, now alarmingly close, raised sails to slow. Shouts rang out as ropes were thrown. Bethany caught one, tying clumsy landlubber’s knots that would make any sailor wince. A ladder thudded into the boat, its ascent daunting—a dozen wary crewmen waited above, and they’d have to climb single file. With a deep breath, Bethany seized the ladder, deciding the order for them.

   From below, Alim murmured:

   — Two spells. Three, if we’re lucky. But if Morrigan’s plan fails…

   But as Bethany’s head cleared the railing, she found their “rescuers” indifferent. The deck was eerily silent. Seven sailors, the captain, and his first mate stood frozen, as if an icy wind from the Frostbacks had swept through. Every head was turned toward the opposite side of the ship. The bosun—a burly man with a wind-chapped face and a scar running across it—flinched, his hand hovering over his belt knife.

   — A creature from the depths...—he whispered.

   Legends of water spirits taking the form of maidens to drown sailors were common on Lake Calenhad. Yet within moments, his fear twisted into something baser. A stifled chuckle rose behind him; an elbow jabbed his ribs. The ancient dread of spirits dissolved into crude, familiar hunger.

   Two younger sailors exchanged glances. One absently rubbed a crude wooden amulet carved with a wave—the symbol of the Sea—but his grin widened as he eyed the dripping figure. The other gulped audibly. They were no seasoned mariners, just dockside riffraff, and their fear of the unknown quickly gave way to pack courage and lust.

   Behind the men, standing tall and unashamed, was Morrigan—naked, her skin puckered from the lake’s cold, yet showing no sign of suffering. Paler than usual, her dark hair, loosened in the water, now clung to her shoulders and face in inky streaks. Her golden eyes burned like those of a spirit lurking in the depths. Yet with each breath, her chest rose enticingly, betraying her mortal nature. She flicked a wet lock from her nose and smirked.

   — Ah, what a touching sight...

   Six invisible threads of magic already tethered her to the sailors—one each. A dangerous game, teetering on the edge of her limits. A step further, and she might collapse. Her voice, smooth as oil on steel, cut through the silence:

   — A herd of dogs, ready to rut over a scrap of meat. Which of you is the true alpha? And when will the pack realize who leads?

   The taunt struck like a slap. Bethany, unnoticed, peered over the railing and frantically gestured for the others to hurry. The sailors, torn between fight and dominance, chose the latter. Their postures slackened; grins multiplied. Only the captain’s presence held them back. Sensing the shift, he barked:

   — Who are you? And what in the Void are you doing on my ship half-dressed?

   Morrigan laughed—a full, mocking peal. The sheer absurdity of it unnerved the crew. Some sailors fidgeted, glancing at their captain. Alim, now on deck, gaped at the scene, exchanging a bewildered look with Bethany. But shock soon gave way to rage.

   Then, in a heartbeat, chaos erupted.

   The captain snarled:

   — Seize the mad bitch!

   A sailor at the back paled, doubling over for no apparent reason.

   Six men lunged at Morrigan like starving hounds, shedding fear and restraint.

   Before the first could lay hands on her, another staggered, his face sickly. The fastest grabbed her wrist—she slipped free like an eel. The second twisted her arm, forcing her toward her knees. With a crack, she wrenched it loose, reset the joint with a snap, and stifled a gasp. Boots pounded the deck as she retreated, heels skidding on wet planks. A broad-shouldered brute yanked her hair—strands tore free in his grip.

   — Hold her!

   Calloused hands dug into her thighs, leaving crimson marks. Morrigan jerked her head back—her skull met teeth with a crunch. The attacker reeled, spitting blood and a broken fang. Another squeezed her breast, flesh whitening under his grip. A third locked his hands around her throat. Darkness flickered at the edges of her vision—then her knee drove into his groin, precise as Flemeth had taught. He crumpled, wheezing.

   — Enjoying yourselves?

   She licked her split lip, feeling the skin knit. The pounding in her temples worsened with each wound. Pain—distant but persistent—seeped through. The wind bit her wet skin; the captain’s grip on his sword hilt made her tally her dwindling strength.

   Leliana emerged onto the deck, bow ready and arrows clenched between her teeth, her gaze locked on the witch’s macabre dance amidst the frenzied mob. The sailors failed to notice how the wounds on the woman they’d cornered against the railing vanished like mirages—or how four of their own now lay sprawled behind them, faces ashen and mouths twisted. Then came the first real blow: a fist to Morrigan’s stomach that forced the air from her lungs with a choked gasp. Strong fingers seized her throat, yanking her upright, while another lashed her wrists together with rope. The remaining men groped greedily, their breath hot and whistling as they pawed at the soft flesh between her thighs.

   But after the fifth sailor crashed against the railing and slumped to the deck, the “mob” was no more. The last two standing—one who’d split her lip moments ago, the other still leering between her legs—froze like statues. Cold dread flooded their minds, sweeping away all other thought. Morrigan’s husky laugh rang out as she straightened, her skin unmarred, just as the first mate collapsed with a groan. The captain stared, glassy-eyed, struggling to reconcile the carnage with the naked, dripping girl at its center. His hand trembled near his sword hilt—but before he could draw, the screech of a drawn bowstring froze him mid-motion.

   Leliana stood at the far rail, her arrow aimed squarely at his ribs.

   Shrugging off the half-tied ropes, Morrigan shoved aside one sailor and turned to the other—the one who’d been so investigative moments ago. His mind, battered by the surreal turn of events, had short-circuited. She stepped close, her hands sliding over his wiry shoulders, and murmured:

   — Who’s in charge now?

   Her knee flashed up. A choked cry later, only two crewmen remained conscious.

   — Typical,— Morrigan sighed, surveying the aftermath.— Give a man an inch, and he’ll take a mile.

   She glanced at Leliana, adding:

   — You were right. These ships “are” crewed by strong males. But they’re weak-willed in so many ways—a pack of dogs, really. Governed only by strength. And now, we’re the strength.

   The bard’s bowstring quivered—whether from strain or adrenaline was unclear. The image of Morrigan’s pale form encircled by snarling men, her wounds sealing unnaturally, had left its mark. Yet her face remained impeccably composed.

   — I don’t know where you got that idea,— Leliana replied, her voice barely steady.

   Her fingers loosened as the threat passed. More collected now, she continued:

   — I only meant crews like this are often landless men—no trade, no family. Not desperate or clever enough for outright outlawry. They know ships and navigation, but at heart, they’re just… Maker’s breath, I’m arguing with you? What of the captain? My arm won’t hold forever, and I’d hate to waste the bow.

   Morrigan shrugged, indifferent to the distinction. Turning to the captain—who’d been tracking their exchange with wary eyes—she clapped her hands sharply. Half the conscious men flinched.

   — So. Why you? Why here? Why now? And what next?— she recited.— You’re unlucky, not guilty—save for being predictable, dull-witted, and paranoid. I’ll forgive the paranoia. We need passage. Your sails will serve us in exchange for your lives. You,— she nodded at the captain,— will clean up this mess. Your crew will recover by noon. Meanwhile, don’t waste daylight. Set course for Kinloch Hold. Questions?

   The captain’s lips twisted, but he bit back his retort. Here was why he commanded: pragmatism. A glance at his gray-faced first mate, facedown on the deck, and he spat to the side. With a jerky motion, he unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it at Leliana’s feet.

   — As you say… Mistress.

   No submission colored his tone—only fear, and the promise of vengeance if the scales tipped back.

   As Leliana lowered her bow with trembling hands, Morrigan turned to Bethany:

   — Care to fetch my clothes? One performance a day is quite enough.

   Nearby, Alim picked up the captain’s sword. The blade glinted as he caught Leliana’s eye—his expression mirroring hers: This was too easy.

   — One question,— he murmured.— What do we do when they wake?

   Morrigan smirked. Her lips quivered, though not from fear… Only a slight pallor betrayed her strain.

   As two men dragged their unconscious comrades into the shade and another wrestled with the wheel, Bethany slipped below to gather their belongings. The day was young—but the landscape would soon blur past. If they avoided knives in the dark and rat poison in the stew, Kinloch Hold was now days away, not weeks.

Chapter Text

   Morrigan had settled into the captain’s personal quarters, perched on a three-legged stool behind a narrow table bolted to the floor. Calling this space anything more than a closet required a generous leap of imagination. The room hardly suited a captain’s rank—either in size or in decor. Though given the ship’s modest size and crew, it was a blessing it had a door at all. By the light streaming through the wide-open porthole with its six tiny square panes, the witch meticulously examined the ship’s log, ledger, and the few rolled parchments containing maps, documents, and letters. The papers held a genuine fascination for her. With enough attention, they allowed her to peer through a keyhole into the lives and thoughts of strangers. The lines of letters, numbers, and symbols soothed a strange envy she felt for others’ achievements, no matter how trivial they seemed upon closer inspection.

   Her finger tapped thoughtfully against the table’s surface, polished by countless touches, when the door creaked in warning. A gust of fresh air rushed in, playfully darting about the room before escaping through the porthole, and in strode the red-haired bard. Gently closing the door behind her, Leliana scanned the room for a second seat. Finding none, she settled into the hammock stretched along the wall, leaning back and letting her legs dangle.

   Morrigan studied her companion with her usual mix of suspicion and curiosity.

   — Did your little chat go well? That request of yours to leave them alive sounded… peculiar. Then again, for a “sister,” you’re surprisingly sharp about human passions and the finer points of negotiation.

   — It wasn’t hard to get them talking after that… performance, — Leliana replied, her tone light. — A pleasant face and a calming smile work wonders without tricks. Though… — she sighed, noting Morrigan’s skepticism. — I see I won’t convince you outright. This requires patience—knowing when to listen and when to speak. As for results… The ship was carrying arrowheads and spear tips, taken aboard at Garlen Pass.

   An irritated click of Morrigan’s tongue cut through the silence as she jabbed a finger at the ledger’s worn leather cover.

   — Yes. Judging by the northerners’ scribbles—our mage included—they love their numbers. A sizable cargo. Risking a ship at this time of year… That must be the reason.

   Her hand brushed a bundle tied with thick cord, and she continued.

   — This document calls itself a contract. With someone the captain assumed was imaginary. A merchant from Highever hired the ship in Amaranthine. But the notes in the margins suggest the pay was substantial—enough for the crew and new rigging. Best of all, no need to fret over the goods. The records say the full sum for purchase and travel expenses was paid upfront. Later, our curious captain noted two oddities. For the sellers by the pass, the deal was routine—no suspicions, no recounting coins, no chatter about news. And the goods themselves… They bore Orlesian markings, but the captain spotted flaws—casting seams, imperfections. Uncommon for Orlesian work.

   Morrigan arched a brow, leaving the unspoken question hanging. With a reluctant shrug, Leliana obliged.

   — Not bad… for someone raised in the wilds of Korkari. Weapons are forged in Orlais and Ferelden, like anywhere else. But the only folk on this side of the world who master flawless cast-work without losing strength? The dwarves of Orzammar. Digging further isn’t wise. This reeks of political scheming. I doubt this ship was alone. Plotters rarely put all their eggs in one basket. There could be two, three layers of plans here. If I had to guess… Someone in Ferelden wants to frame a rival. Or arm a militia in haste. Or provoke an incident with Orlais. The real question is—who has that kind of coin to spare?

   Leliana fell silent, her fingers tightening on the hammock’s edge. Morrigan closed her eyes in reluctant agreement. A sudden quiet settled between them, broken only by the creak of ropes. The green-eyed bard watched a sunbeam crawl across the parchments before abruptly turning her gaze back to Morrigan.

   — Truthfully… — her voice was uncharacteristically firm. — Talking to the crew helped me sort through what I saw. You know… Whatever conclusions you’ve drawn about me, today’s stunt was neither smart nor safe. It was… well, frankly, unhinged. Et I’ve noticed a… trend toward recklessness, to put it mildly. After days in that leaky boat, I’ve formed an impression. Empreinte... Today’s spectacle? Not your usual style. Is it?

   Morrigan met her with a dark stare, letting the silence stretch. The earlier events—like much of what churned in her mind—were not topics she cared to share with just anyone. The few conversations she’d had with Alim had only scratched the surface. But as she weighed the risks, Morrigan acknowledged the folly of keeping secrets from her companions. Even in the best-case scenario—reaching Kinloch Hold in days, finding answers in the Circle’s library—there was time for chaos. Previous conversations with Leliana had painted a vivid picture of how uninformed allies might react to such complications. And though something deep and irrational in her rebelled against vulnerability… logic offered compelling arguments. A plan took shape: let Leliana piece together a mosaic of half-truths.

   At the edge of her thoughts, a cold comfort flickered—threats could always be eliminated. The ease with which the idea settled among her musings spurred another wave of doubt. With a slow breath, Morrigan cut the spiral short and decided to test the waters.

   — Sharp eyes. Let’s start with this: two months ago, I’d never have imagined being here. But even if I had… Hmph. I’d have preferred murder. Clean and safe. Then again… No. Avoiding people altogether would’ve been easier. Unseen, unnoticed, I’d have reached my goal. The mercy you saw? An outside influence. Alim and Bethany’s views are soft, but there’s no need to trample them yet. Besides, breaking Alim would’ve been… difficult. They’ll change regardless. And lose things they cannot yet even foresee. The rest of the sharp edges? Those are my problem.

   Morrigan tapped her temple lightly with a finger, her lips quirking into a fragile, joyless smile.

   — Of course — it’s in the mind. And since the art is mine to command, it’s no great leap to guess the source of both the nightmares and the… shifts in behavior.

   Leliana listened intently, her eyes tracing every flicker of emotion behind Morrigan’s wall of words. With a narrowed gaze, she seized the unspoken fact laid bare between them.

   — Possession?

   She deliberately slowed her speech, dragging a finger along the hammock’s edge as she watched the witch arch a brow in silent challenge.

   — I’m no expert, non, but… Do the possessed reason so coldly about their condition? You don’t fumble words or lose the thread—you hurl them like knives. Oui, your manner is unsettling… but it feels more like a performance than a loss of control. Some choices seem paradoxical, as do your questions. Yet… eccentricity and upbringing explain it well enough. Or simply an… extraordinary mind. If—if—you’re right. — Leliana hesitated. — I can scarcely imagine what it’s like. What doubts gnaw at—

   Morrigan slapped the table, baring her teeth in a predator’s grin.

   — Scarcely? Is doubt not your own companion? Do you not heed voices beyond yourself? Here and now, my fate leads you forward. Easy to picture another in your place, once. After all, didn’t something—or someone—drive you into the wilds? You, better than most, know the cost of second-guessing. To bleed doubt like an open wound. The word isn’t “scarcely.” It’s “all too familiar.”

   Leaning back against the wall, Morrigan massaged the bridge of her nose and exhaled wearily. Her gaze drifted to the ceiling as she continued, indifferent to how deeply her careless words had struck.

   — If this were uncontrollable, you’d not be speaking to the “old” me. — She flashed a sharp smile. — I still know which thoughts are mine… and which are… other.

   Leliana flinched almost imperceptibly at the claim—neither provable nor disprovable. But before she could protest, Morrigan pressed on:

   — Here’s the true worry. If the lesser part of me changed, the answer’s clear. But what if it’s the greater part? What if what remains of the “old” is the aberration? Such subtleties often go unnoticed. Like the heroes in all your tales.

   The redhead pursed her lips, shaking her head skeptically. Her fingers plucked at invisible strings as she half-quoted the Chant of Light:

   — “Between the first cup and the second lies the abyss…” You call dew a flood, ma’vhenan. But what if you’re right? Then we’re all already knee-deep.

   Morrigan shrugged, her reply measured.

   — I wielded this… newness with a clear head. A clean victory. No casualties. The goal achieved. Yes, it looked frightful. Granted. But from within? Simpler than you’d think. The trick relied on magic. Only… indifference to pain and violence kills fear—fear of reliving it. And that lets you act where instincts would strangle you. What does surprise me is how calmly you take this. Either your convictions run deeper than I thought… or your blindness does.

   Leliana arched a brow, sarcasm lacing her voice.

   — Did you expect me to leap overboard the moment you mentioned possession?

   — Hmm. What did I expect…? A fair question. One possibility. Certainty. Assurance. And I got it.

   Leliana fell silent for a breath, weighing her words. Her fingers tightened—not in prayer, but as if grasping at an elusive truth. Finally, she nodded, shaking her red hair loose with a sad smirk. Then, in a melodic voice, she recited:

   “‘…It will name your brother foe,

   And brand your dearest friend a knave.

   The world, a desert in your sight,

   Shall spur your flight, your cold disdain.

   Doubt shall nest within your breast,

   And sow dark dreams that never wane.

   You’ll heed them, bred to mistrust,

   And soon, corrupting thoughts will creep

   Like roots into your heart’s young dust,

   Their bitter fruit yours to reap.

   Then mark the yield of wretched brooding,

   Of doubt’s exhausting, hollow art:

   You, slave to its false preluding,

   Shall smother faith’s light in your heart.

   And then—then shame shall sear your brow,

   The outcast’s brand, the traitor’s stain,

   While doubt, triumphant, speaks its vow—

   Your final sentence, sharp and plain…’”

   [Excerpt from “DOUBT” — Nikolai Nekrasov (1821–1877)]

   A heartbeat’s pause. A breath. Then she added:

   — Yes… A firm foundation is precious. For instance—I’ve seen the role I play. Even my mere presence makes you… more. Should our paths diverge, it would diminish you. Whatever place the Maker’s plan holds for you, you must walk it by my side.

   Morrigan straightened, her sharp gaze shifting to the redhead swaying in the hammock. She opened her mouth to snap a retort but froze. A shadow of doubt flickered across the witch’s face, twisting into a grim half-smile. Leliana’s words had pricked her pride, yet cold logic confirmed their truth. Much of today’s reasoning—and the decisions born from it—had been shaped by the “sister’s” influence. Unwittingly, over days of travel, the bard had steered Morrigan’s thoughts as much as the strangeness in her own mind. And in her self-absorption, the witch had missed it entirely. She licked her lips and nodded.

   — Strange to admit… But there’s merit in—

   The door screeched open with a gust of wind, cutting her off. The culprit was a glowering elf, his fists clenching at the sight of Leliana in the hammock—her posture effortlessly accentuating every curve. He jerked his attention to Morrigan, but the image of the redhead had already seared into his mind, derailing his rehearsed words. Neither woman appreciated the dramatic entrance. Leliana’s pensive stare and Morrigan’s golden, equally curious eyes were fixed on him.

   — Morrigan. We need to talk about what happened.

   Studying him with deliberate slowness, she drawled:

   — Let me guess—you waited until Leliana was with me? Let her break the ice first?

   The elf’s muscles locked, then relaxed. He nodded, unabashed.

   — Lady Leliana has a… gentler touch. Having tasted your suspicion firsthand, I thought she’d be the best gauge of your state. Since the conversation stayed civil, perhaps we can address another matter. It seems I alone grasp the scale of the problem at hand. And while this is personal, Leliana and Bethany deserve to know your circumstances as much as I. Everyone—

   Morrigan’s heavy sigh cut him off mid-sentence.

   — How touching, vehn’lin… — her lips curled in a mockery of a smile. — But do enlighten me: you consulted the “sister” yet spared the apprentice? How noble—gambling with others’ fears.

   — I—

   His glance darted to Leliana, only to be ensnared by her emerald gaze. But she feigned sudden interest in her nails, leaving him floundering. He scowled, inhaled sharply, and wheeled back to Morrigan.

   — You told her?!

   — More than I told you. Your concern is noted. But your principles are a headache. Still, I’ll tolerate them—for now. They’re the only things keeping you grounded. As a person, you’re better than most I’ve met. More interesting, too. But in this group? You’re my greatest liability. Don’t interrupt. Yes, Leliana is more dangerous.

   The bard’s eyebrows shot up, her eyes flicking between the mage and the witch. Alim’s expression darkened, as if anticipating the next blow. Morrigan barreled on:

   — Of the three, she’s the least predictable. You might daydream about her, but… A word here, a hint there, and she’d have this ship’s crew eating from her palm to oppose the “dread witch.” Need I mention her bow? Or her knives?

   Leliana sat bolt upright, the hammock stilling. The high praise—and the accuracy of Morrigan’s observations—clearly startled her. She leaned in, demeanor shifting to something sharper.

   — But! — Morrigan jabbed a finger forward. — This one has faith. Never mind that hers is just as maddening. You—you needed only scraps of evidence to doubt me. Leliana heard me outright and dismissed the notion of possession. Because if true, her faith is a lie. In short: her motives are tied to mine. Bethany? The truth would poison her. She needs to grow stronger, not dwell on nightmares. I’ve no reason to fear the girl—yet. Her purpose aligns with mine. Or will. But you? — Her voice dropped. — Mention your sister, and your principles dissolve. Along with any sense of duty. Worse, those same principles could drive you to betray me. I see nothing to trust—save that our paths converge.

   The elf’s glare could’ve bored through stone. He had no rebuttal. The words, though warped to sound grotesque, rang uncomfortably true. As he leaned forward, unwilling to concede silently, Morrigan delivered the final blow:

   — Enough gravitas for one day, don’t you think?

   His jaw worked. A curt nod. He gripped the door handle—then paused, half-turning.

   — That spell earlier… You truly had no practice casting without an incantation?

   A slow nod from Morrigan. Alim grimaced.

   — Impossible. By every metric, it’s—

   He caught himself.

   — You already know, don’t you?

   Silence. The answer was plain in her eyes—she’d drawn the same conclusions. But hearing it aloud was doubly unnerving. With a final nod, Alim glanced at Leliana and left, the air thick with unease.

   * * *

   The ship turned back with difficulty, as if the vessel itself, the wind, and the crew alike rebelled at the thought of returning to Lake Calenhad’s chill waters at the tail end of Matrinalis. Hours of tacking in the broad mouth of the River Dane brought them along barely faster than their old rowboat. By dusk on the first day, a stifling tension gripped the deck. As they worked, each sailor replayed the recent events, baffled—why did they obey four strangers, three of whom were women? Each time their thoughts circled back, they hit the same wall. Every man had either witnessed or been convinced by his crewmates that at least two of the four wielded the Art. To sailors, the term was nebulous, steeped in rumor and superstition, heavy with mystery and dread. To most uneducated folk, mages were rare and lethally dangerous creatures. The Templar Order stood guard for good reason. Only their vigilance kept magic leashed. And if that leash snapped? Mages would readily bring nightmares to life—their own and others’. The deck’s bloody demonstration had only cemented those fears.

   Yes, mages breathed and bled like any man. A blade to the heart would kill them—if you could land the blow. But to die from a snap of fingers, or worse, a mere glance? That risk curbed heroic impulses. Each sailor quietly resolved to watch, wait, and endure.

   The captain, of course, saw further. He knew the limits of magic, how to dispose of their passengers in the coming days at the cost of a few crew. Magic or not, all needed to eat, sleep, piss. And at sea, other… frailties might emerge. Each one, given the right approach, was a vulnerability. But theory was one thing. Practice? A gaze like molten gold reminded him that magic meant instant death for those who miscalculated. That laughter, echoing in his skull. The memory of her, brazenly bare, sent shivers down his spine. Instinct screamed: Don’t provoke the beast. Trusting that instinct, he left the problem for the Templars—unavoidable at their destination. Just steer clear of sharp edges.

   Yet edges seemed to lurk everywhere.

   At sunset, the crew spotted another ship. Morrigan sat coiled on deck, a rope serving as her backrest while she and Bethany practiced spells, channeling focus instead of brooding. The sailors recognized the vessel by its sail—it had trailed them days prior, bound for the river’s headwaters. Low and sluggish, it had vanished by dawn. Now, as the ships drew within fifteen paces, the other crew whistled greetings, their jabs honed to prick pride and ego. The captured sailors grimaced but stayed silent, casting uneasy glances at the golden-eyed witch.

   Then the captains locked eyes.

   A fleeting moment, yet it spoke volumes. Morrigan turned deliberately, tracking the ship until she met the other captain’s wary stare. Leliana, emerging late, feigned indifference but arched a brow at the witch.

   It seemed trivial. But Morrigan’s will and wit refused to dismiss it. The men would gossip, weaving her into embellished tales. Her talks with the redheaded “sister” had taught her the power of rumor. She’d gauged it accurately—or so she thought. The fallout would begin upon arrival, with a three-day head start for gossip to spread. Ships did vanish, even on Calenhad—a lake masquerading as an inland sea. But now… whispers would spread sooner, farther. Making the ship disappear was no longer viable. Grimacing, Morrigan ruled it out entirely.

   Night fell, draping the deck in uneasy quiet. Sailors, nursing wounded pride, muttered in the dark. Meanwhile, the golden-eyed witch had another conversation. Moonlight pierced ragged clouds, casting pallid streaks that flickered like a hand passing before a lantern. Shadows from the rigging slithered like long-fingered creatures, clawing at the rails, the sailors’ backs, Bethany…

   Sleep offered no refuge. Beyond the captain’s closet, options were bleak: the open deck, exposed to weather and hard planks, or the hold’s maze of ribs and hammocks. Descending to claim a secluded corner, Morrigan found Leliana waiting by a post. In the hold’s thick darkness, filled with whispers and creaks, moonlight framed only the bard’s boots. Leaning close, her pale green eyes glinting, she murmured near-soundlessly:

   — Have you a plan for… violence?

   The witch furrowed her brow, parsing the intent behind the question.

   — Do you presume the lesson already demonstrated was insufficient? Truly, I—

   Leliana shook her head, cutting her off.

   — Not mutiny. That requires collective effort—and these men know they’d die long before seeing it through. Non. — She glanced into the darkness, licking her lips before continuing. — This is about an act that usually carries no collective responsibility. Ten men. Three women. Beauty matters little, though here, it works against us. You terrify every soul aboard—

   She winced.

   — …though admittedly, their nightmares will take a… carnal turn. As for me? — She smirked. — I’m confident in breaking a few fingers of any man who prefers force over courtship in the dark.

   Morrigan arched a brow, voice dripping with mockery.

   — So if approached politely, the “sister” wouldn’t object?

   A barely visible shrug.

   — That always depended on circumstances, mood, and the assurance that the partner has no taste for odd experiments or disease. Casual coupling is risky business—like fortified wine before battle. It stirs the blood, calms the nerves, but ends in ruin. The Chant doesn’t condemn it without reason.

   Noting the spark of interest in Morrigan’s golden eyes, Leliana opened her mouth to curse—then froze as a shadow fell from the deck. The last off-duty sailor descended, his gaze skittering over the dimly lit curves of both women before he shuddered and vanished into the hold’s labyrinth. Morrigan watched him go, grudgingly admiring his springy stride as he navigated the dark maze of posts and hammocks.

   Leliana steered the conversation back.

   — Bethany. — A measured pause. — She grew up on a farm. Never lingered in taverns past dusk. A daylight scrap with some lout might not trouble her, but in the dark? At the wrong moment—it’s always wrong for the victim—against someone heavier? Without training or… experience, it’s another matter. I’ll keep watch, of course. Alim—

   A dry laugh.

   — The leers of other men unsettle him more than he’d admit. Not that his concern is unwelcome, futile as it is. But his attention stays fixed on me and those who glance my way—poor help indeed. The worst will happen. It’s life’s simplest, cruelest lesson. So plan for the aftermath. I’ve no desire to intervene—nor witness your… impulses when faced with a fait accompli. Non.

   Morrigan nodded slowly, absorbing the warning. Leliana mirrored the gesture, retreating into shadows to hide a satisfied smile—back to Alim’s restless murmurs and Bethany’s peaceful snores.

   * * *

   The air grew thick—each breath clung to her lungs like warm, damp silk. Morrigan knew she was dreaming, but the ash falling from the sky left a metallic tang on her lips. This wasn’t a dream. It was a place. She observed with detached focus, scouring for clues about its nature. The setting was mundanely familiar for a recurring nightmare—so routine it no longer puzzled her. She’d learned its rules: the inability to alter anything meaningfully or move freely. After fruitless attempts to decipher the forest, ash, and fog as metaphors, she dismissed them as meaningless props.

   What she couldn’t grow accustomed to were the emotions—crashing over her in relentless waves whenever the fog birthed the Visitor’s silhouette. Yet one certainty had crystallized: the Visitor, at least in form, was female. From the last nightmare, she remembered the figure halting at the mist’s edge, clearly defined yet blurred in detail. Logic insisted only a single step remained; instinct whispered otherwise. The Visitor’s movements had seemed uncertain then, like someone groping for a door after peering through a window.

   Now, as the familiar outline materialized again at the periphery, the cocktail of dread, anticipation, and raw terror burned fiercer than ever. The Visitor moved as before—slow, deliberate, pausing as if solving an invisible puzzle. Sometimes Morrigan wondered: What if she crosses the threshold? Cold logic corrected: When. And then? Whatever sought this meeting, hoping for a benign outcome was just denial dressed as optimism. So the witch cycled through her options: fight or hide. The first felt alien; the second, she admitted, was folly.

   The Visitor stopped at the boundary once more. One step away from contact. Her posture no longer seemed... lost. Yet she advanced no further. For a fractured moment, existence balanced on a knife’s edge. Even the ash hung motionless. The scene was silent—no, silence was this place’s natural state. But when the faintest background sounds vanished entirely, the pressure on Morrigan’s eardrums became unbearable. Her face twisted with the urge to scream, to test if she’d gone deaf.

   As if answering that impulse, a whisper came.

   Genderless, rustling like leaves or the scuttling of beetle legs:

   — Give... Give back mine... Give it and leave...

   Morrigan strained to parse the words, their cadence, the defeat they promised.

   — This clarifies little, — she muttered. — And improves nothing.

   Suddenly, the suspended ash reversed its fall with eerie fluidity, rising skyward. The air itself shifted, sterile stillness giving way to the tension of a coming storm. Morrigan’s body locked; her pupils dilated; her breath quickened. Tremors raced through her fingertips as her awareness split.

   One part remained in that grotesque forest, staring at the shadow across the mist—a figure like her own reflection in disturbed water.

   The other part...

   The mist before her was empty. But behind—

   Warm breath brushed her neck. A deep, rich voice, edged with a hiss, spoke softly:

   — Something is happening... Now.

   * * *

   With a sharp intake of breath, Morrigan arched in the swaying hammock and froze, her wide eyes piercing the darkness. The uneven creak of the ship, the snores of sailors, the lapping of waves against the hull—each sound confirmed this was reality. Yet the gnawing dread, seared into her memory alongside the last words of her dream, lingered. As if the sensations had spilled from nightmare into waking.

   Slowly lowering her bare feet, the witch scanned the room. After so long in the dark, the seeming uniformity of it dissolved. The world brimmed with gray shapes and the faint outlines of familiar objects, now subtly altered. Taking a few silent steps toward the neighboring hammocks, she sensed Alim’s deep, steady breaths, Leliana’s faint, barely-there breaths—and... Her hand slid over the edge of the third hammock, finding it empty. Turning back to the seemingly peaceful Leliana, Morrigan frowned. Was that very breathing a ruse? Behind those half-lidded eyes, suspicions swarmed, hardening into certainty: the redheaded ‘fox’ noticed far more than she let on. Yes, the cunning beast followed their ‘visions’ dutifully, shackled by her own delusions. Yet... Licking her lips, Morrigan admitted to herself: she’d sorely underestimated the ‘sister’s’ knack for manipulation.

   Approaching the ladder, she climbed just high enough for her head to clear the deck. The night wind rushed at her, toying with her ink-black hair and lazily snapping the unfurled sail above. The deck appeared deserted. Stepping fully onto the planks, she ghosted toward the stern on the balls of her feet. The moon’s silver glow drowned in clouds, leaving only scattered starlight to guide her. Even so, the unmanned helm would have been hard to miss. Yet the wheel didn’t spin freely—someone had jammed it in place. A few steps more, and the familiar flat-bottomed boat came into view. After the day’s events, the sailors had hauled the humble river craft aboard, driven by ingrained thrift. From behind its hull, the wind carried muffled sounds of a struggle and rustling cloth. Two steps, and her sharp eyes caught dark figures against the starry backdrop. They stood at the stern’s edge—two of the three night watchmen, their hushed conversation indecipherable at this distance. A third step revealed the scene Morrigan least wished to witness.

   By process of elimination, the female silhouette on the deck belonged to Bethany. The girl didn’t scream. Only a choked rasp, as if lead filled her throat. A sailor pinned her frail form to the planks like a butterfly to a board—one arm twisted, the other clawing helplessly at the weathered wood. The man took his time. Even from afar, the stench of fermented cider rolled off him, while fear clung to them both. Whether cowardly spite or base lust drove him was impossible to tell. Bethany’s trousers and smallclothes already hung carelessly around her knees, and the sailor fumbled with his own equipment, struggling to align himself with the girl’s frantic squirming.

   Morrigan didn’t move. But her pupils dilated like voids swallowing light. Her mind coldly dissected the scene—what did Leliana stand to gain from this? Was she testing the witch’s reaction? Or cynically steering the young mage down a chosen path? A deep furrow split Morrigan’s brow. Meanwhile, the sailor found his mark. He thrust forward, smothering her whimpers. In such a state, Bethany no longer thought to resist with magic, reduced to animalistic thrashing dictated by sheer terror. Morrigan’s brows knit slowly—not at the act itself, which stirred neither anger nor disgust, but at her own lack of reaction. Memory and logic screamed at her to feel, and worse, a question pulsed in her skull: Why should I care?

   Rubbing her temples to the sticky sound of skin on skin, Morrigan reached two conclusions. Doubting her own sanity was dangerous. And even logic had failed her. An outside perspective was needed—and the trembling Bethany would serve perfectly. Drawing in the cool night air, Morrigan shook her head. One long stride, and she dropped to a knee behind the man’s jerking form. Deliberately, she aimed lower—where the pain would be unbearable, the humiliation complete. Magic could kill in an instant, but she wanted something more... visceral. His movements grew erratic, signaling his nearing climax—until a piercing pain shattered the crescendo. A scream tore through the night, swallowed at once by the sea. Satisfied the man’s “equipment” was now pulp, Morrigan stood and kicked his writhing bulk aside.

   The commotion couldn’t escape the notice of the rapist’s companions. Rushing to the scene, they found a scowling, yellow-eyed demon, a whimpering colleague curled into a fetal position, and a sobbing victim whose posture left little to the imagination. Morrigan shifted her gaze to the newcomers and asked softly:

   — Who’s the helmsman?

   Reflexively, the lanky man to her left raised his hand—only realizing a heartbeat later how dangerous it was to admit anything.

   — Nigrum putredo quod devorat animam.

   However tough sailors might be, their constitutions were no match for a Templar’s. So the helmsman’s companion let out a strange gasp, swayed, and collapsed onto his left shoulder. Convulsions wracked him for over a minute before his body finally stilled. But Morrigan had already lost interest. Pointing the sole survivor toward the helm, she crouched beside Bethany:

   — However you feel—the danger’s passed. Breathe. Then pull up your trousers. This wasn’t... your first?

   Spitting out the gag, Bethany gulped the crisp night air. She opened her mouth to answer, then—unexpectedly to both her mentor and herself—snorted a laugh. It bordered on hysteria, but was stifled, strange. Calming slightly, she sniffled, rolled onto her back, and gingerly prodded between her legs. Only then did she tug her smallclothes and trousers back to her waist:

   — Thought I’d pissed myself. Then... I should’ve just gone in the hold. Sounds mad, but—

   — Madness looks different. I’d say...

   Bethany swallowed hard, her fingers trembling as they scraped the deck’s worn planks. Each word seemed forced, squeezed through quivering lips:

   — You think? Hope you’re right... No, not my first. Or second. Got rolled in haylofts plenty. Mother couldn’t mind the farm and two brats. But this... This was... humiliating? Stupid? Oh, Maker...

   — Doubt He’s involved. Stupid? Aye... Stupid to lie there and not use ‘art’. Surely you—

   Bethany shook her head violently. Sitting up against the boat’s hull, she hugged her knees and muttered:

   — At first, I was gonna burn the bastard. Then it hit me—we’re on a wooden ship in deep water. What’s dumber than fire? That... froze me. Then... his breath, his hands, and—

   Her voice broke. Fists clenched—nails biting half-moons into her palms—before she gasped, as if remembering how to breathe. Curled defensively, she scrubbed her cheeks and met Morrigan’s gaze with red-rimmed eyes:

   — Is it... bad? To be so scared you just want to hide or run?

   Footsteps and muffled shouts echoed from the hold. Lantern light flickered in the hatch’s black maw. Morrigan knew their time was up. Lips twisting, she said:

   — Fear’s useful—it points to danger. Saves lives where stupidity triumphs. The problem? Yours ruled you. Listen. Sometimes, you meet a beast and live by luck. Then two paths remain: learn your limits, avoid it forever... or lick your wounds, grow stronger, and tear it apart. Between them? Only thickets of delusion. Don’t waste time searching for a middle road—it isn’t there. Choose. And never look back.

   Bethany bit her lip. Her nod was more a convulsive sigh:

   — If I choose to run... will I be useless?

   The witch studied her with eerie detachment, drawling:

   — No tool’s useless. Only fools lack vision to wield them. ‘Use’ is too crude a measure. But you would grow... less interesting.

   Three sailors and the first mate emerged, lantern in hand. The mate’s light first fell on the helmsman’s pallid face, then swept over the four figures. Hissing at one sailor to fetch the captain, he approached, voice unsteady:

   — What... happened?

   Rising, Morrigan scoffed:

   — The fatal result of stupidity and dashed expectations.

   A door slammed. The captain stepped into the light like a man testing thin ice. His eyes darted—corpses, a trembling victim, and... the predator’s yellow gaze. His hand twitched toward his belt knife but dropped mid-motion. Jaw tight, he barked:

   — Who’s hurt?

   The mate gestured at the first body:

   — The one curled up—Graeme. The other...

   Crouching, he checked the second man’s pulse and froze:

   — Huh. Martin’s dead.

   The captain squinted, gauging the crew’s mood, then ventured:

   — Does anyone know—

   Morrigan clicked her tongue:

   — It’s quite clear.

   As the words hung in the air, Leliana emerged from the hold, followed by a drowsy Alim. While Leliana scanned the scene with wide-eyed alarm, Alim’s bleary gaze fixed only on the backs of the nearest sailors. Morrigan continued:

   — Graeme brimmed with malice and desire. He spotted the most defenseless prey and, for some reason, let it spill over. Folly is hard to fathom. But your true failing is thinking too small—too small to even grasp the concept of fear. I care not who’s to blame. One of you attacked one of us. You could’ve reached port and parted ways. Yet someone assumed a narrow gap between open jaws and mass slaughter would stay a witch’s hand.

   Her molten-gold eyes locked onto Leliana’s green ones, as if speaking to her alone:

   — A mistake. The culprit lives, but maimed. His accomplice is dead. Now—a lesson in fear.

   Deliberately maintaining eye contact, Morrigan snapped her fingers without parting her lips. The sound cracked like thunder. A sailor jerked, groaned, and collapsed onto the deck like butchered meat. His death throes were brief; only the indifferent sail dared stir afterward. From the opposite railing came wet, heaving sounds—someone vomiting overboard. Satisfied her message had sunk in, Morrigan turned to Alim. He inhaled sharply, shoulders twitching. His fists clenched, then unclenched. The elf frowned, gaze darting between the three women and the crew before settling on Morrigan’s arched brow. His lips twisted, schooling his face blank—though not before something dark flickered in his eyes. Finally, he looked away.

   Facing the shell-shocked Bethany, Morrigan offered a hand and pulled her up. Standing between the crowd and her pupil, she murmured:

   — Time to choose. And prove your worth. Answer honestly—how do my actions seem to you?

   — Cruel. Merciless. It makes me sick... but I’d feel that vengeful satisfaction again. The choice? I want to be stronger. Like you. So fear can’t rule me. But I’m terrified I’ll break halfway. And... you should know—I’m all bold words now. What I truly want is to curl up in a corner and weep until we dock.

   — Fascinating.

   Bare heels pivoting, Morrigan strode past the petrified crew toward the hold. Bethany stumbled after, her hand still gripped tightly. Pausing only a heartbeat beside Leliana—who watched with wary sidelong glances—the witch noted the calculating interest beneath those green eyes. Alim twitched toward the redhead but checked himself, though not before Morrigan caught the tension in his jaw. Leaning close, she breathed near Leliana’s ear:

   — No proof. Just... circumstance. But I know you nudged the boulder—to see what beasts would flee the thicket. I hope it was worth it. Otherwise, the price in corpses is steep. You’ve learned of me. I, of you. And you’re right—you do make me more... multifaceted. In a way. Pleasant dreams.

   * * *

   The next day, the weather mirrored the ship’s new tension. Rain fell softly from the sky. The crew worked in silence, sending their dead comrades on a final journey to feed the lake fish. No jokes, no gossip. No idle chatter for its own sake. Everyone longed to reach their destination and escape this nightmare. And each vowed never again to shake hands with strangers or let them aboard their own ships. This included their four passengers.

   Leliana kept to herself, watching Morrigan and avoiding Bethany—a stark contrast to her usual “sisterly” demeanor. Alim, too, began steering clear of the yellow-eyed witch, reducing their once-easy conversations to terse exchanges. Yet he made time for Bethany: listening to her fears, distracting her with nonsense that made the world seem brighter. With Leliana, he shared only one lengthy talk before a distance settled between them. Whether the mage fully understood that ill-fated night was unclear, but something had given him pause. Still, he unconsciously kept the redhead within sight.

   Bethany, meanwhile, sought Morrigan’s company, retreating only occasionally to the far corner of the hold to rest. The young mage threw herself into studying magic with fanatical zeal, shunning reflection or scenery. She didn’t avoid the crew, but a keen observer might notice her clenched jaw and white-knuckled fists.

   Morrigan, oddly, began peppering her pupil with abstract questions, often probing her thoughts on diametrically opposed ideas. The witch herself showed no tension or remorse, lost in thought for hours. Her gaze rarely settled on Bethany, instead drifting across the cloud-choked sky, the mist-shrouded shoreline, the autumn-fired hills, the restless dark water. What was done was done—and thus, to her, unworthy of worry. But what lay ahead?

   Strangely, her foremost concern wasn’t the nightmares. It was the Orlesian phrases surfacing in her memory. Sometimes single words—now clear as her mother tongue. Other times, entire sentences whose meaning slipped away. A memory from nowhere. Barring Maker-sent delusions, only one explanation fit: possession. And a worsening one, as her will frayed under foreign pressure. This cast doubt on the clarity of her judgments. Perhaps even her emotions. What she’d once dismissed as aberration now dragged her mind into a bog of suspicion.

   Her thoughts circled two pressing concerns: Leliana’s motives, and the problem of the Circle—namely, its Templars and Kinloch Hold’s inhabitants.

   At sunset, the sun broke through the clouds over the western ridge, its peaks barely visible on the horizon. The light painted some clouds crimson, gold, and orange, while others turned pitch black. A sight equally majestic, mesmerizing, and ominous.

   Drenched to the bone, Morrigan sat cross-legged on a barrel by the mast, serene as a queen. Beside her, Bethany shivered stubbornly. The witch eyed her from head to toe.

   — Go below. Dry off. Warm up.

   — No, I’m fi—

   — Look.

   Pointing northwest, Morrigan drew Bethany’s gaze—and the crew’s. To the north, Kinloch Hold rose like a curse. The dying light grazed its spire, making it flash like a bloodied blade plunged into the lake. Then the clouds closed, and the tower became blacker than night—a silhouette splitting the horizon.

   — Kinloch Hold, I’d wager. With this wind, an hour at most. Dry off. Warm up.

   Bethany nodded, mesmerized by the sudden revelation of their destination. News of their imminent arrival spread through the crew like wildfire, bringing palpable relief—some even dared to smile. As the young mage retreated below, Leliana emerged onto the deck despite the lingering drizzle. Her hands gripped the railing, lips bitten tight, as she studied the approaching spire with a mix of curiosity and unease. Over her shoulder, she kept casting glances at Morrigan, as if anticipating something. Time was running short.

   Alim joined them shortly after, his face lighting up at the sight. To the elf, this was home—a symbol of the end of his life’s most maddening, protracted adventure, and a promise of reunion with his only sister. He exhaled, shoulders straightening for the first time in days.

   The closer they sailed, the more imposing the tower became. Its base featured monumental buttresses reminiscent of Ostagar’s architecture, though they seemed decorative compared to the sheer scale of Kinloch Hold. Up to its midpoint, the structure was a stark rectangle, its monolithic façade broken only by orderly rows of slit-like windows. Higher still, the tower tapered in gradual tiers until it culminated in a needle-pointed roof, its four ridges flowing like the edges of a spearhead. A keen eye would note signs of repair: fresh shingles here, rust stains there—the marks of habitation.

   Morrigan rose and glided to Leliana’s side. In flawless, accentless Orlesian, she murmured:

   — Un barde doit connaître l’histoire pour ne pas la répéter. Il raconte les histoires mais n’en fait jamais partie. Il observe mais reste au-dessus de ce qu’il voit. Il inspire des passions aux autres et règne sur les siennes.

   A pause followed. Alim, catching only fragments, stared at the women in bewilderment. Leliana, however, heard every word—and understood. The tension drained from her like magic.

   Morrigan continued:

   — That phrase surfaced in my memory, though I grasp only fragments. Yet it seemed... apt for this moment. Especially for you.

   Leliana offered a faint smile and translated softly:

   — A bard must know history to avoid repeating it. Tells stories but is never part of them. Observes, yet stands above what they see. Inspires passion in others while mastering their own passions. A motto—and an allegory—for what an Orlesian bard appears to be... and what they truly are.

   — My thanks. In hindsight, I see your motives. And your skill. But here, now, let us agree: no more binding others to me without their knowledge. No more breaking fates or minds. And no more losing yourself. In Lothering, I met a woman—deep, freedom-loving, flawed, even broken. One who groped for principles in the dark, however foolishly. Now I see a mirror... and in it, a monster. A useful lesson, learned before it was too late. Such reflections do strengthen. But is this what your faith demands? Oh, I know my own faults. I confront them, step by step, with reason. Yet your convictions cripple you. Instead of questioning, you take the simplest path. If that price suits you, so be it. But soon, you’ll be flat, dull—a mindless tool. And sharp knives are easy to find.

   Leliana stiffened further with each word, her face etched with dread—as if some buried memory had reared its head anew. When Morrigan finished, the bard shut her eyes, biting her lip until it bled. A shaky nod.

   — I... know how to follow.

   — Yet you tried to lead.

   — Unsuccessfully.

   — Did you truly try?

   — For years, I only obeyed, and—

   — Hence the cloister. Yes?

   — Yes. But—

   — Self-deception.

   — What?

   — You lie to yourself. Why, I care not. Think: even in following, you make choices. You just refuse the weighty ones.

   — And if my goal contradicts the Maker’s will?

   — More visions. I know nothing of ‘will’ or ‘Makers.’ But I never sought your friendship. Choose—or remain a footnote in another’s tale.

   — So... if I choose to break ‘fates and minds,’ you’ll raise no objection?

   — Hmm. Clever. A bard’s wit. You’ve spotted the flaw—now do something with it. Or don’t.

   — An equally clever reply. As if this talk were plucked from my past. I... understand.

   Meanwhile, the island rose from the water like a corpse breaching the depths. A rocky oval barely half a kilometer across, its shores were thick with ancient oaks—their girth spoke of centuries. At its heart loomed the tower, stretching three hundred paces skyward. A wooded isthmus connected it to a smaller, barren islet where Imperial Highway remnants lurked beneath roots. Beyond lay eight sturdy docked boats, ready to ferry folk across the lake.

   An odd commotion stirred at the docks. From beneath the tree canopy emerged a dozen figures in the distinctive armor of Templars. They formed a defensive line on the open shore, their stance unmistakably wary as the ship approached. Morrigan narrowed her eyes and turned to Alim:

   — Is such an escort standard?

   The elf shrugged, stepping back from the railing.

   — Of course, strangers are met with suspicion here. But Kinloch Hold isn’t forbidden ground. Normally, just two Templars guard the docks, escorting visitors as needed. A larger force garrisons the base, ready to defend—or contain—the Tower. Another detachment occupies the fourth floor, dividing it in half. And before you ask—they’ve had ample time to spot us and muster this welcome.

   Knuckling the railing, Morrigan mused:

   — Dusk falls within the hour. These gentlemen aren’t here for pleasantries. Combined with the crew’s haste... How many Templars garrison the island?

   Alim scratched his chin, uneasy.

   — A dozen veterans, some recruits, their lieutenant, and the Knight-Commander on the fourth floor. Below, thirty-odd rank-and-file, more recruits, a few officers. Enough.

   — So a sixth of their force greets us. Charming. No alternative entry, then—not with sentries watching. Even night’s veil won’t help.

   Footsteps approached. Bethany joined them, hair damp and tousled. After setting Morrigan’s dry shoes beside her, she stared at the Templars, fear flickering behind a poorly maintained mask of calm.

   The ship drifted to a halt, waves lapping against the dock’s pilings and the horse-sized basalt boulders beyond. No anchor dropped—the crew focused on lowering the flat-bottomed boat. Passing the glowering captain, Morrigan quipped:

   — No desire to tangle with Templars?

   He jerked his chin but held his tongue:

   — Don’t know if that escort’s for you or some trouble I’ve not heard of. But I want no part of it. To the Void with this. Easier to be rid of you and raise sail.

   — A mutual benefit.

   Adjusting her satchel, Morrigan boarded the dinghy. The crew didn’t spare them a glance as they rowed away, sails snapping taut with relief.

   Ten minutes brought them to the docks—and another ten to navigate the waves without smashing into the pilings. As if by design, the sun vanished behind clouds the moment they disembarked, draping the world in gray twilight. Kinloch Hold, stripped of detail, loomed like a gargantuan tombstone. Even the Templars seemed bleached of color, their armor dulled to shadow.

   Morrigan and Alim took the lead, Leliana hanging back to watch both sides. Her posture was relaxed, bowstring coiled in her pocket. Bethany clung to Morrigan’s shadow.

   At ten paces, their apparent commander stepped forward, removing his helm. Steel-gray hair, a blade-scarred cheek, and exhausted eyes met them. His voice rasped with surprise:

   — Alim? Alim Surana?

   The mage hesitated, then nodded, offering his hand.

   — Yes, Ser Pelle.

   The handshake was reflexive, not warm—a detail Morrigan and Leliana noted. The Templar pressed on:

   — Records say you left with Ser Duncan as a Grey Warden recruit. The battle at Ostagar ended... poorly. Denerim’s official stance blames the Wardens for misleading the late King about enemy numbers. Before we proceed, explain your return—and status in the Circle.

   Alim’s reply was measured:

   — Setting aside irrelevancies, Ser Pelle: I was at Ostagar, but not as a Warden. I refused the Joining. Duncan, foreseeing disaster—and, I’ll add, arguing fiercely against the battle—postponed my execution for desertion. When the time came... no one remained to carry it out. Without my oath, I was relegated to a... less critical position. That’s how I survived. As for my status? I couldn’t say. Only that I’m alive. And that I’ve kept my principles.

   Ser Pelle gave the elf a skeptical once-over, shaking his head uncertainly. Though unconvinced, he accepted the mage's story without protest. His gaze slid to Morrigan, assessing her from head to toe with no trace of male interest—only dry skepticism and professional caution. The Templar noted weapons, belongings, clothing style, and jewelry before turning his scrutiny to Leliana and Bethany.

   — Suppose I believe you. Who exactly have you dragged along? Quite the unusual company for a reclusive mage.

   Alim turned to his companions, introducing them in turn:

   — Felandaris, of the Hasind. Or rather... Ma'len of a tribe that no longer exists. While she didn't participate directly in the battle, the Blight knows no borders. Her people were wiped out shortly before the main engagement. We met in the woods, and it's only thanks to her skills that I'm standing here unharmed.

   Morrigan maintained perfect composure throughout, offering the Templar a polite nod. She spared Alim but a brief glance—one sparkling with amusement, poorly concealed gratitude, and burning curiosity. Pelle grimaced at the mention of the Blight, as if the term had become distasteful or contradicted some official stance.

   — Bethany and Leliana are refugees from Lothering. The town's dying before our eyes, abandoned by the retreating army. With everyone fending for themselves, the local Templars can't maintain order. Bethany's family perished in the chaos... They had nowhere else to turn. Since my company already included Felandaris, they deemed us the safer option. I didn't hide my destination either—and Kinloch Hold seems preferable to, say, Gwaren.

   The Templar nodded slowly, digesting this information. After a glance over his shoulder, he changed topics abruptly:

   — I fear your journey's end may be less fortunate than you hoped, Alim. And it's not about you or me. There's been... an incident at the Tower. Knight-Commander Gregor's orders—no one enters or leaves. Not even Templars. Our presence here isn't about you. We're simply warning that the Tower is closed and awaiting reinforcements.

   The elf's face fell. Not fully grasping the implications, he cast a questioning look at the dark silhouette of the spire before asking:

   — An incident? No one can... leave? Reinforcements? What happened, Ser Pelle?

   The Templar gave the young mage a weary look and shook his head.

   — You'll get no details from me. If the Knight-Commander chooses to brief you personally, so be it. Regardless, you and your companions will remain under guard at the perimeter camp until your status is clarified. One way or another.

   Turning to three men at the formation's left flank, Pelle pointed:

   — These men will escort you to camp. Follow their instructions carefully.

   The pale, shaken mage nodded. Maintaining composure and manners now took visible effort, his worried gaze repeatedly drawn to the looming tower. The Templars positioned themselves professionally around the group—one leading slightly ahead of Alim, another displacing Leliana to walk at their left flank, the third following two paces behind. None removed hands from sheathed weapons. Unlike their composed commander, their movements betrayed naked tension.

   Morrigan glanced back, measuring the distance to the nearest Templar, but Leliana gave an almost imperceptible headshake. Exhaling, the witch relaxed her hands and touched Alim's shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts:

   — What could possibly make Templars seal the Tower? Not even letting their own brethren leave, if their commander speaks true.

   The elf looked at her with unprecedented fear—an expression she'd never seen in all their shared trials.

   — Rebellion. Or... a Veil breach.

   — And they can handle neither?

   — Reinforcements suggest... No. This indicates either the situation's severity or... — he rubbed his temples. — Forgive me, it's hard to think. Or casualties already taken. These are just guesses.

   — So we can't enter?

   — Not now...

   Morrigan cut him off, voicing thoughts aloud:

   — Meaning we're bound for a camp of frightened Templars?

   Alim turned slowly, now more alarmed by her words than the news itself.

   — Afraid so...

   — Then there's nothing to consider.

Chapter Text

   The wind stirred Morrigan’s hair, casting shadows from the oak branches that slithered across her face like liquid darkness. The cold moonlight pierced through sparse gaps in the foliage, leaving pale splashes on the ground like spilled milk. The witch halted abruptly, crossing her arms with effortless grace as she spoke:

   — We’ll talk here. Or do you require an invitation?

   Her fingers drummed against her belt, counting down the seconds to a reply. The trio of Templars froze in unison. Their leader turned to her, first flicking a questioning glance at Alim. The man’s expression was mostly hidden by his helm, but even the visible sliver betrayed surprise and wariness. A firm, tense voice rang out:

   — No time for delays. My brothers and I have orders to fulfill and return—

   The witch pursed her lips and shook her head, cutting off the warrior’s rehearsed speech. Bethany, fists clenched, nervously eyed the Templars flanking them. Her fingers twisted the folds of her clothes, grasping for familiarity in this nightmare. Leliana remained relaxed, as if mildly amused by the spectacle—though Morrigan caught the subtle shift in her stance, her right hand edging toward a dagger’s hilt. The elf looked bewildered, awash in a flood of emotions and dire thoughts. Meanwhile, the sorceress continued:

   — A misunderstanding, it seems. At the docks or camp, Templar words carry weight. But we’re a hundred paces from either.

   — Alim, could you ask your companion to keep moving?

   — I’m afraid I—

   Morrigan theatrically rubbed her temples and waved him into silence.

   — I understand. Allowances must be made for warriors’ fatigue. And who’d take a Hasind oddity seriously?

   The elf stifled a groan, adding under his breath:

   — That’s not what frightens me.

   Seizing the Templars’ attention before irritation turned to action, Morrigan adopted a measured tone, her smirk lingering:

   — You assume four wanderers from the outskirts know nothing of your troubles? Even Alim hasn’t set foot here in months...

   A Templar gripped his sword’s hilt, snapping back:

   — You claim to know more than us?

   The wind carried the scent of pine and rotting leaves. A distant branch cracked—an unseen listener’s misstep.

   — I know a full garrison guarded the Tower. Now it’s besieged. Isn’t it?

   The first Templar exchanged a glance with his comrade—brief, severe. Shared dread bound them. Gritting his teeth, he countered:

   — How could you—

   She interrupted, pointing at their armor:

   — Your plates are clean, though reeking of sweat. So you fled earlier—had time to rest. And those trimmed beards... Surely not before battle?

   Despite her mocking tone, one Templar touched his chin reflexively. Another hissed:

   — Guesses are worthless. Speak plainly.

   Morrigan scanned the trio, selecting her next target. Her voice turned sharp:

   — From your Commander’s slip, two things could rattle the Chantry’s hounds. First, the Knight-Commander ordered the Hold quarantined. Oh, and he’s still alive.

   Her gaze dropped to their armor.

   — So why fight shadow creatures without blaming mages?

   The leftmost Templar clenched a fist but stayed silent.

   — Only if mages fought beside you. And died in droves.

   Tension rippled through the warriors. Their leader raised a hand to stop her, hesitation in the motion. Unfazed, Morrigan pressed on:

   — But that’s not all. You were pushed back, not slaughtered. Why?

   She eyed each man slowly.

   — Three guards—agitated yet disciplined. Days have passed since the incident. Time to regroup, call reinforcements. Yet the breach hasn’t spread. A paradox.

   A Templar’s hand twitched, but he let her continue.

   — Resolved by one condition: someone inside controls it. As you’ve learned, shadow creatures lack leaders, pacts, or compromises. Only strength. Here—strength and intellect. That’s not all one might deduce, but enough to take this Hasind seriously. Yes?

   The lead Templar nodded grimly. Her words left no one unmoved. Alim, processing slower than usual, stared at the Hold’s dark silhouette. The implications made him twitch—visions of his sister’s fate. Ancient texts suggested survival odds for mages in a breach neared zero. Even powerful sorcerers would falter in five days. A fragile hope clung to one fact: something restrained the breach’s growth. But that same logic demanded another question. Swallowing dryly, Alim forced out the words:

   — You await reinforcements not to rescue those inside... but to enact the Right of Annihilation. Isn’t that so?

   The lead Templar glanced back at the elf but offered no reply. None was needed. The other two men lowered their gazes, the silence thick with grim resolve and a thread of guilt. The mage covered his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut. With a jerky motion, he dragged his hand up his face as if swatting away a nightmare’s cobweb—but the cold reality remained indifferent. Bethany reached for his shoulder but froze mid-gesture, retreating instead behind Morrigan’s back. The elder sorceress shook her head faintly, her lips forming silent words:

   — The Hold will crack like a rotten nut... And with it, the knowledge worth enduring this journey.

   Then, aloud:

   — Right of Annihilation. The phrase oozes meaning like blood from a wound. Tastes like... Templars abandoning their rules. You plan to scorch the Hold from within, herding every shadow-creature back to the abyss—whether they’re flesh, possessed, or bound into objects. A cold, logical plan. Pity the pyre’s fuel will be Templar lives. Not that I care... Save for those trapped inside their own minds, clinging to hope. Why all this talk? You’ve guessed we’re more than starvelings. Of all paths from here, one benefits us both: let the Hasind speak to your Knight-Commander. Here, not your camp.

   The Templar who’d first spoken scoffed:

   — Absurd. You’re guests. The Knight-Commander receives, not summons. And—

   Leliana stepped forward, hands folded like a chantry sister. Her voice was honey-thick but laced with steel:

   — Quite right, messeres. Our companion thrives on wild ideas—yet often, they’re wiser than they seem. I’ve heard tales and met souls of all stripes. While I’ve no firsthand knowledge of Templar combat doctrine, your trio is textbook: two flank while one engages. You held firm under her barbs—no green recruits. But if outmatched, say, by two... three mages... survival and warning your Order take priority.

   The Templar’s glare swept from Leliana to the elf, then back to Morrigan.

   — You imply—

   — Three, — the witch spat.

   — Must you interrupt—

   — You’ve shown restraint. A forest parley over bloodshed.

   — You can’t win.

   — You believe that. Your exchanged glances betray you. You’re neither hunters nor fanatics. The former? I’d wager six silvers they guard the Hold. The latter? Your Commander wouldn’t trust them to escort a well-regarded mage. Else we’d be knee-deep in gore by now. Pride and fury are poor counsel. Here’s my offer: two fetch your Commander. Two can retreat if needed; one stays as your eyes—less threat to us. And two returning with strange news stirs less panic than one. Next: if I’m right, you risk three mages loose. But consider—this isle is Templar-controlled. Autumn nears. Our clothes won’t ward frost.

   The Templar exhaled, exchanging looks with his brothers. Doubt lingered—proof Morrigan’s words had struck true. Recent events had stripped the Maker’s warriors of arrogance and recklessness. Grudgingly, he asked:

   — And if we return with a full squad? Not to talk.

   Morrigan’s lip twitched. Paranoia gnawed at her—act, don’t wait. Envy flickered too: of Leliana’s finesse, of the Commander’s unquestioned authority. Rubbing her temples, she replied:

   — Return as you please. But hear this: your Commander will bring only aides. Or prove me wrong. Just keep silent in camp.

   She traced her damp collar, adding:

   — Gossip would... complicate his decisions.

   The wind carried the Templars’ sweat—acrid, tinged with fear. Morrigan knew they’d remember not her words, but the chill of her voice, sharp as winter air. Her smile widened as the youngest swallowed hard:

   — This sounds... Even with your insight, much hinges on faith.

   Irritation flared. She hissed:

   — And isn’t that precisely what your Order—

   Alim cut in, stepping between them:

   — A compromise. I’m the only confirmed mage. I’ll go to camp—proof of our goodwill. The Commander likely knows me. A Circle mage’s counsel won’t hurt.

   The Templar studied the elf intently, then gave a slow nod. A sharper one followed for Morrigan. With a curt gesture, he turned and strode down the path without another word. Alim inhaled sharply, whirling toward the sorceress—his lips parted, then pressed into a bloodless line as he hurried after the warriors. The thickening darkness swallowed all three figures whole.

   Morrigan tilted her face to the sparse stars and the silver-edged clouds peeking through the oaks, murmuring:

   — The dice are cast. Now we wait.

   The redheaded girl, light-footed on the grass, approached quietly:

   — That was... unexpected. Peaceful, even. You’ve always resolved things with risk and violence laced with magic. Yet here... negotiations. With Templars.

   Leliana shot Bethany a cautious glance, but the younger girl was lost in thought, arms wrapped around herself, staring at the ground. Morrigan kept her eyes on the sky, the rustling branches:

   — If a fight can be avoided, I’ve always chosen to evade. But solitude is the price. I don’t shy from battle—yet here, evasion grows thornier than engagement. Turns out, souls may be murky, but guts and blood look the same. So if force solves things cleanly... But breaching the Hold by combat? Difficult. Thus, talk was preferable. Perhaps.

   Leliana’s smirk cut through the night as sharply as her words. Tucking a curl behind her ear, she mused:

   — Strip the metaphors away, and you’re saying you value your companions. How curious.

   Morrigan shrugged, still not turning:

   — Once, I had a weakness for shiny things. Comfort in them. Mother tried to beat it out of me. Then... that craving died. But life abhors a void. Those who spark envy or interest? Harder to discard. Call it greed’s new face.

   — Comparing me to a bauble... Amusing.

   Leliana’s laugh chimed like shattered glass. The dark-haired witch countered:

   — Even baubles require care. Or they break. We’ve had this talk.

   Leliana’s gaze dropped, her sigh heavy:

   — Baubles get discarded...

   The allusion to their past conversation stifled her words. She turned away, scanning the gloom. Meanwhile, Bethany shivered, cupping her cheeks to warm her blanched fingers with breath:

   — It’s getting cold...

   Morrigan nodded at the sky:

   — Autumn’s threshold. Soon, even a fire won’t make the wilds bearable. Warm clothes won’t hurt. I’ll admit—fate picked a poor winter refuge.

   Bethany blinked at her:

   — Why? The Hold seems... sturdier than most castles. Not that I’ve seen many. Just... books. Though now it’s clearly dangerous.

   Morrigan nibbled her lip, conceding with a slow nod:

   — True. I know little of castles. But I listened to Alim’s ramblings. In winter, it’s a dank pile of stone, not a haven. Mages huddle by rare hearths, hoarding warmth. Days pass thus. Nights? They ration embers by seniority—only way to thaw blankets and beds before freezing by dawn. Fire mages and healers plump up by spring. The rest sicken. This fact might make you, Bethany, worth more than the rest of us combined... assuming we’re not in the Gallows by then.

   As Bethany digested the image of reality-warping mages reduced to shivering wretches, time crept on...

   * * *

   The sound of footsteps announced the newcomers before their figures emerged from the murky darkness beneath the grove’s canopy. The absence of torchlight set the three women on edge, though the open stride suggested only three approached—a dozen more could still be flanking silently.

   The escorts appeared first: two stocky figures in full gear, mailed gloves already resting on sword hilts. Even the slivers of their faces visible through helmet slits in the starlight spoke of veterans hardened by battle—lips scarred as if from biting down on blades, noses broken more than once. A fleeting thought of what these men had endured made one truth clear: they were survivors, outlasting every foe.

   The Knight-Commander followed, positioned between but slightly behind his men. Unlike them, he exuded no overt threat. His head was bare, revealing silver-streaked hair, a trimmed beard, and sharp eyes glinting with curiosity and readiness. No other emotion betrayed the mind behind Ferelden’s supreme authority here.

   Morrigan’s lip curled, then she dipped her head in a show of respect—signaling she’d speak for the group. The Knight-Commander mirrored the gesture mechanically, devoid of nuance. The witch narrowed her eyes, running her tongue over her teeth as if tasting fear, and began:

   — Hunters as escorts. An excellent prelude to talks.

   — Oh? Why so?

   — Confidence breeds honesty. An open threat is preferable to a dagger in the dark.

   — An... interesting view. To business. Your messengers and Alim spoke at length—including your insight into the garrison’s plight. But one question gnaws: why seek this dialogue? The Chantry will brand you apostates, granting me carte blanche to act. Yet you guessed I’d hesitate. Now, continue the tale.

   Morrigan’s gaze flicked to the two hunters, statuesque and golden-eyed.

   — What I’ve heard these past weeks, paired with prior knowledge, paints a dire picture. Your forces will fail—or succeed at unacceptable cost. Else why await reinforcements? Reporting the catastrophe narrowed your options. The Right of Annihilation looms, not rescue. Yet... what if someone inside still lives after four days? The Hold is unique—a symbol of power, a military asset. And to the south? The Blight. Magic won that battle at Ostagar, not steel. You, however, kept your Templars disciplined. Cold logic prevails. Destroying the Hold is easy; rebuilding takes years. So... you’ll gamble to save it. Let one enter. I offer a chance. No retribution if I fail.

   The Knight-Commander studied her, weighing not her physique but her words.

   — Adding unknown kindling to the fire? Everything has a price, girl. Decades of command taught me that. Yet you’re right: I’d spare the Circle. But my concern is the lives within. As their overseer, I know each mage’s flaws. Condemning them—even the salvageable—is no light burden. But reality is indifferent. You erred in one detail: the garrison retreated not four, but eight days ago.

   Morrigan hissed through clenched teeth. The hunters half-drew blades before a gesture stopped them.

   — Eight days... If the tower’s new masters sought to possess the mages—

   — By now, — the old Templar confirmed bitterly — a strong mage would’ve escaped or perished.

   — Yet you still hope. Hence this talk.

   — Hope alone is a fickle ally. Blind and useless.

   — Perhaps... But the breach’s containment suggests something restrains it—to avoid drawing attention before the Blight overshadows all. Shadow creatures—

   — Demons — he corrected sharply.

   She scowled but pressed on:

   — Demons lack restraint. All or nothing. If something can limit the breach... some prisoners may yet be whole. Body and soul.

   — A salient point. The rest is hope, not logic. What’s your plan? Alone against what felled First Enchanter Irving?

   Morrigan steadied herself, stepping onto thin ice as she voiced the crux:

   — An assassin is inferior to a knight in every aspect. Yet strength, weapons, and armor won’t stop a blade piercing a heart in sleep. My next argument may seem strange, but... Having slain many Templars, I speak with confidence. Sated, complacent power fell—perhaps a cold, bloodied blade is needed now?

   Again, the Knight-Commander halted his hunters before they could act. No longer statues, they now thrummed like bowstrings about to snap—irreversible violence a breath away. Even the aged leader’s expression hardened.

   — Dangerous words. Only a fool would speak thus before us. Yet... perhaps they needed saying. A wedge for a wedge... I never thought to see the day when compromise turns principles to porridge. Ser Robard warned me. It happens to us all, if not all at once.

   He paused, weighing consequences.

   — The garrison will let one enter. The rest remain in our camp, under watch as suspected apostates. If you lied, their fate is on your conscience. Either you’ll pay for your deeds at the claws of demons, or succeed. Then we’ll talk anew. But mark this: success means returning with Irving—the First Enchanter himself, sane and agreeing the threat is gone. Are we understood?

   Morrigan dipped her head.

   — Perfectly. But don’t open the Hold’s gates. Just let me near the tower. I’ll handle the rest.

   The Knight-Commander’s brow arched, but he nodded. Turning to Bethany and Leliana, Morrigan hissed:

   — No heroics. No folly. Keep busy. Wait quietly. Leliana—watch Bethany. I expect my apprentice back whole. Body and mind.

   The redhead gave a silent nod. Bethany, however, stepped forward and impulsively hugged her mentor—leaving the witch disarmed, her usual poise frayed by wordless, magicless warmth.

   * * *

   Morrigan trailed her fingertips along the rough, slightly cracked surface of the monolithic stone—one of hundreds comprising Kinloch Hold. Time’s dominion was absolute, yet looking back, it was awe-inspiring that mortal labor had birthed something so colossal, so seemingly eternal. The blood price paid by the Tevinter Imperium, from ancient days to this very moment, left a shadow that still shaped the present... and future. Its legacy outweighed nearly all else in sheer scale, if not artistry.

   The meaning embedded in these stones—by builders and generations of inhabitants—filled her with a sharp envy. For the heights they’d reached. The legacy they’d left. The power they’d wielded. Exhaling slowly to steady herself, she tilted her golden eyes upward. The blessed darkness hid the tower’s vertiginous ascent; had it been visible, the sheer scale might’ve dizzied her. Cloud giants drifted across the sky, their movement discernible only by the stars winking through gaps in their mass. For a heartbeat, Morrigan felt infinitesimal... insignificant. But the sensation didn’t crush her. It stoked ambition’s fire, quickening her pulse.

   With a flick of her wrists—shedding tension—she glanced back. The outer wall of the inner courtyard, usually vigilantly guarded, had admitted her without protest. The surrounding buildings stood empty, doors and windows gaping. By night, the sight fed dark fantasies, and the unnatural silence deepened the effect. No escort had crossed the threshold. No rodents scurried, no insects chirred, no night birds flapped. Life instinctively avoided the tower. She noted this, but the absence of witnesses mattered more.

   Turning back to the wall, Morrigan began methodically unlacing and shedding her clothes, folding them on the grass. The main entrance promised only a lethal gauntlet of shadow creatures. There was another way—risky, but possible. Earlier, she’d pried details from the Knight-Commander: the disaster’s trigger had been a Circle Council meeting at the summit. Libraries were trickier. One archive sprawled across the ground floor, where apprentices lived amid books; another nestled among Harrowing candidates and full mages a floor up. The dangerous tomes? Likely in the First Enchanter’s second-floor study or the Templars’ fourth-floor quarters. Basements seemed irrelevant.

   Alim’s sister, if alive, could be on either floor. Morrigan hadn’t seen the elf again before this venture—his devotion to family baffled her yet faintly stirred her envy. Now, bare beneath the night’s caress, the autumn wind teasing her skin, she inhaled deeply—stone and damp earth overriding forest scents—and focused on the spell. The same one that had terrified her since Ishal’s Tower. The irony amused: again, desperation drove her to scale an impossible height.

   The rune-chain writhed inward, magic seething to warp flesh and bone unpredictably. Her first attempt had been like encountering a predator on a safe path; this was leaping into a man-eater’s den. Straining for control, she let no stray thought distract. Pale under night’s shroud, her body shifted—wax melting under furious heat. Her face sharpened, eyes and lips vanishing. Teeth became needles, barely grazing gums. Hair dissolved. Shoulders cracked outward—and with a hissing breath, a second pair of arms sprouted.

   Claws scraped stone as involuntary fingers flexed. The spell’s form held, yet it had now defied expectation twice. Probing her hollowed sockets, she confirmed her sight came not from new organs, but blood magic—vision without eyes. The runes’ wild dance—a frenzy of serpents and heartbeat rhythms—began the moment mana touched them. As if another will stirred within.

   Four hands clenched and unclenched, syncopated. Morrigan drowned in the revelation. Not the alien will—possession was an old theory—but the runes’ dance.

   Morrigan slapped the tower wall, forcing her rampant imagination to a halt with sheer willpower. The night was not endless. The first upward push came easier than expected. A thought flashed through the witch’s mind: "So, I won’t fall." A foolish notion... Somewhere below lay her clothes, her human form, her safety—all that had once separated her from this nightmare.

   Emotions and thoughts threatened to rebel. So Morrigan focused again on abstract musings about magic. According to Alim, the Circle’s technique involved crafting a static, single-layered runic pattern. Runes carried meaning. In a properly arranged chain, individual meanings transformed into the desired outcome, manifested through mana. A single layer limited how many runes each could intersect with, multiplying its own meaning. Flemeth’s technique, however, wove a static schema from multiple layers. This allowed each rune in the chain to intersect with more neighbors. The result? Harder to memorize, but fewer runes needed for the same effect.

   The spellform for the inversion technique—so highly praised by Alim—demanded more than just envisioning a static, multilayered, compact shape. The runes had to collectively form a specific pattern, resembling yet another new rune. Yet even then, the runes remained fixed, mana flowing through them like blood through veins.

   Her thoughts deliberately slowed, as if the sorceress were parsing a dense tome. Not for comprehension—for calm. Though the two weren’t mutually exclusive. On a second, or better yet, third examination, the runes’ chaotic, almost lifelike fluctuations didn’t just distort the formula or disrupt the spell.

   The girl pressed herself against the wall, letting one set of claws rest, then the other. Here, the wind was no longer gentle—it tore at her body—but her claws dug into the stone like daggers into flesh. It almost felt like she could grasp the answer by its tail. The runes shifted position at different stages of mana flow through the chain. At times, they intersected with different neighbors, weaving a pattern of additional meanings of staggering complexity. A long, black tongue flicked over needle-like teeth, betraying her excitement. She could scarcely believe it, but perhaps even without her control over the spell, the result would have been the same. The idea was tantalizing: the true limits of magic might lie far beyond mortal grasp. On one hand, it was impossible to imagine anyone replicating such a feat alone, even in an unnaturally prolonged life. On the other, if this spell behavior was tied to possession...

   From Alim’s fragmented notes, she knew the tower’s lower levels had once been dominated by grand halls, as per Imperial architectural tradition. While these were later partitioned into smaller rooms, no one in centuries had dared to divide the floors. Thus, the ceilings remained dizzyingly high: fifteen paces for the first floor, nearly thirty for the second. The third floor’s sixty paces justified its title—the "Grand Hall." The fourth was equally, if not more, imposing. And at the summit, the Harrowing Chamber’s dome soared a hundred paces at its peak. Distracting herself from the monotony of ascent, Morrigan smirked inwardly. Heating even the first two tiers in winter was a headache. The Templars on the fourth floor had it no better.

   Her climb continued along the square edge of the tower. First, here the wind battered the unyielding stone most fiercely, leaving more cracks. Second, the interior was circular—so the corners, acting as load-bearing columns, lacked windows.

   * * *

   From the fourth tier of the tower, even at night, the view was breathtaking. The island appeared a dark smudge dotted with sparse lights far below, while the expanse of water dominated the panorama. Touched by fleeting glimmers of starlight and stirred by gusts of wind, the lake looked majestic.

   Having reached this height, Morrigan moved from one deeply set window to another until she found a suitable one. The windows themselves weren’t the main obstacle. Not every one led to a room she could enter—more often, beyond the glass lay only impenetrable darkness. According to Flemeth’s fragmented tales about the nature of the Shadow, as the ancient witch had reluctantly shared, the merging of the mutable with reality didn’t produce outwardly impressive results. Unless guided by a conscious and mighty will, the consumed area simply appeared as darkness—a hole in reality filled with nightmares. Flemeth hadn’t elaborated whether reality itself rejected the mutable, or if the mutable cloaked itself in shadows and darkness, ashamed of its own instability.

   Fortunately, behind the next window lay an entirely ordinary room. With no better option, the sorceress decided to use it for entry. Against the backdrop of shattered glass, her slender body twisted at angles impossible for a human, slipping through the tiny window into the chamber. The moment she crossed the threshold, the dark space transformed. Lanterns with candles in glass bulbs flooded the room with a warm, flickering light—though their flames cast no shadows on the walls, and the smoke curled into strange spirals, as if exhaled by an unseen presence. On a thick, worn carpet of deep crimson lay the figure of a Templar in full gear, save for his helmet and sword. His face bore the serene bliss of deep sleep. Under normal circumstances, this room would have housed a dozen warriors. Along each wall stood three-tiered beds of sturdy old pine, personal chests, and side tables, with ample space above for the ceiling to vanish into darkness—natural or otherwise.

   Soft footsteps sounded from the passage to the next room. Morrigan lunged to the nearest bed, scaling it in an instant to gain the advantage of height. Just then, a new visitor entered...

   The creature blended pronounced feminine traits with something bestial. Its naked form—graceful curves, slender hips, and a bust that defied gravity—surpassed any mortal the sorceress had ever seen. Instead of normal flesh, its skin shimmered with chaotic swirls of violet, pearl, and azure, shifting in saturation with every movement, creating a hypnotic effect that made the patterns seem to slither across its body. Its striking face bore sharp features and slanted eyes with serpentine pupils. Instead of hair, three rows of paired horns spiraled upward from its skull like a frozen coiffure.

   A sweet, mellifluous voice, caressing the ears yet never settling on a single tone, announced:

   — Well, well, well. A guest. What brings you to my little corner of wondrous aberration? Come to steal another’s prey?

   Morrigan’s lipless mouth emitted a hiss before she replied in a low, impersonal voice, stretching the sibilants unnaturally:

   — Desire...

   — Ah, you have one? Mortals adore metaphors. My favorite—‘eyes, the mirror of the soul.’ They suit me as adornments. Let me see into your—

   The demon frowned, peering into Morrigan’s eyeless face. It seemed to have encountered an unexpected obstacle, something new, and now weighed its options. The sorceress tilted her head and asked:

   — The Templar on the floor—your prey?

   Desire snapped out of its stupor, flashing a delighted squint.

   — Yes! And we’re having a marvelous time.

   In one fluid motion, Morrigan threw herself toward the body on the floor, halting the claws of her second pair of hands a hair’s breadth from the sleeping man’s eye sockets. The demon’s face flickered from confusion to irritation, as if its expressions were mere masks it could don but not transition between naturally.

   — He is m—

   — S-s-silence. — The claws trembled millimeters from the Templar’s eyes. — Answer the ques-s-stion. Then your s-s-snack livess-s-s a little longer.

   Morrigan knew demons lied—but they never reneged on bargains. If the Templar was truly "prey"... Meanwhile, Desire resumed its scowling demeanor and gave a slow nod.

   — What happened here? From the moment the Veil was breached.

   — Murder. Screams. Pleas for mercy. The hunt. Battles over spoils. Suppression...

   Two black claws brushed the man’s eyelids as Morrigan tilted her head, waiting.

   — Desire is-s-s s-s-second only to Pride and Sloth in wit. S-s-speak clearly. Detailss-s-s.

   The demon’s face twisted into fury, but it chose conversation over risking its prize.

   — It began with words of magic, weakening the Veil. Pride—one who’d long fed on the ambitions seeping from mortal minds here—offered the source its aid. Like countless other fools, it was blinded by its own vice. It broke the source’s will, used it as an anchor, and crawled from the depths of reflections. With a mortal’s magic at its disposal, Pride birthed the aberration. It let others in, hungry for power and stability, to do the hard work. Now, I imagine, it rages. Its masterpiece, its flawless plan—undone. Among the false magics here, many knew true spells well enough to trap the others. Countless arrivals dissolved back into shades under the weight of sigils and rejection. But the key? There was... suppression.

   Desire repeated the word with palpable disgust, as if tasting rot.

   — Another will halted the aberration’s growth. Powerful. Unlike Pride. Now, all it can do is keep the aberration from collapsing under its own uncertainty. And every being meant to do Pride’s work now drags it back, each carving out its own domain within.

   — And you?

   — Here... lie new paths. The rejected interest me. Take a little, leave in time. I am not Hunger.

   — The tower’ss-s-s s-s-structure—intact?

   — Mostly, yes.

   — The mortal Pride pos-s-sess-s-sed—higher floor?

   — Yes.

   — I remove my hand. You leave.

   — Agreed.

   Morrigan slowly withdrew her claws from the Templar’s eyelids, keeping them poised to strike if needed. Then, with a swift motion, she retreated a few steps toward the window—away from the man’s body. Desire instantly brightened, its joy returning, and within a heartbeat, the room plunged into darkness. The candles showed no trace of recent flame; the carpet bore no imprint of a heavy body. The passageway gaped empty. In the silence, a gust of air whispered past the shattered window, brushing her ear with a barely audible murmur:

   — You smell... familiar and foul at once, guest. Happy hunting...

   Morrigan’s fingers trembled as she stepped back from the window. Not from cold—her body still burned with adrenaline after the cat-and-mouse game with the demon. She clenched her fists until her claws bit into her palms, inhaling deeply to steady the quake in her knees. When her gaze fell on her own four-fingered limbs, a strange calm washed over her like icy water. A familiar sensation—the mind clinging to logic to keep fear from tearing it apart. She ran her tongue over her needle-like teeth, a habitual gesture that now felt alien in this body.

   Desire had divulged enough in that brief exchange to fill hours of thought. Now, with the demon gone, every word took on new weight. Straightening her shoulders, Morrigan focused on the facts that would anchor her next steps. Distraction was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Her thoughts fell into a rigid chain, supplanting the lingering fear. Studying her four open palms, she weighed the pros and cons of her current form. On one hand, demons perceived her as strange—not just another slab of meat. But there was no guarantee Desire’s reaction wasn’t some mad whim. Flexing a fist, she peered upward into the gloom. This body could move vertically as well as horizontally... like the spider that had inspired the transformation. She tilted her head, doubting the safety of the ceiling here. On the other hand, the transformation itself limited her ability to cast other spells—a fact she had no desire to test now. Worse, she feared how other spells might behave unpredictably in this state. The dread had no logical basis, much like the primal fear of darkness or the sense of being watched in solitude. Claws or no claws, she was a mediocre melee fighter without magic. With a hiss that conveyed frustration rather than threat, she conceded that tearing through serious foes barehanded was a fantasy.

   Decision made, she initiated the reversal—a process requiring the same steps in reverse. Minutes later, a pained exhale hissed through her teeth as she returned to her original form. The aftermath was less pain than taut exhaustion. A thorough self-inspection confirmed one comfort: whatever had happened to the spell, a stable reversion was reassuring.

   The antechamber beyond—a space between the Templars’ barracks and the hallway—had fared worse than the bedroom. In the dark, amid shattered tables and chairs, five armored bodies lay slumped against opposite walls. Their armor bore no marks, but as Morrigan stepped barefoot over debris and corpses, the truth was plain: these men had died in agony. Their faces were frozen in rictuses, lips bitten through, eye sockets gouged. Dried blood crusted their mail gloves—evidence they’d torn out their own eyes. However pliant Desire had seemed in conversation, this tableau laid bare its nature.

   Kneeling beside a corpse, Morrigan pressed a hand to its cheek, streaked with "bloody tears," testing the flesh’s rigidity and the scabs’ dryness. She flexed its fingers, then repeated the process on another. The conclusions were unsettling. The men had likely died within the past day—rigor mortis was complete, but decay hadn’t set in. If the Knight-Commander’s account held, either these Templars had been Desire’s playthings for a week, or the demon had capriciously preserved them.

   Rubbing her temple, Morrigan mentally inventoried her spells. Her mana reserves weren’t bottomless. Mages were specialists in swift battles—fail to end a fight in five or ten minutes, and you’d be drained. Losing consciousness here, or worse, sleeping, was suicidal. Yet a blitz assault was impossible. She licked her lips irritably. Pride... Logic coldly summarized her odds against a demon of that magnitude. Even weakened by sustaining the rift, it could obliterate her. But if Desire’s words held truth, others in the tower still resisted.

   Studying the corpses anew, she frowned. The rift’s expansion had halted by the first day’s end—likely when this "suppression" occurred. No new demons had come since; Pride found them unprofitable. The flood had stopped, leaving a grim stalemate between survivors and the remaining demons. A stalemate Morrigan intended to tip.

   That narrowed her options to the spell she knew best. And then—a mad idea took root. A way to exploit Pride’s burden, to weaponize the very reality crushing it. But even she balked at the irreversibility. Such gambits demanded safeguards. Heroic rescues had a nasty habit of becoming heroic funerals.

   Morrigan snatched a sheathed straight dagger from the nearest corpse’s belt and retreated to the barracks. The chests were deliberately locked. Picking locks or rifling through corpses for keys held no appeal, but the nightstand by the outer wall yielded spare clothing—neatly folded shirts and undergarments awaiting a future that would never come. She draped a loose linen shirt over herself (it fell to mid-thigh), fashioned a crude belt by punching a new hole in leather and trimming the excess, and pulled on two woolen socks. They sagged on her slender feet but muffled her steps on stone and spared her from glass shards or... unidentifiable viscera.

   Priorities decided, she’d seek survivors first—they might inadvertently lead her to the books she needed.

   Easing the door open, she peered into the hallway and immediately spotted a mummified corpse in junior Chantry vestments—similar to Leliana’s attire when they’d first met. Neither Alim nor the Knight-Commander had mentioned Chantry folk in the tower. How fitting for the Maker’s self-appointed servants. As the redhead would say: "The best spies are the ones who serve." Beyond, darkness swallowed the corridor, defying even her sharp eyes. She edged forward, checking the opposite direction. Slashes from broadswords marred the tapestries, some scorched or spattered with blackened blood. The heroic Order-themed imagery deserved no more than a glance.

   Then—a sound. A faint rustling from beyond her line of sight. Calculating the floor’s layout, she opted to follow it. The downward staircase, unlike its ascending counterpart, began at the outer wall, spiraling tightly through the tower’s core.

   She’d taken two steps when the hairs on her neck rose. Pressing against the wall, dagger drawn, she squinted into the gloom. At first—nothing. Then the darkness itself moved. Her eyes strained to parse the unnatural motion, black on black, shapes refusing to resolve. The horror grew precisely because nothing was recognizable. A sigh cut the silence—weary, ancient, like a dying man regretting another dawn. The mass lurched, splitting into two hunched figures floating just above the floor, their forms grotesquely humanoid.

   Whatever these were, Morrigan didn’t know them. For a heartbeat, she debated: flee, fight, or cast? Then she felt it—mana, wrenched violently into a spell. Unlike mages, who channeled power with precision, this was a reckless deluge, wasted without care. Her body swayed, limbs flooding with lead. Bitter irony struck—she’d been hit with "Tuatha vita mea est," the very life-draining hex she’d used moments ago. Only her own mana reserves kept her upright. The logic was cruel: if magic required life force, the counter was obvious. Adjust the balance.

   Gritting her teeth against swimming vision, she cast the spell back.

   Now, each shadow sought to drain her as she drained them—a silent duel of magic and mortality. Behind the strain, flickers of foreign memories brushed her mind: fear, her fear, from the first time she’d used this curse. The figures were echoes... remnants of mages who’d fought here. And fallen.

   A minute passed. The shadows showed no weakness—no reaction at all. Morrigan, however, dripped with cold sweat, breath ragged. A child with a butterknife could’ve ended her then. But her foe relied solely on its nature. It didn’t adapt.

   Five more minutes. A shift: she stood straighter; the figures blurred, their edges dissolving. Another eternity, and a ghostly sigh of relief echoed down the hall. With it, the shadows vanished.

   Her legs buckled. She sagged against a tapestry, trembling. A whisper escaped her:

   — Bloody Void...

   Eyes shut, she counted breaths until her pulse steadied. The shirt clung to her back. Peeling it away, she noted her shaking hands—exhaustion was mental, not physical. Shaking her head, she refocused. The corridor demanded analysis. Those creatures—a fusion of shadow-stuff, mana, and lingering life—were mages trapped between realms.

   Wary now, she pressed on, every corner a potential ambush. Fear didn’t paralyze, but hypervigilance eroded focus. And fixation on emptiness risked filling it with imagined horrors.

   The statuary hall loomed ahead, its towering figures lurking in gloom. Wings flapped overhead—twice—and she fought the urge to look up. First, the ceiling was pitch-black. Second, its height could’ve accommodated a winged horse. Third, she needed to reach the far arch.

   There, she paused. The corridor behind was now invisible. A new unease took root: How did I cross this hall? A minute of frantic mental reconstruction yielded no answer. Had her memory crumpled in the dark? Her perception of distance? Or had the space itself shifted?

   The next chamber matched its predecessor in scale. No windows meant its far walls vanished into darkness. Near the archway, Morrigan’s eyes caught on bodies—two mages by their robes, their heads and limbs dissolved into glassy, obsidian-like streams that had long since hardened, merging with the floor seamlessly. The substance’s color was indeterminable in the gloom. Not that she cared to know.

   Edging forward, she spotted the start of a massive staircase to her left. Left? The tower’s outer wall should’ve been to her right. Blinking, disoriented, she turned—but the arch she’d just passed through was gone. Only darkness remained. Deliberately slow, she looked ahead again and "predictably" found the arch right before her. Dizziness gripped her; her legs wavered. Suppressing the reaction, she faced the left-hand staircase and began inching forward like a tightrope walker. Each step varied unpredictably—too high, too low—while the stone beneath her bare feet alternated between scorching and icy, as if the Hold itself breathed.

   Counting steps silently, she fixed her gaze on the grand Imperial architecture, its cascading stairs a frozen waterfall. Relieved, she gripped the cool railing, unashamed of her momentary vulnerability.

   Then—a shuffle. The same sound that had guided her earlier. But now it seemed inches away, yet paradoxically distant.

   In one motion, she spun, dagger rasping from its sheath, and froze—brows lifting in surprise.

   * * *

    Three and a half years ago, plus a few dawns before that...

   Moonlight from the single window caressed smooth, velvet skin. The city lights streaming in accentuated her slender frame, lingering on hypnotic curves. The woman stood with her back to the bed, one shapely leg slightly bent, holding a half-empty glass of ruby wine in her right hand while her left idly traced circles around her breast. The man still sprawled across the lavish bedding drank in the sight unabashedly—the elegant wrists, the tantalizing swell of pert breasts visible even in profile, the flare of hips, and that other apex that sent his blood rushing south. Her cascading black curls shimmered like priceless silk.

   Beyond the second-story window of this upscale Kirkwall inn, the nightscape unfolded: the distant Gallows, its arrowslits glowing like malevolent eyes; the darker silhouette of the Viscount's Keep; serpentine streets coiling around affluent districts, pulsing with light like bloodsucking parasites. Dozens of bronze slave statues—twisted fingers clawing at the sky—loomed over rooftops. The cursed city had long since been freed, yet no one had purged these grim reminders of its nature, straddling the Imperium's bloody past and its shadowed present. Unaware, gray-clad pedestrians streamed below. Life here pulsed in a feverish rhythm day and night. Hundreds of eyes darted about, reflecting fear, suspicion, hunger. Had one glanced up, they'd have seen an Orlesian beauty bathed in moonlight, her back gilded by its glow while the window's grille striped her torso in shadow. The rest remained teasingly obscured.

   The room smelled of sweat, lust, spilled wine, and recently snuffed candles. Turning slowly, she let her gaze slide over rumpled sheets and the man's silhouette framed by discarded blankets. Every gesture—the languid blink, the controlled breath—exuded practiced seduction, as instinctive as a hound's response to its master's voice. Her sharp blue eyes cataloged him in the dim: road-weary legs, a torso sculpted by travel and marred by five or six scars, a hooked nose complementing hawkish features. His brown eyes burned with want, dark hair tousled to his shoulders. Veined arms were pillowed behind his head, the pose equal parts playful and mocking. And at the center—proud, impatient, throbbing arousal. He harbored no doubts about who held the reins here. The woman... smothered a smirk in wine. She knew exactly who commanded flesh tonight. Yet, like any skilled bard, she'd never wound the fragile male ego beneath his bravado. Besides, from his vantage point, he wasn't wrong.

   Setting the glass aside, she approached the bed. Seated, her fingers casually encircled his rigid length. Ignoring his sharp inhale, she mused:

   — Are all Seekers so... vital?

   A rasping laugh.

   — Rumor has it we can't hold a candle to Grey Wardens in cheap brothels. And rumor's been my bread lately. But the truth's simpler. The contrast between your beauty, Melsendre, and this city's ugliness—especially its slums—overwhelms my feeble will.

   Squeezing the heated base, the bard scoffed:

   — Cheap flattery.

   — Why pay more when it works?

   She didn't argue, feeling his desire—raw, animalistic, focused on her—resonate low in her belly. Part of her wanted to stretch like a cat, taunting him with nudity and suggestive bends before parting her thighs. But experience devalued crude instincts. Had he merely sought to vent frustration through mindless fucking, he'd be in a brothel. Not here...

   — You're wondering—

   — No. Just as you suspect but dread asking how I recognized a bard. You're clever. Exquisite. But no more... I made our exchange fair. You needed only two clues.

   Her hand began moving.

   — You smug bastard, Benedict. — Teeth gleamed. — Playing the high lord astride his witty steed?

   He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing a grin.

   — If memory serves, "rider" is your title.

   — True. I prefer being on top. Not just for practicality. But often, I'm beneath...

   — Don't tell me there's a position you can't twist to your advantage. Or am I just—

   A calculated slap to his exposed flesh cut him off. His pained groan pleased her. Yet as she glanced away, melancholy flickered. Sensing the shift, Benedict sat up, wrapping her in an embrace. Playfulness melted into tenderness, though their heat remained.

   — What's wrong? Don't lie—I see it.

   A sigh.

   — My patron taught me: the best way to dispose of a bard is to give them a purpose they'll burn alive for. If not, success is still guaranteed. Orders are given eye to eye. Both understand. Pride bars weakness. The dance stays clean until the final note. You thank your patron—the reason for your very existence—for the privilege of executing yourself.

   Her thigh trembled under his palm.

   — Sometimes, it floods you with grief, thick as molasses. But it passes...

   He held her tighter.

   — You're describing yourself. Will this vile city really be Melsendre's end?

   She reached back to tousle his hair.

   — Who knows? The "where" matters less than the "when." If I could choose... but we don't own our fates. Just reflections of others' wills.

   Her hand slid between them, finding his renewed heat. Guiding his rougher fingers lower, her voice turned playful:

   — But admit it—we make a virtuoso reflection.

   Doubt tinged his chuckle.

   — No arguments here.

   — Forgive me. Cast a shadow on our moment. It's just...

   — Don't. You shared truth. Others wouldn't value that. I do. I can't abandon my duty or alter your path—you knew that from the start. But I can sweeten the hours left... before you ride out. Admit it, you're just killing time with a pretty face?

   A ragged exhale as his fingers delved inside, proving how little her dark mood had dampened her arousal.

   — Braggart... You were merely... the first in sight.

   — Firsts are overrated. Sometimes, it's better to be last.

   Strong hands lifted her. For two heartbeats, cool air kissed her glistening thighs—then fire met fire. One smooth thrust seated her fully atop him. Despite uneven breaths and hazy eyes, she began moving with rehearsed precision. But when his teeth found the frantic pulse at her neck—for once, something real escaped her: a hoarse, unplanned sound.

   — Vixen—!

   Time blurred into shared panting and stifled moans. The Seeker broke first. Still sheathed inside her, he surged up, twisting them toward the bed. Recognizing his intent, Melsendre braced against the mattress and widened her stance. Hands gripping her waist, Benedict drove into her with renewed fervor. The slap of skin merged with the city's distant hum. Some part of him already knew—no wandering Chantry agent would ever meet her like again. By tomorrow, he might be knee-deep in blood and shit, remembering this as a dream. The sweetness of that fleetingness ached in him.

   As his thrusts grew erratic, Melsendre arched back, hissing through clenched teeth:

   — Inside me.

   The command's tone—slithering into his skull—stole his control. He came with a shout.

   When vision returned, he found himself still buried in her, his fingerprints blooming on her hips. Preempting his guilt, she drawled:

   — Consider me marked. Thrice over.

   Both gleamed with sweat. Benedict traced her spine, earning a near-purr. Surprisingly, she didn't pull away, savoring his gradual softening.

   — Watching you now... I think I could go again by dawn. As an exception.

   Her throaty laugh prickled his skin.

   — You hope you can. Might even pray to the Maker for stamina. But believe me, a man is more than what’s between his legs.

   Peering over her shoulder, she winked.

   Finally slipping free, Benedict collapsed onto the bed. Melsendre rose, indifferent to the silver trails on her thighs, and retrieved her wine. Moonlight fractured through the ruby liquid as she sipped. Tannins blended with salt on her lips.

   — Do you despise this city?

   — Nothing here to love. You're the only shard of beauty I've stumbled on. And you're just passing through.

   She nodded, holding the wine longer this time. When she spoke, her voice had deepened:

   — True. But if one must die... — A pink tongue swiped her lips. — ...this place surpasses many. It contains something. People, elves, qunari flood its streets, yet it endures—indifferent, like a dutiful servant bearing its creators' legacy. Even Val Royeaux or Halamshiral lack this... weight.

   The glass emptied. She ran a finger along its rim—a gesture as polished as the rest of her—before setting it down. Turning to Benedict's puzzled face, she breathed:

   — Shall we test your limits?

   At his raised brow, she grinned:

   — Care to taste us? — Her fingers painted his lips with her wetness. — Or shall I...?

Chapter Text

   Three paces away, slightly hunched, stood a tense figure. The darkness obscured the finer details, but the witch’s eyes, now accustomed to it, could make out enough. Judging by the tattered robe of indeterminate color, this was a mage. The man’s eyes darted in astonishment between the witch and some object above her head—so rapidly it seemed he was tracking not one, but two movements at once. Yet his hands never slowed their work. Little remained of the left sleeve of his robe save a jagged, roughly torn edge at the upper forearm. The arm itself was crisscrossed with cuts, varying in freshness, precision, and the number of bloody scabs. At this very moment, the mage’s right hand, wielding a short, triangular blade, carved a fresh wound with an uneven motion.

   As blood welled up—appearing utterly black in the darkness—Morrigan lunged sideways. Desperate to avoid driving her own blade into her side, the maiden flipped backward and landed in a half-crouch, now clear of the stranger who had materialized from thin air. From this new vantage, she could see both the mage and the focus of his gaze.

   Five meters above the staircase, defying logic, a figure stood upright against the wall. It was impossible to describe the distorted shape as anything but human. Tattered remnants of a robe, a surviving belt with ceramic vessels strapped to it by leather cords, marked this as another Circle mage. Yet the torso, arms, forearms, and neck of the creature were grotesquely swollen with muscle, straining the skin so tight it gleamed a sickly white in the dark. The head had lost nearly all its hair. The face—whether bloated or swollen—had twisted familiar features into a ghoulish mask. Only the eyes stood out in that mass of flesh. Still alive, they seemed to glint even in the darkness, catching reflections from no visible candlelight, never resting on anything longer than an instant. In stark contrast, the lower half of the body remained unchanged—gaunt, with male anatomy dangling openly amid the rags, as weightless as the rest of its body.

   The witch’s knowledge of demonic possession tied to primal desires was limited—a fact that had become the source of her current predicament. But the monster’s appearance, combined with the setting, left her with one likely conclusion: possession.

   Just as Morrigan took in the grotesque heap of flesh, the blood in the mage’s fresh wound boiled—then crusted over into a dark scab in an instant. A flick of his right hand, and the blood-blackened blade shot toward the possessed. The creature, poised to step down the vertical wall, responded with a drawn-out, hissing whistle at the edge of human vocal range. Whether it was pain or irritation was unclear. Then, beneath its pallid skin, uneven dark patches emerged at random, swelling rapidly through shades of gray to black—like a violent subcutaneous hemorrhage or days-old bruises whose depth was masked by the gloom.

   Weighing her options, the witch bit her lip. She hadn’t even spent two hours in the Tower, and her mana reserves were already halved. Active participation in this fight would push her to the brink. Studying the possessed, she made her choice and tried to snarl through clenched teeth, but her voice cracked into a shout—not from fear:

   — Fríos. Tenací!

   The effect was auditory—a faint, dry click. With a distinct crack, the possessed turned its head toward her, then crouched and leapt down in one jerky motion. At first, the movement resembled an ordinary upward jump, save that the wall served as the floor. But a heartbeat later, the monster shifted, accelerating into a conventional fall.

   Reacting to the threat like a cat, Morrigan used all four limbs to roll away. But this time, her movements were far more instinctive and chaotic. With a metallic clatter, her only weapon landed somewhere between them on the stone. Only thanks to such a reaction did she manage to evade the collapsing hulk of flesh. The creature, in addition to its own mass, brought down a knee and a fist. Both struck the ancient floor tiles with a wet crunch—a sound that made it clear flesh was no match for stone.

   Then, one after another, magical arrows pierced the monster’s back. In the darkness, they burned like bright strokes, leaving slowly fading afterimages on the retina. A fleeting glance confirmed the mage’s blade had already made another cut, and fresh blood was once again boiling. Dense clots of mana, burrowing into the flesh, triggered a simple spell that rapidly expanded pockets of overheated air. The result: gaping, ragged craters with scalded or even charred edges. After the fifth volley, which turned the monster’s back into pulp, the spinal column and the underside of two or three ribs became visible amidst the mangled flesh. The mutilated mass exhaled one last time. Dark blood and saliva trickled from its swollen mouth. Finally, as its eyes dimmed, the creature collapsed face-first without ceremony.

   The mage let out a weary groan—a sound of someone spent in body and mind—took a few unsteady steps toward the stair railing, and carefully lowered himself to the floor, leaning on it with his right hand. Only now did the witch notice the short triangular blade tightly bound to his index and middle fingers with a dark cloth. Rising to her full height, Morrigan never once took her eyes off the hunched figure, not even when retrieving her lost dagger. The man’s body language spoke of severe exhaustion. His matted hair, an indeterminate shade in the dark, clung to his scalp like a shadow. His unshaven face was gaunt, the skin beneath his eyes darkened. His right hand trembled with a nervous tic, while the left—scarred and freshly cut in patterns resembling strange sigils—resembled a lifeless, blackened stump ready to fester. With effort, he lifted his gaze from the floor, though still avoiding the girl, and nodded. His voice, hoarse as if parched for years, was barely audible:

   — Thank you. For the distraction. And... for surviving.

   Sheathing her dagger, Morrigan nodded back. Without breaking eye contact, she positioned herself by the opposite railing, a good five meters away, and asked:

   — You?

   The man smirked weakly, as if forcing the expression through pain—or perhaps both.

   — Senior Enchanter. Though do titles matter now?

   Ignoring the rhetorical question, she pressed on:

   — Blood magic. Where’d you learn it? Here.

   His lips twitched in a semblance of a smile, but his eyes remained empty, like a fish’s.

   — Funny, how blood magic thrives in practice while being vehemently denied in theory among our ranks. No? Ah... But I see negotiation isn’t your strength.

   He exhaled slowly, as if the monologue had drained the last dregs of his energy. Pausing between labored breaths, he continued:

   — My duty was preparing phylacteries. Of course, the blood magic involved was never mentioned. So... I "worked miracles". Nothing compromising. But to perform such "miracles", I had to master the "unclean" art. Who knew it’d prove so useful in dark times? Besides... demons don’t react to spells cast without mana. A fact oddly absent from the books. Blood, though... there’s always more blood than mana. At least... there was.

   Morrigan frowned. A few careless words had ceded the conversational high ground. With one stroke, he’d placed her outside the narrow circle of likely survivors—and the ephemeral circle of "legal" mages sent from outside. Instead of dwelling on the past, she asked:

   — The Void take it... Where are the others?

   — Most dead, I’d wager. A few... likely wish they were. Three companions... stayed below. Hope they’re still breathing.

   — Why come up here?

   — Lyrium. Processed and raw. Lyrium potions... all stored here. Templar floor. It’s a tool... Yes. A tool.

   Slowly, silently drawing her blade, the witch voiced her final question:

   — Why am I the only one asking questions?

   The mage grinned openly and finally turned to face her, his dark eyes—like two voids—meeting hers.

   — A sane listener these last days... is rare. You start cherishing such trifles. Any trifle. The realization strikes suddenly, unannounced. Who or what doesn’t matter. Just the chance... to speak. Besides... What’s the use questioning a demon? You’ll hear what you want. Never the truth, eh?

   Two actions happened at once. The mage’s blade flicked toward Morrigan. She, gripping the railing with her left hand, flung herself downward behind the safety of the stair’s edge. A spell—the same that had ended the possessed—whizzed inches above her head. Flattened in relative safety, she called out:

   — Mutual distrust unites us. A fine place to start. Exchange names, delay the murder, find the lyrium. Sound like a plan?

   A dry, croaking laugh erupted from the mage, dissolving into a hacking cough. Absently, Morrigan noted how no loud sound echoed here... When his breathing steadied, he replied:

   — Amusing... I’d never trust a false name. A day ago, that weakness doomed a friend who was... the picture of prudence. Familiarity dulls caution. And why bother? I doubt you’d offer anything real in return.

   — Let’s set that aside. What else? You don’t look well. The blood and mana left in you—barely enough to keep you from dropping dead.

   A pause followed, during which Morrigan scanned their surroundings. The possessed’s corpse lay where it had fallen, which offered some small comfort. Most importantly, the vials strapped to its belt appeared intact. Then the mage’s dry voice cut through the silence:

   — If you think about it... You make decent bait for the dumber monsters. And the idea of continuing this conversation... is tempting. Far more tempting than a one-sided discussion of secret desires, fears, or buried grudges. That, I admit... speaks to skill.

   From the sound of it, the man tried to spit, but failed. This triggered another short burst of ragged, unhealthy laughter.

   — Fine... But you walk ahead, "Flower".

   Morrigan frowned, gauging the limits of his coherence. They did not inspire confidence.

   — Why "flower"?

   — Ah... That’s your mistake. You look too fresh and clean for this cursed, forgotten place.

   Slowly raising first her blade, then her hand, and finally her upper body above the railing, the witch found the mage equally slow to rise. His fingers left dark, damp streaks on the stone—too dark to be sweat. Even simple movements seemed to cost him. In this moment of weakness, one spell could snuff out the last of his life. But Morrigan reasoned a living mage was far more useful than a corpse. Fresh intel on the Tower’s state, for one. Knowledge of the lyrium’s location, for another—worth the added risk. Keeping him in her periphery, she approached the possessed’s body. Kneeling, she began loosening the leather cords of its belt, inspecting each vial with practiced efficiency. Of the five ceramic vessels, she took two—the only ones without unfamiliar scents. A chance they held lyrium potions, traditionally odorless and tasteless, their efficacy undiluted by additives. Tucking both into her belt, she asked:

   — Where?

   The mage responded with a surprisingly vigorous wave of his right hand. The direction plunged back into darkness. Even accounting for her severe disorientation, Morrigan knew it meant returning to her entry point. Sighing, she nodded. Moving forward, she counted her steps and listened for sounds behind her. The man followed without lag, though his movements were uneven—a limping drag of his right leg, his left occasionally hitching.

   Turning events over in her mind, the witch admitted she’d misjudged the odds of a favorable outcome. Heroically battling one foe after another wasn’t just deadly—it was futile. A slight shake of her head conceded the truth: no matter her efforts, each might vanish meaninglessly into the surrounding dark. Only the right application of force could change anything. In the Frostbacks, triggering an avalanche required dislodging the first stone from the right ledge.

   After five or ten minutes of silence, footsteps the only measure of time, the mage spoke again:

   — I’ve been wondering why you crossed my path. A pleasant surprise when "entertainment" was about to end... in the saddest way. And the real prize? Uncertainty.

   A dry chuckle, then labored breathing, before he continued:

   — You’d think, in such circumstances, uncertainty would’ve grown stale. But... Walking the edge for so long breaks something in the mind. Not everything. The rest... twists unpredictably. A week ago, I craved roast meat and tart wine. Two days ago—survival. Yesterday—for the pain and fear to stop. The cost irrelevant. And now? An unbearable need to solve a riddle. Forgive me... It’s hard not to voice the rambling.

   They passed a cavernous room with signs of flying creatures near the ceiling, re-entering the corridor where Morrigan’s journey had begun. Here, she dared a question:

   — Who was the mage that started this?

   — Likely... my mentor. Magister Uldred. He returned to the Hold from Ostagar obsessed with new ideas... More certain than ever that the old ways could—must—change. Radical enough to spark conflict at the council. Yet it was Uldred who guided us in mastering the "unclean" arts. So he held the "keys" to begin... all this.

   A pointed snort. Morrigan couldn’t see his face, but the sound dripped with disdain for the past. After a pause, he circled back:

   — A dilemma. Hmm... If you’re another creature? Between us, that’s likely. Your guise—distinctive. Those from the other side crave flesh and our mana, yet view us... arrogantly. A paradox: "no use for fragile vessels". When hiding, they juggle perception and illusion. But you’re different. Curious, who’s truly the prey? You or me. Or if it’s as it seems...

   He coughed abruptly—just as they passed a doorway to a room littered with dead Templars. Morrigan ignored it as scenery, slowing only to keep pace with the mage. He, however, cast a glance at the dark outlines of bodies and muttered, venomously quiet:

   — Pathetic fools...

   Dismissing them instantly, he refocused on her, resuming his monologue:

   — Where was I? Ah... Another amusing question—your clothes. It’s... wrong to think demons want nothing, merely reflecting mortal passions... living or dead. These days... I’ve seen so many kinds of scorching, parching hunger. Each desire... singular. But insatiable.

   His voice softened suddenly, almost tender:

   — I wonder, what do you desire?

   The next passage on the left, ten paces past the previous one, was veiled from floor to ceiling in matte blackness. Contrasted against the light-colored doorframe, it resembled a taut surface even in the oppressive gloom. Upon closer inspection, Morrigan shuddered. An indescribable revulsion emanated from the threshold—the kind reserved for parasites burrowing into flesh. Behind her, the mage drew a ragged breath and spoke:

   — Lucky we’ve no need for the armory. Let’s not stray from discussing desires...

   Something in his tone ignited a warning within the witch. Danger. But before she could react, a steely grip seized the back of her neck, slamming her face-first into the wall. The thin tapestry did little to cushion the blow. Disoriented, she tried to twist away—only to be pinned by a strike to her lower back, its force belying the mage’s earlier frailty. One hand clamped her throat, blunt nails like heated rods cutting off her air. Panic flared—her body screamed to fight, bite, claw—but reason demanded stillness.

   His other hand, trembling faintly, traced her thigh, slipping beneath her tunic to grope the taut curve of her ass.

   — Talents vary. Mine? To feel the ripple of change whispering of peril. While prideful fools dither atop their peaks, the silence has screamed. Hunting season’s over. Yet to leave such a sweet riddle behind... Wasteful.

   Her dagger flashed toward him—but his free hand intercepted her wrist, twisting until pain lanced up her arm, forcing her to drop the blade. A kick to her ankle splayed her legs wider. His voice, now a whisper at her ear:

   — How intriguing, this absence of surface desires. Though your form suggests otherwise. To mold uncertainty into clarity, to force answers... Mmm. A dessert indeed.

   The hand at her throat wrenched her from the wall—only to smash her back again. Crimson exploded behind her eyes, scattering her spellwork. Numbness and throbbing agony radiated from her left temple as warmth trickled down her cheek.

   — Hmph... Duller than you look. The song of your mana is drowned only by lyrium’s cacophony. Pathetic, these pitiful attempts to hide it.

   A tongue—too long, too rough—licked her nape. Fingers, already mapping her skin, slid between her thighs. They breached her with brutal efficiency, exposing her burning core to the chill air. Bile rose as her stomach clenched. She dug her nails into her palms, letting pain anchor her. All that remained was hate. Not for him. For herself—for this cursed weakness, this paralysis.

   — Even if your coveted answers elude us... You’ll show me your depths. And if not... Well, you’ll suffice as an appetizer.

   His rasping laugh accompanied the violation, fingers stretching her unresponsive silk. It shattered her last doubts. Clarity returned amidst the swaying darkness, crystallizing her only recourse. And with it, something else bloomed in hidden recesses—a forgotten echo. Torrid. Shameful. A flickering vision: a room where candlelight warred with creeping shadows, where sweat, arousal, and blood clashed with incense. But this was mere framing. At its core? A spell. That spell. Unmastered. Deadly. Runes flared in her mind—sharp, alien.

   As her flesh began to shift in his grasp, he exhaled:

   — At last...

   Yet the deeper the transformation, the weaker his grip grew. Whatever he saw defied expectation. His hesitation ended abruptly. With a sound of tearing sinew, four arms erupted from Morrigan’s form. She shoved off the wall, crashing into him. A vial shattered as she twisted free, driving claws between his ribs. Face-to-face now, they beheld each other anew.

   Before Morrigan stood the same monstrosity slain earlier—down to the last detail. But the possessed seemed no more pleased. Its swollen face contorted (if such a thing could frown). Perhaps from the claws impaling it—or perhaps from recognition flashing in its lightless eyes. A moment later, her needle-fanged maw closed on its collarbone. Skin, tendon, muscle—all shredded like parchment as she lapped at the blood flooding her mouth.

   The creature gurgled, shoving at her—first with hammering blows, then weakening pushes. She held fast, arms buried in its ribs. Each lunge of her teeth carved deeper, seeking the jugular. When she found it—

   Arterial spray painted them both. The abomination sank to one knee, its movements thick with dying will. Black lips (bubbling with blood) curved in a smile as it whispered:

   — An answer... still. You...

   Darkness claimed its eyes. Only meat remained, toppling sideways. Morrigan staggered back, bracing against the wall. Her mana reserves were leaden weights. Her throat burned as if she’d swallowed coals. No triumph came—just icy void.

   Steeling herself, she reversed the transformation. Naked now, save for her belt (empty scabbard swaying at her hips) and stockings. Blood adorned her lips, chin, the elegant column of her throat, the heaving swell of her breasts—nearly reaching her navel. A swelling bruise crowned her left temple; its trail on her cheek smeared where she’d wiped it. Bruises bloomed on her abdomen and back—soon to darken without care. Her skull pulsed as if nailed. Her left shoulder blazed.

   But pain was good. It meant she lived. And now, her visage matched the Tower’s rot.

   As adrenaline ebbed, her knees buckled. Agony crested. She retched black bile onto the stones. Wiping her mouth, she retrieved her dagger and the lone surviving vial. The corpse offered no answers—only the absence of a belt. Who, then, had she truly fought? Another possessed? The mage, his form swapped by the demon’s illusion? The questions fractured her thoughts; logic faltered.

   She uncorked the vial, sniffed, then dabbed her tongue to its contents. Five minutes passed—no ill effects. Tipping it back, she gagged at the lyrium potion’s gritty, tasteless sludge. Three steady breaths quelled her nausea. Relief came sluggishly: the looming mental wall receded, granting fractured clarity. Not much. But better than nothing.

   Returning held no appeal—not to verify the "other corpse", not to scavenge clothes. Yet a serpentine question coiled in her mind: If this "mage" was possessed... where was the real one?

   She turned toward the unknown.

   * * *

   After twenty-five careful steps, each heavy with the anticipation of new threats, the girl left the corridor and emerged into a hall of familiar proportions. Lingering by the entrance, Morrigan listened. Only oppressive silence surrounded her, empty of any life. Exhaling slowly and wincing at the pain radiating from her head, the witch forced herself to think. Lyrium would have been a trump card, no matter what lay ahead. But mere need, even desperate desire, wasn’t enough to conjure it. Frowning, she recalled the possessed man’s words. The song of mana. Her own mana had never felt like any kind of song. It was born from within and imperceptible; had it not been for her mother’s teachings, Morrigan might have dismissed mana exhaustion as mere fatigue. Only Flemeth’s relentless drills had taught her to distinguish between bodily strain and the drain of magic. External mana, however, felt like the fleeting warmth of a summer sunbeam brushing her skin—devoid of true heat or light. A sensation as hard to describe to those without the Gift as explaining the brilliance of a dawn-blue sky to the blind.

   Morrigan closed her eyes and focused, searching for even a whisper of familiarity—or the echo of something new. Minutes slipped by as she chased the intangible. Just as something seemed to stir, her eyes snapped open, and she shook her head in frustration. The failure itself didn’t disappoint her. It was the ghost of hope that such a futile effort could succeed—a glaring testament to her own weakness.

   Turning back toward the dark maw of the corridor, Morrigan forced her mind to practicality. More facts, fewer miracles. Something nagged at her, a splinter amid her worries. The distance between the Templars’ barracks and the armory was ten paces, give or take a step. The same as from the previous hall to the barracks. Yet from the armory to this spot? Far longer. The skeptic in her whispered that her source for the armory’s location was dubious, and room sizes here might vary. But logic countered: a circular floor wouldn’t be divided unevenly. Nor would an armory for a dozen Templars be far larger than their living quarters.

   Running a hand along the bare stone wall—no tapestries, no decor—she inched forward until her fingers met a corner. Another wall vanished into the gloom to her right. Mapping the layout in her mind, she froze. If the distances held, this was the tower’s outer wall. Bracing against it, she bit her lip. Stubbornness warred with doubt—and won. Kneeling, she traced the floor until her fingertips found a faint, intermittent line arcing into a semicircle against the wall. A smirk tugged at her lips. Those who build secret rooms are rarely fools. Discipline in this place would deter idle wanderers, especially those crawling on the floor. Junior Templars followed strict schedules. Dozens in the Circle might know of a lyrium vault, but its location? Reserved for the Knight-Commander. And this was no recent addition—more likely a relic from the tower’s earliest rebuilds.

   As she stood to inspect the wall again, movement flickered in her periphery. Blade drawn, she tensed. Not a creature, nor the darkness itself—but a corridor’s archway, now visible at the far end of the hall. A ghostly glow seeped from it, barely illuminating the five paces ahead. Then it emerged: a sphere, pallid as rotting fish, the size of a child’s head. It floated, swaying like breath, emitting a dead, steady light. Wisps. The orb-like predators her mother had warned of. Shadow-spawn, mindless but deadly in packs. The least aggressive of their kind, save for Sloth. Beings devoid of complex thought, driven only to devour mana. It drifted across the hall, unwavering, and vanished into the passage Morrigan herself had come from.

   Exhaling slowly, Morrigan returned to the wall. Finding the midpoint between the ends of the arc, she began tracing the masonry along that line, bottom to top. Block by block. Until one, at eye level, felt smoother to the touch. Satisfied she wasn’t imagining it—the difference was palpable—she pressed against the polished stone. With resistance, it sank into the wall halfway to her palm, and a dry click echoed loudly in the silence. A segment of the wall, aligned with the floor’s arc, swung inward on a hidden pivot with a faint scrape, revealing two narrow passages on either side.

   Gripping her dagger until her knuckles whitened, Morrigan slipped inside. But before inspecting further, she wedged the blade into the gap between the rotated segment and the floor. Only once certain it was lodged firmly did she allow herself to search. With no windows, she felt her way forward. Each step unveiled more of the room’s secrets—though not as she’d hoped. Within two paces, a wave of nausea struck. She retreated to the entrance, noting how the discomfort faded. Only one substance she knew affected mages this way: raw lyrium in sufficient mass. This aligned with her theory about the vault’s purpose. Yet irrational fears lingered—skin contact with concentrated, unrefined lyrium risked madness and bleeding from within.

   Steeling herself, she pressed on. Tracing the wall, fighting dizziness, she soon stumbled upon sturdy chests. The wooden ones, unfit for lyrium storage and lacking locks, she opened without hesitation. Inside were rows of identical metal vessels, each marked with an inverted sword and sealed with wax—likely the processed lyrium draught the Templars consumed. The metal chests, however, bore heavy locks. Their proximity made her stomach churn violently, so she hurried past. Finally, a wooden chest revealed vials. Their shape was familiar—like the one she’d recently used. Lyrium potions. She took four and retreated, retrieving her dagger on the way.

   Catching her breath, she secured the vials to her belt with leather cords and slumped against the wall. Rubbing her temples, she forced her thoughts into order. Dawn approached, though she doubted sunlight would pierce the tower’s heart. Letting her mind wander, it fixated on the corridor’s horrors. Strangely, the violence and near-death evoked little reaction now. Retrospectively, she recalled the initial shock, but within an hour, it had dulled to indifference. Running fingers over her bare skin—from sternum to thigh—she acknowledged a darker truth: alongside fear, her instinctive revulsion toward being an object of desire was fading. The duality chilled her—a person, and a tool.

   Shaking her head, she refocused. The possessed man’s words warranted caution, but conclusions required more knowledge. Yet another discomfort gnawed at her: she’d deliberately avoided examining the foreign memory that had surfaced earlier. It bore no resemblance to her life—no grand mansions or castles in her past. Unlike skills or behaviors, this was a lived fragment, vivid with emotion, scent, and imagery. Obsession didn’t typically grant such relics.

   Steeling herself, she revisited it. Context eluded her, but the emotions were unmistakable: dark anticipation, the heady rush of power, the euphoric mingling of pain and pleasure, the thrill of risk. Her pulse quickened. Eyes flying open, she realized she was sweating, her nipples taut, fingers trembling. The memory wasn’t a misplaced shard—it was a crack in a dark room, blazing with summer light, casting the shadows within her deeper and the chill sharper.

   With nausea clawing at her throat, Morrigan realized with crystalline clarity: nothing she’d faced before could compare to this new horror. Until now, the erosion of her emotions had been gradual—shades dulling, then dissolving into disconnected facts about her own life. Gaps appeared where memories once bridged events, like a sickness spreading from a single scar. She’d fought the decay with logic, self-analysis, control, and fleeting external aid—as if painstakingly reconstructing herself while forever glancing back at who she had been. But this fragment? It resurrected what was lost a hundredfold, its jagged edges carving hunger from the depths of her. Touching it sent tremors through every fiber of her being.

   Morrigan knew logic would always yield to emotion. What terrified her wasn’t the alien memory itself, but the prospect of craving it—of losing herself to visions with no roots in her past. To sever the tether to her very identity.

   She exhaled, silencing every thought but the echo of her breath. Her fists clenched; a sardonic smirk flickered.

   — Wanted to put my mind in order, — she muttered. — How quaint.

   Wrenching herself upright, she barred the door against her spiraling thoughts. Move. Plan. With lyrium vials now in hand, descending a floor or two seemed rational. Yet part of her still clung to searching the Templars’ level—though the risks demanded reassessment. The next possessed might not indulge in word games. They might simply feed.

   Her first reason to descend was simple: allies. Even as bait, they’d serve better than solitude. And she now had bargaining chips.

   Second: the force restraining the Breach. Pride, she assumed, remained atop the tower. If influencing the Breach required proximity, then Pride’s rival must also be inside—and avoiding direct confrontation. Ergo: the lower she went, the likelier she’d find them.

   She made a leap of logic: if this rival countered the Breach, they’d also oppose Pride’s kin. Thus, there should be fewer demons of higher intellect below.

   Amusing, really—an enemy who attacked head-on would be a relief.

   Descend, then. Survivors meant information. And if Alim’s sister lived… The ghost of warmth at that thought made her cling to it, this shred of “normalcy”.

   Finally, below lay the First Enchanter’s office—

   She froze. The possessed man’s remains sprawled before her: a shriveled, child-sized husk, skin blackened and taut over bone as if drained. A grim reminder. Jaw tight, she tore a rag from the corpse and strode back to the vault. Once again wedging her dagger in place, she bundled two dozen vials into the cloth, knotting it to her belt.

   Now she felt ready.

   * * *

   Every dozen steps, the staircase narrowed as it curved to the right. To distract herself from the horrors of the hall from which the descent began, Morrigan counted steps and turns. No enemies awaited her there, no fresh surprises—just the mangled corpse of a mage sprawled on the floor. A silent rebuke, confirming her fears: she’d been deceived by illusions that warped her senses. Hardly a pleasant revelation. And now, as if to mock her further, the staircase began exactly where it should.

   Four turns later, the darkness receded. Flickering torchlight replaced the dim, uneven light, dancing along the walls. The stairs emerged from the ceiling of the third floor, descending through an outer ring of columns to an inner colonnade. The vast circular chamber at the heart of the floor was overwhelming in scale. Polished stone monoliths, three arm-spans wide, rose in layered blocks like a second hall nested within the first. Each pillar bore eight torches, casting light—and countless wavering shadows. These gathered thickest near the outer walls, while the center held two stark features: a black marble table on a central pedestal, likely repurposed over the Hold’s long history, and, atop it, a mountain of fused flesh.

   This possessed creature bore no resemblance to the one upstairs. Its head merged with swollen shoulders, eyes and mouth lost in folds of skin. Arms fused to its torso; only the legs hinted at humanity.

   Crouching on the steps, Morrigan watched. Soon, her eyes caught movement—shapes darting around the table. A dozen? More? Their forms mirrored the shadow-creatures that had attacked her earlier.

   Then she noticed the rope. A sturdy ship’s cord, wrapped around the railing to her right and trailing down to the base of the stairs. An escape route—likely how the dead mage had bypassed this death trap. Slipping down silently, she reached a familiar corridor.

   Torchlight here revealed portraits lining the walls—dozens of mages and enchanters, their styles spanning ages. A gallery of the Circle’s legacy. A pang of envy struck her: these faces would endure in the Hold’s history.

   Then she saw the bodies.

   Dozens of desiccated corpses, each bearing a single lethal wound: slit throats, gutted abdomens, punctured chests. Dried blood pooled beneath them, yet no spatter stained the walls. No signs of struggle. As if death had come in one clean strike, face-to-face. The killers left no traces—no footprints, no scorch marks. Even the air held no stench of decay.

   Among the dead lay three senior mages, a few apprentices, and two Chantry clerics near the wall. Their flesh was charred to cinders, eyes and hair ash—yet their robes hung pristine, as if freshly laundered.

   A trail of smeared blood led from a turn to the left into the hall she’d just left. The brave soul who’d made it this far.

   Silence ruled, broken only by the crackle of distant torches and her own breath.

   She turned left, following the trail—toward the next descent.

   As she stepped over the clerics’ bodies, heat erupted at her back. She lunged forward, but not fast enough. Fire seared her left shoulder blade, the pain near-unbearable. The stench of burning hair filled her nostrils.

   One of the “dead” clerics was rising.

   Flames burst from its eye sockets, nostrils, ears. Within seconds, it was engulfed.

   Morrigan’s vision swam in pain-dulled haze. She snarled the incantation through gritted teeth.

   “Fríos. Tenací!”

   As the monster's right limb hissed and crumbled away in charred chunks, Morrigan fled. A glance back revealed the corpse's maw grotesquely distended—then came a roar like wildfire consuming dry timber, its heat licking at her heels. She threw herself sideways. Her good shoulder slammed into a wall, rattling a portrait. Spinning, she loosed the spell blindly.

   The one-armed horror kept coming, its flesh burning away to reveal blackened bones crumbling to ash. Behind it, other corpses smoldered; portrait paints bled like tears; crimson reflections danced madly across stone. Her spell struck the creature's chest, releasing a wave of acrid smoke. Its shriek mimicked a waterfall's roar—but the searing heat left no doubt: this was fire, not water.

   Morrigan clawed at a lyrium vial. The knotted leather resisted, tightening with each tug. Unable to look away from the demon's self-immolation, she yanked hard—ripping the vial free along with skin from her thigh—and drank.

   Were refined lyrium harmless, mages would never have relinquished dominion over the world. But it was poison: crystals maimed; the liquid killed more slowly—convulsions, liver rot, agony. Yet they drank it, for some deaths were kinder than powerlessness. The only escape? Sigils—channeling lyrium through spells, bypassing the body. The bitter irony: she knew no such techniques.

   The demon's skull split like an eggshell. Molten fire gushed forth as it shed its physical form, condensing into a pulsating droplet—its true self. Flames retracted, reshaping into a towering horror with a morphing maw and writhing limbs.

   Before it could strike, Morrigan leveled her uninjured arm and snarled:

   “Nigrum putredo quad devorat anima!”

   The Death Hex struck. The fire-demon shuddered violently, its edges blurring. Then—with a shriek that shattered the air—it exploded. The blast hurled Morrigan against the wall, stealing her breath.

   Dazed and half-blind, she groped for support—only to find the wall gone. In its place gaped a doorway veiled in absolute darkness…

   * * *

   Amidst the oppressive roar that weighed on her ears, Morrigan’s vision swam with a kaleidoscope of frenzied, writhing lines of blinding light, trailing unearthly spectral hues. Reluctantly, they began to merge, their tempo slackening, their vibrancy dulling. The noise faded. At first, her surroundings emerged murkily, as if viewed through wet glass, then sharpened into clarity.

   The chamber was circular, its walls smoothly curved, its ceiling unbroken overhead. Every surface seemed carved from an unfamiliar stone the color of sunbaked red clay—as if shaped by water’s patient war against rock. The ceiling arched inward, forming a throat-like passage that funneled pure white light from above, casting a radiant circle on the floor. The sorceress perched on a chair just tall enough to leave her feet dangling. The seat, rough-hewn from the same stone as the walls, rose into a seamless back that fused with the ceiling, its only adornment a rigid ring clamped around her neck. No armrests confined her; her arms hung limp at her sides. A searing pulse throbbed in her shoulder, swelling and receding like a second heartbeat—a cruel reminder that this was no illusion. Or if it was, then it was one of exceptional intricacy…

   Other guests shared the chamber. Two paces away, a man in a Tower mage’s robe lay sprawled, his body gaunt as if starved for weeks, though no wounds marked him. His gaze drifted aimlessly, unmoored from focus. Deeper in the room, two identical chairs held mummified corpses in similar robes. Four more bodies littered the floor, alive but as withered as Morrigan’s neighbor.

   Silently, a skeletal arm slithered from the ceiling’s aperture. Bone thinly sheathed in tendon, tipped with hooked claws. The rest of the creature followed, limbs contorting unnaturally as it descended, each joint too long, each movement a mockery of anatomy. It straightened within the circle of light, casting no shadow. The thing was vaguely humanoid, but the resemblance ended there: a sexless, emaciated frame, skin stretched translucent over a spine that jutted like a serrated ridge. Its skull was hairless, eye sockets hollow. And its back—pulsing. Two distorted faces strained beneath the skin, as if struggling to tear free.

   The creature’s toothless maw parted with a wet smack. Yet the voice came not from it, but from the walls themselves—a chorus of echoes sliding between childlike squeaks and withered croaks, between feminine lilt and masculine gravel, all threaded with hunger.

   — Oooh… The trap delivers novelty. Fertile… fertile... The hunger is unending...

   Movement flickered at Morrigan’s feet. A pouch had slipped from her belt, its lyrium vials spilling free. The apathetic mage nearby had noticed first, his dull eyes locking onto a rolling vial. A spark flared in them—then a wildfire of resolve. With his last dregs of strength, he lunged, seized four vials, and crushed them between his teeth, gulping the contents. It didn’t happen in an instant. Yet when Morrigan looked back, the demon hadn’t moved. It grinned, its sunken visage the very portrait of starvation.

   The mage screamed, hurling a mana bolt, then a fireball—the first tearing a gory trench in the creature’s torso, the second shearing off a spindly arm at the shoulder, leaving charred meat and sizzling bone.

   The demon’s mouth gaped again. The same voice, same tone:

   — Splendid...

   Something prickled at the edge of Morrigan’s awareness. Mana. Wastefully expended by the creature. Then horror dawned as she understood the faces on its back—living mages, fuel for its manifestation. The demon was leeching their magic, weaving it into a crude knot above its head, a crude mimicry of a life-draining hex’s runic pattern. Nearly invisible tendrils lashed out, piercing every chest but hers. Whimpers faded as flesh melted from bone, the demon regenerating at a grotesque pace. The mage at her feet convulsed, exhaled, and stilled—yet the connection held. His corpse desiccated, joining the shriveled relics in the chairs.

   When only Morrigan remained, the demon stirred. Two strides brought it to her. A bony hand proffered the vial pouch. The walls murmured:

   — Drink. Like the others. Feed the flesh.

   She felt rather than saw the faces on its back twitch—mouths gasping soundlessly, fish on a riverbank. Her voice was steel, trembling just once:

   — Drink, and I die.

   A wet click. The demon tilted its head, empty sockets briefly regarding its own back, where two mages suffocated within its skin.

   — Hunger abhors a void. Drink. Or become the vessel.

   Her retort dripped venom:

   — So my choice is drink or don’t. I choose don’t.

   A pause. Then:

   — A corpse suffices.

   — But a live mage is... tastier, no?

   — Less. So—drink. Or I’ll make you.

   Morrigan realized that while the creature before her was undeniably powerful, it paled in comparison to a Desire demon’s ability to converse, reason, and weave half-truths.

   — Why not drink it yourself? Why use a middleman? You’d get the mana directly.

   The demon turned its head, empty sockets fixed on the pouch. The sorceress’s nerves hummed in the silence as shadows within the creature writhed toward some unfathomable decision. What happened next was swift: its lower jaw unhinged, dropping far beyond human or elven limits, and the pouch of vials tumbled into the gaping maw with a brittle crack of ceramic.

   — Now it’s your turn.

   A bony hand rose toward Morrigan’s throat—then froze midair. The claws trembled, the early spasms of a seizure. The demon brought its hand closer to its eyeless face, as if puzzled. The symptoms escalated rapidly. Morrigan dared not blink, though she couldn’t say what she feared missing—only that her body thrummed with vengeful anticipation.

   Lyrium, in any form, was an indifferent killer. The body woven from two mages’ flesh was dying. The demon might have retaliated with magic, as before, but it hesitated until too late. Tissue decay choked its channels of power, though the lyrium had left it bloated with strength.

   Suddenly, the creature arched and hissed—a sound without beginning or end, flooding the hall. Two grotesque swellings erupted on its back, its skin stretching taut over bones until it resembled its own victims. With a wet rip, ichor sprayed the floor, and two half-digested bodies—a man and a woman, their faces now slack in death—slumped onto the stone. The same faces Morrigan had seen pulsing beneath its skin.

   Yet the shadow-spawn still stood before her. It had always been more than two.

   The skeletal figure straightened, and the walls whispered its threat:

   — You will replace them.

   Desiccated hands wrenched the stone collar from Morrigan’s neck, then lifted her like a doll. Without pause, the demon flipped her upside-down and aimed her head into its widening gullet. The sight of its innards—a crimson void separate from its bone-thin frame—paralyzed her. Horror and denial coiled like poison in her veins. Then the darkness swallowed her, searing and wet.

   One heartbeat passed inside the demon’s belly. Then her consciousness tore free, hurled into a vortex of white, pain-sharp threads—before a click plunged her into oblivion.

   Consciousness returned in fragments: first the pain in her shoulder, stabbing through the dark. Then the chill of stone under bare feet. Only when the ringing in her ears faded did Morrigan dare open her eyes. Soft gloom. Familiar walls of the Hold. Too normal to be real after the demon’s gut.

   She held still, afraid to shatter the illusion. But her shoulder throbbed, and bile coated her tongue. Not a dream. Then came a rare sight—a smile. Faint, trembling, but real. For three minutes, the trivial fact of her survival eclipsed all else.

   Then the smile melted like frost under spring sun.

   First, the doubt: was this reality or another trick? The only way to silence the question was to ignore it, for seeking answers bred madness. Second, the lack of any explanation gnawed at her. Worse, she didn’t even know what needed explaining—only that the unknown would soon fester into unbearable dread.

   And last... In the demon’s lair, her emotions had burned brighter, truer, than in weeks. Another riddle.

   Her eyes darted to the bookshelves. Hope flared and died. The labels were clear: Theology. A stifled groan escaped her. She had to move. So she stood. Had to keep going. So she stepped toward the door.

Chapter Text

   Morrigan found herself in the same corridor again. The difference was that now it bore the scars of fire, and Morrigan lacked her stock of lyrium potions and her only blade. The dead bodies on the floor had not been spared either—charred limbs, mouths frozen in silent screams... Yet like everything else in this accursed Tower, they emitted no stench of decay or reek of burnt flesh. They seemed frozen, mute witnesses to horror. But the stone beneath her feet chilled her bare soles, relentlessly dragging her thoughts back to the present. The exit to the next hall was only a few paces away, and Morrigan stepped boldly into the familiar darkness, leaving the battleground behind with no small satisfaction.

   The hall, its boundaries swallowed by gloom, resembled similar chambers on the floor above. At its center loomed the shadow of a massive support column, and a little farther—statues. There was nothing heroic or memorable about them—just mundane poses, as if they were trivial decorations like cornices or abstract bas-reliefs, not stone-carved figures standing twice a man’s height, pedestals excluded.

   But what soon caught the sorceress’s eye was the staircase descending into the depths. Listening carefully and detecting no signs of threat lurking in the dark, she took a breath and cautiously moved left, skirting the wall toward the stairs. The stairs plunged into impenetrable blackness, forcing her to move slowly, her fingers never losing contact with the rough surface of the stone wall. The turns mirrored those of the staircase from the fourth to the third floor. But at the bottom, no welcoming torchlight awaited her. If there was any light in the chamber below, it was barely enough for a couple of candles at most. And with each step, the voices grew clearer—human voices, vibrating with suppressed fury. Unwilling to reveal her presence just yet, Morrigan stopped just out of sight of the final flight, listening intently.

   A high-pitched yet not unpleasant, almost ringing, female voice, youthful but sharp, rose in accusation:

   — Valinsi, you damned coward! While I slept, you let Niall go alone. Why did no one go with him?! All those oaths you shouted so proudly... You arrogant goats. Every word—empty drivel?

   A deeper, calmer voice—the kind one would expect from a man of solid build—answered with restrained rage:

   — Ner... Do you hear yourself? What nonsense are you spouting?

   — Don’t worry, I’m perfectly aware. You just said it yourself—Niall found something in the library, a means to fight demons. Basic logic dictates you should’ve gathered a team before heading upstairs. Instead, you’re here, safe. And Niall? Dead by now, I’d wager!

   — Wait... You’re ordering me around? You?

   — Why not? Let’s not mince words—you discredited yourself as a complete failure the moment you taunted Godwin into fearing his own shadow. But, Void take it, in this nightmare, that seemed the lesser evil. Now I see you’re just a millstone around the neck of every survivor...

   A sharp sound followed—a slap’s crisp crack merging with a girl’s pained cry. Then the man’s voice turned icy, dripping with violence:

   — You know, I’ve grown tired of your blind faith in your own infallibility. That stubborn, childish view of everything as black or white. Irving coddles you, calling you an exceptional talent. But to me, the First Enchanter is just spoiling another mage, robbing them of discipline. Before you judge me, let’s revisit your mistakes and the price paid for them. No one here questions the usefulness of your sigils carved by the stairs. They’ve saved the barrier’s defenders more than once. But remember our agreement—how guard shifts work. Simple rules. And two days ago, someone was ‘tired’ and decided it was fine to leave without warning. A trifle? Say that to Louise’s face—the woman who burned alive while the rest of us scrambled to restore the barrier. She held the passage to the end, replacing your sigil with her own body. You weren’t collapsing. You weren’t drained of mana. The day was quiet, so the young genius deemed it fit to decide for everyone. That’s all. Louise lies over there, by the column. No one threw it in your face. I admit my mistake too—like letting myself sleep three hours after sixteen on watch. I was the one who slit the throat of a woman thrashing in her death throes to re-seal the fading barrier. A woman who taught half the mages surviving here! And all because the healers vanished. Ironic, isn’t it, bitch? Remember Godwin? Did you miss how the little shit deserted his post twice while demons battered the barrier? We’re dying every day, not picking flowers in a meadow. If I must make Godwin fear me more than demons to do his duty, I’ll knock his teeth out myself. No regrets. And Niall? Let’s skip how the Senior Enchanter’s mind’s been slipping lately—especially after strangling his own friend. Yes, Niall found something. Yes—it seemed promising. But what did ‘wonderful’ Niall do when asked to wait? He ruined the damn barrier and left without a word! So you see, we disagree. Why am I so chatty? Hard to believe... I care. And because you’re needed. But words aren’t enough.

   The sound of a belt being forcibly yanked from its loops followed. Morrigan frowned and peered down toward the base of the stairs. Straining her eyes in the poor light, she spotted runes smeared with dried blood on the last step. Around them coiled in intricate yet elegant patterns, meticulously traced with a fine dust of processed lyrium. Had she not known what to look for, the accumulated fatigue and pain might have made her miss it. This method of rune-work was unfamiliar to her, as were some of the symbols in the script. But she grasped a hint of its general meaning—one that matched the definition mentioned in the argument. She also noticed where the continuous script was interrupted by a smeared bootprint. Meanwhile, the situation below took a darker turn.

   — No! You bastard... What are you planning? Get away!

   — Kicking? Spirited... But thorns need trimming. Hold her legs still.

   The screams, sounds of struggle, and kicking, muffled grunts, and the rustle of fabric were replaced by the whistle of a belt cutting through the air and the sharp crack of leather striking bare flesh, followed by a girl’s shriek. Another strike came immediately—the kind that would leave a red welt on any part of the body, soon to darken into a bruise or even split open. The shrieks dissolved into sobs. Morrigan realized it wouldn’t take ten more strikes to break the proud girl’s will. Shaking her head, she rose to her feet.

   To Morrigan, events had unfolded disastrously. So disastrously, in fact, that she couldn’t help but wonder if another will was pulling the strings. What were the odds that such a volatile scene—boiling emotions spilling over—would play out just as she descended? Especially with the barrier against demonic incursion already compromised. Yet even with her suspicions, the oaths she’d sworn demanded intervention. There was little doubt about the victim’s identity now. Naire. Alim’s face flashed in her memory—clenched teeth, burning eyes... Morrigan tightened her fists. If the girl broke under the belt today, tomorrow her bones would become playthings in someone else’s games.

   Moving down with deliberate care to avoid drawing attention, Morrigan soon witnessed the scene in full. The chamber resembled the upper central hall only in its massive columns—four here, with the staircase emptying into the center of the open space. Along the curved outer wall stood towering open cabinets, twice a man’s height, their contents lost in shadow. To the left, a five-armed candelabra held thick candle stubs—the sole flickering light source, likely to gutter out in hours. Nearby, five cloth-draped bodies lay on the floor.

   At the base of the stairs, a mage slumped against the railing, his posture slack, arms limp. His thinning blond hair suggested he was well past his twenties. Morrigan glimpsed his face from above—she couldn’t be certain of his expression, but she’d swear he was grinning wildly, reveling in the spectacle to his right.

   There, the source of the sounds filling the shadow-thick hall: a broad-shouldered Circle member, taller than Morrigan, brought his belt down in relentless arcs, blood spraying with each swing. A middle-aged woman, also robed as a mage, stood nearby, biting her lip as she watched. She seemed torn—unsure whether to act or why she did nothing. Another man, dressed neither as a Chantry brother nor as a mage, held a slight, fragile girl by the arms, her robes hiked up, her smallclothes discarded. She’d stopped resisting.

   Morrigan glanced back into the darkness. The mage by the stairs should have warned of intruders if the barrier was breached. Either he’d been the first victim, or he’d always been a sadist savoring the violence. She frowned—where had that term come from? It had never come up in talks with her mother or anyone else... Alim had said keeping one’s sanity in the Circle was no small feat, so the man’s madness might well be a symptom. Shaking her head, she forced herself to focus.

   She had mana for one spell. Without hesitation, she placed a hand on the “canary’s” head. As the girl’s pain dulled and the seated mage arched with a stifled groan, Morrigan lunged forward.

   The woman noticed first. Her eyes bulged, but shock didn’t paralyze her—she attacked instantly. A bolt of energy lanced out, searing Morrigan’s vision and wreathing her in a fiery halo for one agonizing heartbeat. The air detonated. Pain like a red-hot rod speared her spine, wrenching screams from both her and the spellbound mage. The disorientation bought her seconds. That—and her unnatural ability to keep moving after such a spell—saved her.

   Morrigan slammed into the woman shoulder-first, driving her skull into the stone floor. Ignoring fresh bruises and the belt whistling past her ear, she pivoted to the largest man, ducked under his swing, and rammed her palm into the silent partner’s nose, her knee into his groin. As he folded, a fist smashed into her face—fresh blood joined the dried crust on her chest as she fell. She rolled aside just as a boot aimed for her throat. Blood dripped steadily from her nose. Black spots danced in her vision, but through them, she saw the spellbound mage wasn’t breathing.

   Sprawled on the floor, gasping, mana nearly spent, Morrigan spat a thick mix of blood and saliva. Adrenaline gave way to hollow exhaustion—then she burst into laughter. Hysterical, absurd, mad. When it subsided, she took stock.

   The broad-shouldered mage—short-cropped hair with a single braid trailing to his jaw—stared at the belt in his hand, stunned. Meanwhile, Morrigan felt a trembling, fever-hot body press against her. The girl wasn’t sobbing—just shuddering with ragged, hiccuping breaths. Now Morrigan saw her fully: petite, barely reaching her shoulders, yet curved with delicate femininity. As Morrigan touched her sleek black hair, careful to avoid her pointed ears, the girl lifted her tear-streaked face. Below the waist, her thighs and buttocks were a lacerated mess. Naire Surana. Wordless, her piercing blue eyes held only shattered gratitude.

   The mage, shaken from his stupor, finally grasped the barrier’s absence and the lack of defenders. He flung the belt aside and bolted for the stairs, yanking a triangular blade from his sleeve. Fresh blood dripped onto the rune-smeared step. As he worked to restore the damaged script, Morrigan noted grimly: the stone drank the blood, each symbol demanding far more than it seemed.

   By the time the man managed to reseal the chain of runes, his hands were trembling. Exhausted, pale, and slick with sickly sweat, he slumped to avoid collapsing, sucking in a sharp breath as if starved for air. The runes had drained him—of blood, of strength. Even turning his head toward Morrigan required effort. Naire clung to the stranger, her eyes rolling back, consciousness teetering on the edge of oblivion—one moment limp, the next jerking awake as pain yanked her back. Her fingers dug into Morrigan’s sleeve like claws, the only anchor against the dark abyss of unconsciousness.

   The man’s gaze faltered as it landed on the consequences of his actions—the corpse by the stairs, Naire’s convulsing fingers, the bloodied belt. Something in his expression fractured, a veil lifting. Then his eyes locked onto Morrigan’s golden pupils, his posture tensing with unmistakable readiness for violence.

   — And what kind of creature are you?

   His fists clenched, but he didn’t move, weighing his dwindling strength. Morrigan tilted her head, voice dripping with mock sweetness:

   — Oh... Starting with pleasantries? How touching. Let’s find common ground quickly.

   She raised her open palms higher, maintaining eye contact.

   — The situation favors it. But paranoia screams otherwise in that head of yours. A few facts, then. The Right of Annulment looms. Niall lies dead two floors up. Naire sleeps on my shoulder.

   The man shook his head, reaching his own conclusions.

   — I’d hoped none of the senior enchanters would make it down. That we could hold out long enough to—

   — To what? What scenario did you imagine? Or was it just a desperate wish to survive, devoid of any real plan? You stare at me but lack proof I’m possessed or otherwise tainted. Am I wrong? How different are your abilities from a Templar’s? A week has passed outside. No one’s coming to save this island—only to burn it to ash.

   — Even so, that changes nothing—

   — On the contrary. Time slips away. Even the creatures above sense it. This isn’t about principles or rules clogging your mind. Only a choice. Talk? Fight? No, no, no. Stay quiet a moment…— She smirked. — Alim ‘sang’ to me how mages are taught to assess facts soberly, without bias. My words are threads of trust weaving through your caution. And the signs of danger? Overwhelming. Who else could have descended from above?

   Her gaze swept pointedly over Naire, then the room.

   — But as I see it, we’re neck-deep in shit. Threats must be weighed anew. Your earlier conversation made it clear your word carries weight here. And protecting those at hand isn’t empty rhetoric to you. Forget the Templars for now. How many mouths remain to feed? How many die daily despite this barrier? How many can still fight? What’s left of discipline, reason, or will when a single spark leads to... this?

   The man’s lips pressed into a thin line, but her questions struck true. His eyes raked over Morrigan—not with hunger, but the appraisal of a rival. Finally, he growled:

   — Pretty words won’t help the suffering. ‘Heroes’ and their ideas breed corpses. Your arrival proves it. Even if I ignore doubts about your nature, what alternative do you offer beyond clinging to one more day? Hope is all that keeps hands from giving up.

   — Hope has done a piss-poor job so far, whittling down your people day by day. A plan, then: I’ve been to the Templars’ cache. Where they stockpile lyrium.

   She arched a brow, watching his reaction. It came—predictable, but satisfying. The man narrowed his eyes, probing for deceit, then snorted darkly.

   — You’re saying if you got down here, then—

   — No. Something guards the fourth floor. Niall and I slipped past, but a group wouldn’t. The creature must be dealt with first. That requires coordination. For now, we’re better together.

   — And you want...?

   — Help. I can’t do it alone. Also... access to the libraries. A safe place to sleep. Food. Even a cell with bars. I’m spent, and worse—I’m saturated with lyrium.

   — Templars don’t risk keeping potions that pure in the Tower. Those are stored outside, in the barracks... So clothing isn’t on your list. — He exhaled. — Three questions remain. First: who are you?

   Morrigan chewed her lip. The truth was dangerous, but lies would collapse this fragile truce. This conversation was born of desperation, with death breathing down their necks. She could almost taste his hesitation—if he’d felt surer of his strength, he’d have rid himself of the unknown variable already. A man who trusted only what he could control.

   — A witch of the Korcari Wilds. Morrigan, daughter of Flemeth. Your suspicions are right—I’ve no ties to this Circle, or any other. But fate tangled me with Alim, a recruited Grey Warden. Led me here. As for getting inside... I persuaded the Knight-Commander to take a risk. Like you. My value is negligible...

   The man cut in, nodding.

   — ...But a chance is a chance. That sounds like Gregor. So the old man surrendered. How did you survive upstairs? No—better question: how did you even get up there?

   — Too much at once. Almost like we’re friends. Hours ago, I’d have called myself deadlier than most of the fools here. Now? I survived by luck. That alone should tell you much. The rest... You’ll have to tolerate some ignorance.

   — We’ll see. — Valinsi dragged a hand down the left side of his face. — The last question is for me.

   He pointed to the mage’s corpse by the stairs, its features grotesquely split—one half twisted in agony, the other frozen in ecstasy, a testament to how far a human face could be twisted.

   — You’re responsible for this death.

   — Is it so simple?

   — For me? Yes. If I had the strength to judge solely by my principles...

   — So?

   — A cell. Some food. Sleep. We’ll start there. Every instinct screams this is folly, but... You’re right. Many here can’t tell the difference between dying today or tomorrow.

   His tired eyes lifted to the stairwell’s darkness as he added over his shoulder:

   — And some are eager to hasten the end.

   * * *

   The same forest again. The same nightmare. And ash falling upward, defying nature. Morrigan perceived her surroundings more acutely now, but couldn’t say for certain—was this sharpness subjective, the present always brighter than memory, or something real? Her mind throbbed with doubts. The knowledge of where she’d fallen asleep weighed on her...

   Something was wrong with this dream. Morrigan knew she was in the Tower’s heart, where even the air bent to another’s will. She couldn’t move—her body might as well have been stone. Only when icy breath grazed her neck did her muscles twitch, fingers first. Consciousness lurched free of paralysis, and with effort, as if tearing through cobwebs, she turned.

   Behind her... stood herself.

   But something was off immediately—the shadow mirrored her movements half a heartbeat too late. The same clothes, the same braid, the same jewelry... Yet the missing half of its head seized her attention first. A jagged line split a living face from void, tendrils of bluish smoke leaking from the wound. More wounds revealed themselves. Morrigan’s hands flew to her own face, relief flooding her when she found no matching injuries.

   Then the double’s hands locked around her throat, squeezing.

   As its lips moved soundlessly, whispers came from everywhere at once:

   — Give it back... Mine...

   Gasping for air, Morrigan clawed at the freezing fingers. They felt unliving, unyielding despite her thrashing. Her vision darkened at the edges...

   * * *

   The last thing she remembered was icy fingers digging into her throat and... a sharp jolt to her chest. Morrigan jerked violently, her head striking the wall. Air. She desperately needed air. Her hands flew to her neck—no marks, no wounds. Yet her skin screamed with the memory of a burn from that... thing’s touch. Wild-eyed, Morrigan scanned the room. Her chest heaved as if she’d just clawed her way ashore from drowning in uncharted waters. Through ragged breaths and the frantic drumming of her heart, a whisper escaped:

   — Not a dream. A warning...

   Around her was the same locked storeroom, serving as both her resting place and cell. Crates in the corners held folded bedding, household supplies, bundles of fabric and parchment, ink tablets wrapped in leather, quills, and other odds and ends. Her makeshift bed occupied the only clear space. No windows. The sole light seeped in in a narrow strip beneath the closed door.

   Calming her breath, Morrigan touched her neck again. No signs of strangulation, despite the dream’s vividness. Her thoughts spiraled. The witch had expected sharper nightmares here, given her circumstances, but this surpassed even her fears. On the one hand, she knew that the closer the contact with the opponent vying to share her body, the worse her own position became. On the other—she couldn’t shake the urge to see her enemy clearly, to strip away its abstraction and give it a face. Least of all had she expected that face to mirror her own... Rubbing her brow, she shook her head. Exhaustion clung to her, the interrupted rest leaving her body and mind frayed. Yet even this was tolerable.

   Piecing together memories of the Tower, one question gnawed at her: why did demons seize other mages in moments, while her own struggle dragged on for weeks without escalation? The discrepancy defied logic. Only two theories held: either her mother’s power was the shield prolonging the fight, or the Tower’s proximity to the Fade had eroded the others’ resistance. The latter implied time was running out.

   A dozen other questions demanded answers, however flimsy. Doubts about reality’s fabric. New concepts etched into her mind, unheard of before. And—she winced—the unwelcome intrusion of a word: boudoir. A term plucked from nowhere. Shoving it aside, she stood and stretched.

   The borrowed Circle robes, slightly too small, covered her now. Clean enough, barely mended. Beneath them, dried blood itched against her skin; washing had been a luxury. Approaching the door, she knocked sharply.

   The wait dragged. Finally, footsteps, a creaking lock, and candlelight spilled in. A broad-shouldered figure filled the doorway:

   — Welcome back.

   Morrigan cut to the point:

   — How’s Naire?

   A pause.

   — Since when do you care about someone you met hours ago?

   She met his gaze:

   — My reasons aren’t yours. Someone who knew her dragged me through swamps to get here. Call it repayment for his naivety. Concern hardly warrants suspicion—beyond what’s already in your head.

   He exhaled:

   — You’re not... Never mind. This leads nowhere. Follow me. No sudden moves. The ones still fit to fight are gathering. A new objective might buy us time. Otherwise... Sometimes it feels...

   — Like you’re rotting alive?

   His frown deepened. Suspicion flickered, then drowned in exhaustion:

   — Maybe. Maybe.

   — You didn’t answer.

   — There is no answer.

   Turning away, he muttered over his shoulder:

   — Without a healer, the girl needs a week. If infection doesn’t take her. We’ve no poultices left, so... I... Hmph.

   The corridor unfolded in shadows. Every corner bore chaos: toppled shelves, workstations, living quarters. Stubs of candles. Torn clothing, crumpled beds where none should be. Shattered furniture. Scorched floor marks—odd, with fireplaces nearby. Brown bloodstains around bodies in the gloom. Were they clinging to life or already dead? Filth festered in dark corners. Yet the stench Morrigan expected was absent.

   The few survivors split into two groups: Circle mages who flinched away, faces hidden, and strangers in unfamiliar garb—humans, elves, half-breeds—moving mechanically or staring blankly. As if despair couldn’t touch them.

   Something clicked in Morrigan’s memory, and she asked:

   — These are the Tranquil, aren’t they?

   The mage answered without turning:

   — Yes. Stripped of magic. The Templars barely care about those the Chantry unofficially equates to objects. When their ranks couldn’t hold back the shadow-creatures, they retreated in orderly fashion, preserving their brothers’ lives. The few surviving Circle Wardens died alongside those who joined them—whether out of folly, self-preservation, or lofty ideals. That’s how we saved most of the Tranquil and other pacified servants of the Hold. Ironic, but they endured the hardships far better than their saviors. Almost none fell to demons.

   — Creatures from the other side crave flesh saturated with mana. Or so I’ve heard. So I’m speaking with one of the surviving Circle Wardens?

   After a pause, the man nodded. Morrigan pressed on:

   — Here’s the real irony. The Templars abandoned the Tranquil, forgetting how vital they are to the Circle. But they abandoned their own just the same. Chantry servants’ corpses litter the upper floors. Doubt many rose above initiates. Common folk. But don’t mistake me—I couldn’t care less who left whom to die. Tell me, did anyone try escaping through the windows?

   The mage halted, his neck cracking as if straining to maintain composure under the witch’s relentless scrutiny. Yet his voice remained steady, barely tinged with irritation:

   — They tried. Creatively. But the windows here have become... unnaturally solid. Unscratched. Like the walls.

   — Interesting...

   The man shrugged and led her onward. Minutes later, they entered a vast hall lined with towering bookshelves. A modest table held five mages: two men, three women, their ages spanning from Morrigan’s age to what she’d uncharitably call dotards. All shared the same gaunt frames, fever-bright eyes, and exhaustion gnawing at their edges. One woman stood out—her bandaged head marked by torn fabric.

   Their escort nodded to the group, receiving curt nods in return. In the silence, Valinsi spoke:

   — Wondering who our guest is? I’m scarcely ahead of you. Briefly: she’s been upstairs. Likely the last visitor before Templars storm in, counting us as collateral. Trust her or not... Normally, I’d vouch for her. Today, that’s empty. If pressed, I’d call this a trap. But the joke is—it doesn’t matter. Each must choose: gamble on this chance or not. Yesterday... Well, you know. I broke. Let anger nearly take a life—me, who always preached caution. So I spent the night thinking with a cold head. Here’s the truth: we’re sleepwalking. Time’s blurred. Critical thought’s frayed. Many just wait to curl up and die. It’s unlike us. Niall and I prove that. This is our last straw to grasp at. Tomorrow, those still holding on will snap. The day after—we will.

   He glanced at Morrigan, shadowed in the corner. A wiry mage, knotted like a root, rapped his knuckles on the table with a rasping laugh:

   — What does the stranger add? We can mount a final suicide charge without her. You admit she’s a wild variable. Didn’t she prove that?

   Valinsi opened his mouth, but Morrigan cut in:

   — You’re mistaken. The difference is what you want—to die or live. I also understand this place better. Uldred began it, didn’t he? A font of knowledge, folly, and blind pride. The Tower’s foremost blood mage? Ah... Your eyes say yes. Some here knew. And in that moment, the Hold became Pride’s domain. Every demon you’ve met is just a guest of the host. Think: how many corpses rot here? Days dead. Smell the decay? The filth in corners? Darkness behaves here—but upstairs, even in pitch black, you see details three paces away. We’re not at the Veil’s edge. We’re in a monster’s belly, half-digested. The ones above know this. Yet how many have come for you? Another thing: no children’s bodies. No apprentices in corners. Where are they? I entered through a fourth-floor window—why can’t anyone here escape the same way? My theory: two entities hold the Hold. The first loosed hounds on you. The second hid the young. How it blinded the Templars mid-battle? No idea. The first breach widened the Veil. The second locked events within the building. A fragile balance. But balances can tip.

   As she spoke, the mages exchanged glances. One tapped the table nervously; another clenched whitened fists. A middle-aged woman with fading bruises sighed:

   — I’d wager everyone’s below, on the first floor, barred by a stronger ward than ours. All the healers, too. Otherwise, the absence of familiar faces makes no sense. And I refuse to believe they’re all dead. These facts fit into a puzzle we can’t solve from here. Denying it is folly. But it could also be masterful lies. Still... Valinsi’s right. This is personal choice. Risk or wait for the end. But before choosing, one question remains. From what I gathered, our guest killed Johan... smashed Tomara’s skull. And if she claims Niall’s dead, might she be involved? This isn’t a “hidden risk”. It’s a matter of principle.

   Valinsi nodded. His gaze circled the table, searching for the right words, before he spoke:

   — I can confirm part of Johan’s story. Tomara speaks for herself. The rest remains conjecture. As for principles...

   While the bandaged woman averted her eyes, unwilling to engage, another mage clenched his jaw so tightly his teeth might’ve powdered. Forcing out the words, he continued:

   — Rigid principles are a luxury for lone wolves. I always mocked the elders who preached them as virtues. The pride of fools wrapped in false wisdom. Until this cursed week. Now every one of those old fools died for the rest. And I stand here. Our oaths are clear—protect. They gave their lives for it. If my price is bending principles... I’ll count myself lucky. Let the First Enchanter deal with the witch when death isn’t breathing down our necks. As for fearing a knife in the back—let it keep you sharp.

   The accusatory mage spat on the floor and turned away—but didn’t leave. Even she doubted her own words. The last silent man suddenly leaned forward:

   — Principles aside, unlike the rest ready to leap into the abyss for spectacle, I find no proof in these claims. How do scattered facts confirm a... witch’s tale?

   Valinsi exhaled irritably:

   — Obviously. No one remembers her as a Circle member, apprentice, or Chantry sister. Logic says she’s either a demon, possessed, or— He raised his brows, implying the obvious...— I won’t claim exhaustive knowledge, but—

   The skeptic waved a hand, cutting him off:

   — Yes, yes. I know more of demons than you.

   — Then we agree she came from outside? Regardless of her current state. The Void take it—we’re wasting time.

   — Possessed. Say it plainly.

   — Fine. As you wish. Deadlock again. We circle the same drain. Listen clearly: we all see the situation worsening. Few will last until the Templars arrive. Will those remnants even save us? Doubtful. How do we prove we’re not possessed? It’s the same mirror. Trust and reputation, not logic, hold the answer. Our failure changes little. That’s why this is personal choice. The only outcome is death.

   Silence hung over the table. With no further objections, Valinsi stood, and added:

   — Then we’re agreed. One hour. Gather supplies. Think. Say farewells. Let emotions settle. Meet at the barrier—we’ll discuss details there.

   Some nodded; others shook their heads; a few left without reaction. As the table emptied, Morrigan’s gaze lingered on the last mage’s retreating steps until they faded. An image of Alim flashed in her mind. She turned to Valinsi:

   — Take me to Naire.

   A pause. Then, through gritted teeth:

   — Please.

   The man frowned, weighing doubts—but finally nodded.

   * * *

   When Morrigan entered the room where Alim’s sister lay, she found the girl on her stomach in a long shirt that barely covered her thighs, the edges of bloodied bandages peeking beneath.

   At first glance, the living quarters were far more spacious than the Templars’ cramped lodgings on the fourth floor. But the extra space was crammed with multi-tiered bunks, leaving almost no room for personal chests or drawers—let alone privacy. Most beds stood empty. The cavernous hall, dimly lit by two or three candles near the entrance, drowned its far corners in shadows, weaving unease with the palpable threat of the unseen. No wonder the survivors huddled in tight groups within smaller library nooks, dozing fitfully on makeshift pallets rather than these “cozy” bunks.

   Wincing, Naire lifted her piercing blue eyes—then widened them in shock. Morrigan leaned against a bedpost, studying the petite mage. What lay behind this unremarkable facade? Was there something here that had driven Alim to near martyrdom for his sister’s sake? Or was it merely his own devotion? And did her supposed “talent” with sigils hold any weight beyond rumor?

   Naire’s next move arched Morrigan’s brow. Despite her wounds, the girl carefully slid a leg down, found her footing, and stood—knees trembling—before extending a hand. Morrigan scoffed at the foolish effort but gripped the calloused fingers (scribe’s marks, unexpected on such delicate hands). Naire’s voice emerged hoarse:

   — You... She swallowed dryly. — You’re the one who saved me?

   A curt nod.

   — I... don’t know how to thank you, but... thank you.

   — “Thank you” suffices. I didn’t come to collect a debt. Curiosity, mostly. And honesty compels me to admit my motives weren’t purely—

   Naire pressed fingertips to Morrigan’s lips, shaking her head.

   — I don’t want reasons. Because... I acted foolishly, provoking Valinsi. We both knew control over emotions—over dark impulses—was fraying. Yet I... stumbled. And... Forgive me. I’m rambling. This must sound absurd. It is absurd. Normally, I keep emotions locked away. No public tears.

   Her voice cracked, but she pushed through like wading through thorns:

   — But now... I’m terrified. Exhausted. Not from labor, but from waking each day into this nightmare. The Tower wasn’t a prison to me. Few know, but my brother grew up here with me—his care made it home. I had goals. A clear path forward, step by step. Then... One thing. Another. Others spoke of misfortunes that crippled minds for years. I never believed... until it happened to me. A descent. Step by step. First Alim left... then small things... and now this. Yet I forced myself to rise, to work, to live. When Valinsi raised his belt... I thought, “This is just another step down.” That passivity shames me. But when it struck—the pain, the humiliation...

   A tear traced her cheek. She barreled on, afraid to stop:

   — Pride, cleverness, confidence... Gone. Just hollow ringing and the primal urge to flee. Others have suffered worse, but that’s... abstract. Empathy is nothing beside lived pain. Hypocrisy aside—others’ agony means nothing when your own consumes you. So when you intervened... There are no words for that reprieve. Even if accidental. Even if self-serving. The result stands alone. You saved me. And I’ve... dumped this torrent on you. Forgive me again.

   Spent, Naire turned away sharply—then swayed. Morrigan caught her before thought caught up. The warmth of another body felt startlingly alive in this dead place. They froze mid-hall, shadows dancing: one grappling with unexpected candor (and the unfamiliar softness pressed to her cheek), the other with her own uncharacteristic openness.

   — Your name?

   A pause. Morrigan’s thoughts scattered before coalescing:

   — Morrigan.

   — And I’m...

   — Naire. Naire Surana.

   — Ah...

   The conversation floundered. The taller woman’s mind drifted to the survivors’ bleak prospects—even if they escaped the Tower’s nightmare, would it ever release them? A disquieting parallel to her own plight. The smaller one simply floundered in the awkwardness, yet basked in the shared warmth.

   Eventually, Naire managed:

   — You...?

   The vague question hung. No miraculous understanding dawned. Morrigan huffed, softening slightly:

   — Rest. You’ll need strength for whatever comes. I make no promises, but I’ll try to save you. The debt’s paid. Your... She caught herself. — Just don’t you dare give up.

   A ghost of a smile flickered on Naire’s face before she nodded—doubtful, but grateful. Morrigan helped her back to bed and left without farewells, thoughts churning.

   Wandering the corridor, Morrigan wrestled with why she’d pledged to protect a life unrelated to hers. First, logic: Naire mattered as Alim’s sister. And curiosity played a role. Then honesty: saving the elf’s last kin had kindled something warm within her. Strip it bare, and what remained? Selfishness. The urge to act on what felt right, then dress it in noble justifications. A subjective calculus. Morrigan grimaced at the tangle of it.

   Then it struck her. Envy.

   She halted mid-step, startling a passing mage. The simplicity of it stunned her. Every action reduced to one concept. Her rational mind lined up the facts: her long-abandoned childhood weakness for shiny trinkets (harmless, yet a vulnerability Flemeth scorned); her later habit of tolerating only exceptional or useful companions (Leliana had called it “proprietorial cynicism”); and now this. Step by step, to the unavoidable truth.

   Bracing against the wall, she whispered,

   — Why... Why do I care?

   The answer crystallized. Naire wasn’t valuable for her pretty face, rare skills, or utility. Only her bond with Alim made her unique. That was what Morrigan coveted—the selfless devotion the elf had waxed poetic about. Not admiration, but a black hunger to possess it. That’s why she’d remembered Naire from the moment she entered the Hold. Why she’d rushed to save her with flimsy excuses.

   Something formless and unnamed within her was shifting. Morrigan’s eyes snapped open, molten gold burning into the corridor wall. She was losing the battle for herself, cornered. Resisting would harm them both. Reality cared nothing for personal crises. Naire needed aid, healing, escape—now.

   A slow exhale. A grim smile.

   — Escape the nightmare...

   The parallels were undeniable: her own struggle, Naire’s plight, the Tower’s collapse. But defeat came only when admitted. Morrigan would extract Alim’s sister. Deliver her to him. Solve her own problems. Leave them behind as a closed chapter. For new goals, tools like Leliana and Bethany would suffice.

   * * *

   At the barrier, the mages who had attended the preliminary discussion had gathered. Not a single one had refused. Surveying the grim audience, now split into small clusters, Morrigan approached Valinsi and Tomara and asked:

   — Who crafted the barrier?

   The man furrowed his brows but, finding no reason to conceal the fact, replied:

   — Niall and his companion. Tinwall.

   Having her suspicions confirmed, the girl smirked. Tomara lightly touched Valinsi’s shoulder and gestured that it was time:

   — It’s time to discuss the plan. If there is one.

   The man nodded gratefully, never allowing himself a moment of weakness—no smile, no remark to lighten the atmosphere already thick with tension.

   — So, Morrigan. The first major obstacle will be the demon by the staircase to the fourth floor?

   — Correct...

   Using a nearby candle stub and dripping beeswax, the enchantress deftly sketched the central hall of the third floor on the stone floor, marking the columns and the demon’s position. With brief explanations, she outlined how they would overcome the first obstacle. Lyrium would be the key, so the plan was to use their full strength while minimizing risks. After posing a dozen probing questions, for which Valinsi had to act as a translator, Morrigan broadly clarified the group’s spell repertoire. Almost immediately, her sharp mind dictated the order in which to deploy them. Tomara and Darin, the oldest mage in the group, wielded Fireball. The other acerbic, gaunt man, who still hadn’t introduced himself, knew Grease. Valinsi commanded Weakness. Additionally, a woman named Lida, who had emphasized the importance of principles, and the silent Anna possessed Mind Blast. This diversity reflected each mage’s inclinations and research focus, offering significant tactical flexibility. Morrigan proposed simultaneously casting Grease, Mind Blast, and Weakness on the demon. Given its stationary position, it made for an ideal first target. Once the flesh-bound foes were slowed, the next step was to unleash two Fireballs. Anna would remain on standby, ready to stun the demon again if it tried to escape the fiery inferno. Despite initial antagonism, most agreed the plan was sound. Even her explanations were deemed thorough enough to secure grudging approval, though displeased expressions lingered.

   Frowning, Valinsi voiced the obvious question:

   — Fine. Suppose it works. We reach the lyrium alive. What then?

   Morrigan bared her teeth in a predatory grin and answered with utter seriousness:

   — Then we start a fire.

Chapter Text

   The climb to the third floor was slow and methodical and took no more than ten minutes. Valinsi attempted once more to raise the question of what exactly this “fire plan” entailed, but the enchantress deflected his questions twice with the same trivial argument: explanations would come in due time, before the act itself, and for now, they should focus on what lay before them. It was clear she took satisfaction in the mage’s reaction—she had cast that bait deliberately. The rest of the group kept their questions and thoughts to themselves, outwardly showing little reaction beyond their initial surprise. Still, Morrigan noticed how Tomara, unlike the others, cast long, thoughtful glances her way—sometimes appraising, sometimes as if searching her features for something familiar. At times, Tomara’s eyes glazed over, as though she’d momentarily forgotten where she was, only to snap back to awareness just as quickly.

   Finally, the staircase came to an end, and the party encountered none of the threats they’d imagined lurking in the shadows. The hall of statues seemed empty and safe, despite the encroaching darkness that swallowed the outlines of the sculptures, the distant walls, and the ceiling, until all faded into an indistinct void. It was as if the seven mages had scared off the lesser creatures responsible for the oppressive emotions and ever-present sense of dread.

   Morrigan stepped into the corridor where the battle with the rage demon had taken place, tension flickering in her narrowed eyes and tightening her jaw. Yet the scorch marks on the walls, floor, and numerous paintings remained untouched, drawing a quiet sigh of relief from her. Valinsi touched her shoulder, his gaze lingering on her strained expression:

   —You’re hiding something.

   Morrigan didn’t answer immediately, merely slanting her yellow eyes toward him:

   —Astute observation. I expected an ambush. Just like on the way down.

   He pressed his lips together. It wasn’t hard to guess what troubled him: she was skilled at lying, yet just as eager to speak the truth when it suited her. The question was—which parts of that truth were bait?

   —Fine. But if you lead us blind again, I’ll handle it without discussion.

   She smirked, as if she’d been waiting for that very response:

   — Promise?

   He nodded curtly and gestured for them to move forward. Peering through the arched passage into the central hall, Morrigan remarked softly:

   —No changes.

   Indeed, every detail remained exactly as it had been, as though no more than a dozen hours had passed. With a confident nod, the enchantress explained briefly that beyond the ring of central pillars, it had been safe to move before. But given the size of their group, it was best to keep their distance now.

   Prepared and without hesitation, each fell into their assigned roles. Two men and Lida began incantations, timing their spells to unleash in unison. But the key players were Tomara and Darin—after exchanging a knowing glance, they raised their hands in perfect sync.

   As if sensing the disturbance, the flickering shadows at the center began shifting toward the edge of the hall where the mages stood. Morrigan clenched her fists, fearing the shadows might break free and attack. If that happened, the plan would fail, and a painful death would await them all. Yet she didn’t retreat, standing firm and staring ahead. In that moment, she gambled on one assumption: that the puppet master behind this was driven by sheer indolence.

   Magic cascaded into the ring of pillars in flawless sequence, a testament to the group’s coordination and experience. The movements of the agitated, translucent figures slowed, growing even more erratic before a deafening crack echoed through the hall. The air expanded violently from the overheated cores of two spheres of fire, which swelled in the span of a heartbeat to fill the space between the pillars with lethal heat. As if on command, every flammable surface ignited.

   Everyone in the group shielded their faces from the searing waves, the sheer intensity of the heat dizzying even in such a vast space. A draft of cool air rushed in from the corridor, replacing the scorching updraft surging toward the ceiling. Flames devoured everything, choking the space between the pillars with acrid smoke and soot.

   While the mages felt only discomfort, their enemy suffered far worse. The fire illuminated the ghostly figures darting aimlessly around the central pedestal. The possessed man, nearly indifferent to the flames licking at his flesh and devouring the remnants of his robes, fought desperately against his own nature and the restraining magic, straining to abandon his perch and reach the source of his torment. His eyes darted from point to point, the scene striking in its near-silence—only the crackling flames and the mages’ labored breaths filled the air.

   When the slowly burning possessed man finally collapsed, Anna snapped. A Mind Blast struck the creature again, leaving it twitching erratically. No one looked away from the inferno they’d created, ignoring their watering eyes. Soon, the fire within the pillar ring had nothing left to consume. Within minutes, the flames died, leaving behind streaks of soot, new cracks from thermal stress, and the familiar, oppressive darkness settled back in. The torches, once sustained by the possessed’s will, had burned to embers. The last thing visible was the charred remains of the possessed on the pedestal—and the absence of the translucent figures.

   Someone exhaled in relief. One of the enchantresses coughed. Everyone kept their focus sharp, eyes straining against the dark. Valinsi raised a hand, cupping his fingers, and with a short incantation—“Luminance”—a spark flickered to life. The motionless orb of light cast a cold, steady glow, illuminating a circle a dozen paces wide. His gaze swept over the group, lingering on Morrigan. Doubt was plain on his face: had this been her brilliant improvisation or a calculated scheme? And which was worse?

   Taking a few hurried steps, the leader dragged the fallen foe back into the light. The moment the charred body entered the illuminated circle, it twitched. The movement of its arms was unmistakable—no trick of the mind—and the reaction was immediate. Three Arcane Bolts struck with a wet thud, splattering black ichor. Morrigan had expected a coordinated response but was surprised by its speed. She’d barely begun to move while others were already preparing counter-spells. No panicked cries—only Anna’s sharp inhale.

   But Tomara was fastest. Her spell struck first. Despite her head injury, her face showed remarkable focus. Morrigan couldn’t help but note how starkly this determination contrasted with her behavior during their first encounter.

   After the final blow, the body sprawled on the floor showed no signs of life—not after a minute, nor after three. Still, Morrigan approached Valinsi and gestured toward his dagger, asking for it. Once the mage handed her the blade, the enchantress was the first to step into the central ring, pausing only once to confirm the absence of threats before striding straight to the corpse. Prodding a revolting chunk of flesh with the toe of her boot and flipping it aside, she swiftly slit the grotesquely swollen throat without hesitation or a trace of disgust. With measured steps, she returned, offering the dagger back hilt-first and wiping her hand on her clothes. Valinsi gave her a look of faint respect and a satisfied nod.

   Behind them, Darin’s voice rasped, grim and creaking:

   —Can’t say the obstacle was insurmountable. Or deadly.

   Lida snorted in reply:

   —Now that the danger’s passed, you boast? One would think wisdom comes with age, not insecurity.

   The wiry mage, with decades behind him, wiped his brow, pushing back sweat-dampened gray strands. His hand trembled—the Fireball had drained him more than he’d expected. Darin grimaced before replying:

   —Youthful mockery… Anyway, Tomara and I did the heavy lifting. Meanwhile, our so-called “guide,” who waxed poetic about the threat, stood aside. A spectator. Here’s my point: we all spent mana. But the two of us, wielding the most lethal spells, paid a steeper price. And in my eyes, the enemy wasn’t worth the effort. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? Hm?

   Tomara nodded slowly—first hesitantly, as if resisting her own gesture, then sharply. Her lips twitched, but no words came.

   Valinsi, pacing back with deliberate steps, scanned their faces in the conjured light and voiced his thoughts:

   —The fight was easy for one reason: we knew what awaited us. Morrigan’s warnings proved true to the last detail. Your shortsightedness astounds me. Fine, that from the old fool I expect—but you, Tomara...

   As Valinsi shook his head in dismay, Lida—her voice tinged with reluctant agreement—sided with their leader:

   —I’ll admit, Morrigan’s plan was inventive. Practical. The fact that I’m saying this speaks volumes. Darin, crow all you want about your “indispensable” role. The flames decided the fate of those… things surrounding the possessed. Ignoring that would’ve been idiocy. Had they swarmed us, who knows how it’d have ended? But fire alone didn’t win this. The heat choked the life from him; the rest of our spells kept him trapped.

   Valinsi surveyed the group—some grudgingly agreeing, others feigning detachment, a few scowling—and ended the debate:

   —We move. And try not to let fear decide for you. However natural it feels.

   Morrigan tilted her head pensively, her unfocused gaze drifting across their faces. Her expression gave no hint whether she agreed with his words or doubted the mages’ ability to heed them. Ahead, the shadowed outlines of ascending stairs awaited.

   * * *

   The return to the fourth floor once again proved the “guide” right. Though darkness filled the hall, their eyes still saw—not far, but enough—with an uncanny clarity. Valinsi’s light had faded midway up the stairs, and Morrigan warned against summoning another, arguing that reaching the lyrium was still a challenge. In this way, the darkness’s strange behaviour became obvious to everyone.

   Wary and on guard for traps, Morrigan immediately directed the group’s attention to the corpse lying nearby. To her, it was a symbol of eerie constancy—unchanged and unmoved since their last encounter:

   — Niall.

   All eyes snapped to the body. Morrigan, meanwhile, subtly studied the group. They seemed to her like a kaleidoscope of masks, each hiding something unknown and therefore perilous. To keep this thought from clouding her judgment, she sometimes had to ground herself with sharp, sobering pain. Most faces bore grim surprise, sorrow, and regret—natural emotions, perhaps. Yet Morrigan couldn’t shake the suspicion that appearances rarely matched hidden motives.

   Tomara knelt beside the corpse, her fingers gripping Niall’s sleeve with unnatural force, knuckles whitening. When she looked up at Morrigan, something flickered in her eyes—gone the next instant, replaced by neutrality. Her words, however, carried a hidden edge:

   — Were you with him when he died?

   Her voice was even, though a vein ticked in her cheek. The question seemed innocent, but Morrigan sensed treachery beneath, like still waters hiding a predator. Valinsi, meanwhile, stared grimly at the body, as if the dead man had betrayed his trust and left him mired in guilt. The mage showed no reaction to the question. Neither did the others, who turned away or remained silent observers.

   Morrigan shrugged, irritation bleeding through before she replied:

   — Yes. How else would I know his fate? The darkness here is fickle. It’s easy to fall prey to illusions. The fight happened here, but I still doubt what I saw.

   Tomara sighed slowly, nodded, and continued in the same neutral tone:

   — So even your own word isn’t proof you didn’t kill him?

   Morrigan noted the darkening expressions of everyone in the group—except Valinsi, lost in thought. Lida tensed visibly. Knowing she couldn’t rely on the leader’s intervention, Morrigan sharpened her tone:

   — Clever. But pointless. These insinuations you leave hanging only aid our enemies. We made our decisions before ascending. New doubts here won’t lead to truth—only death. Seems your concern for allies isn’t a priority. Do we move forward, or waste time?

   She turned to Valinsi, who, shaking off his ghosts, nodded:

   — Enough talk. Lead.

   Tomara’s gaze grew heavy as it passed across the others, as if seeking support before returning to the corpse. Morrigan thought she saw the ghost of a smirk—but, wary of paranoia’s quagmire, she bit her lip hard, cleared her mind, and strode toward the corridor, focusing only on the threats ahead.

   The only change since their last visit was the absence of the black shroud that had barred the armory. The sight dredged up memories of the Hunger’s lair. Peering inside, Morrigan saw three bodies—like the others, stripped to bone. The door hung from bent hinges, as if rammed open. From a distance, their garb resembled Chantry attire more than mage robes.

   The final hall was as oppressive as the rest—silent, dark, and unnervingly still. Everyone tensed, expecting the illusion of safety to shatter. So when the blackness coalesced into a figure slightly darker than the void, it was almost a relief. The creature emerged soundlessly from the hall’s center. At first glance, it seemed human—but then the wrongness settled in. Its shoulders sloped unnaturally, as if lacking scapulae or collarbones, and its arms hung far below the waist.

   Valinsi, Lida, and Morrigan reacted first. Two Arcane Bolts lanced through the figure, briefly illuminating the emptiness before vanishing into the dark. Morrigan’s spell left no visible trace but struck true, revealing a second silhouette—the real threat:

   — There!

   A shout, a raised hand, and a volley of spells from the rest immobilized and crushed the enemy’s true form.

   As the corpse hit the floor, Morrigan and Lida approached. It darkened, merging with the shadows, decaying without scent—as if the darkness itself consumed it. But the remnants of its robes marked it as a mage. Something had reshaped its skull, shoulders, and hands into something clawed and predatory. Studying the remains, Morrigan asked Lida, not expecting an answer:

   — Why didn’t it attack immediately?

   Lida rubbed her forehead thoughtfully before answering:

   — You're right... It holds all the cards. It could have torn through our ranks without risk long before we realized the trick. Or maybe we never would have.

   — It's as if... something among us gave it pause. Like a predator chasing wounded prey only to stumble upon a rival of equal or greater strength. Hunger pushes it forward, but fear and the feeble whispers of reason scream “wait” or “flee.”

   Lida shot a suspicious glance at the girl bent over the corpse, grimaced, and reluctantly looked back at the others. They huddled in shadowy clusters, poised for an attack from any direction while the two enchantresses busied themselves with matters only they understood. Morrigan straightened and asked her companion:

   — Did you follow me here out of distrust? Certainly not curiosity.

   The woman replied without bothering to turn around:

   — I don’t trust you. But right now, I have no choice.

   — And your expectations?

   — Same as ever. Nothing good... Is this how Niall died? When neither you nor he knew for certain what—or who—you were facing?

   Before answering, Morrigan studied Lida’s lean, unfeminine frame from head to toe. The Circle mage was clearly wrestling with thoughts that troubled Morrigan herself. Yet she couldn’t decide if that was a good sign. Likely not, since clarity only bred vulnerability:

   — Yes. It’s terrifying how easily a familiar face becomes a stranger. Dwelling on it is pointless. A knife in the back won’t hurt less for seeing it coming.

   — An interesting thought... Am I to assume you have specific suspicions?

   — Hmm... Your choice of confidant speaks volumes. You’d rather share doubts with me than show weakness to those who’ve known you for years. Your unity seems built on rotten foundations—intrigue and mutual blame. Makes one wonder if that’s why Uldred turned radical.

   Morrigan stepped closer, deliberately avoiding sudden movements that might startle the already tense woman. Placing a hand on Lida’s shoulder, she forced her to turn. Yellow eyes met brown:

   — To be blunt, everyone here is like a puppet. And I think you understand that. What binds you—shared history, for instance—blinds and confuses. In the Tower, certainty is a luxury. And even that’s temporary. Monsters that leap for your throat are simple. The real dangers are those who avert their gaze and wait in sheep’s clothing. Don’t misunderstand. My words will feed your paranoia, contradicting what I’ve said before. But my goal isn’t to drive a wedge deeper. Trying to guess where the enemy lies often means dancing to their tune. Assume every mask hides a monster. The taste of betrayal may not be familiar to me, but sensitivity to it grows with time. I can easily imagine how an enemy might hollow out your unity from within.

   Lida narrowed her eyes and said slowly:

   — You’re suggesting the enemy hides behind an illusion... of normalcy. While their body is already twisted by possession?

   Morrigan bit the inside of her cheek, weighing her response, then answered with uncharacteristic hesitation:

   — More yes than no. It’s conjecture without proof. And what the enemy does is more than just illusion or appearance.

   Lida nodded, then stiffened as if struck by revelation. Her next words spilled out in a rush:

   — That’s it. The flames, the fire... Demons warp reality near Veil tears like clay to their whims. What you describe—it’s as if the possessed cloak themselves in an image, like clothing. And the Tower’s been subjected to the same trick. But like clothing, the facade is static at its core...

   — A torch burns, giving light and warmth, but never consumes itself.

   — Yes... And darkness hides flaws perfectly. That’s why eternal night reigns here. And why your plan might work. But the same trick could also dispel our mutual suspicions.

   Morrigan smirked in surprise before withdrawing her hand:

   — An excellent deduction. I’m impressed. Fire has other strengths, of course. But how—

   Lida cut her off with a sharp gesture:

   — Fire is natural. Self-sustaining. Predictable in progression, yet chaotic in nature. Most importantly, true flame alters essence—inside and out. If we—

   — No. The idea has merit, but such provocation would cause more problems than it solves. Better to wait for a traitor’s strike than force their hand.

   — But—

   Morrigan shook her head firmly. Glancing at the spot where the monster’s corpse had lain—now just tattered rags—she huffed irritably and added without enthusiasm:

   — There’s another way. The lyrium storage is ten paces away. A small, dark room with a door that’s neither quick nor easy to open or seal. If someone were to lock it... Almost all rats in one trap. Animal terror in absolute darkness. Vulnerability. Opportunity. An imperfect method and a grim experience. But better than your mad idea of setting comrades ablaze and turning everyone into enemies. A predator in the dark, if pushed, can’t restrain its nature. If we’re “lucky.” If not, we’re dealing with something far worse. But this plan requires blind trust in me. And that this conversation isn’t just a cat toying with a foolish mouse.

   Lida didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers clenched her robes until her knuckles whitened; her gaze fixed on the floor as if answers were written there. Her breathing was too even—the controlled rhythm of someone forcing down tremors. Jaw tight, her voice like a rusted lock grating open, she muttered:

   — We’ll see…

   Morrigan recognized that tone. It was the voice of those who had made a decision they despised. With a shrug, she feigned indifference to the woman’s choice. Then, without a word, both returned to the group, only to immediately become the targets of irritation for the others, who had endured what seemed like a pointless wait. Only Valinsi remained silent, observing each of them from the sidelines with practiced detachment.

   After several more minutes of Lida’s vague account—deliberately omitting any mention of new discoveries—the leader ordered the group to move. And with a faint smirk, Morrigan soon guided them to the darkened maw of the hidden Templar lyrium cache.

   Approaching a rotated segment of the wall, the witch placed her hand on the trigger stone as if by chance, then turned to the group, locking eyes with Lida. Lida nodded and stepped boldly into the thickening gloom, vanishing from sight. The darkness here was oppressive, reducing visibility to an arm’s length—no accident, Morrigan suspected. At first glance, it seemed the grip of the Tower’s current master weakened near lyrium. But logic whispered another possibility: the effect here was stronger.

   The darkness served several purposes at once: it hindered access to the lyrium, forcing mages to grope blindly under conditions that strained their very being; it bred fear in the foolish and false confidence in the clever; and it tempted mages to waste mana and health on futile efforts. So when Valinsi, entering behind her, immediately conjured a Luminance, Morrigan merely turned to watch. The result would prove her right—or reveal the limits of the demon’s power.

   The light flared—then choked, smothered by a dark cloud that refused to spread beyond half an arm’s length. The mage’s frustrated mutter confirmed it: the blackness had become a claustrophobic wall. To the others, the light was a dim flicker, barely illuminating two steps ahead.

   Perching on a chest she’d found by touch, Morrigan spoke:

   — This darkness leaves everyone alone with their doubts. Valinsi, what’s your take? Does the Tower’s master know our plan?

   A weary sigh came from the shadows.

   — He doesn’t even fully know his own plans... You’re implying we have a traitor. Or worse—someone possessed.

   Voices erupted almost in unison from the dark—Anna and the unnamed man, both already moving deeper into the room:

   — Maker’s breath! This isn’t the time or place. Can we discuss this after finding the lyrium? I feel like I’m being turned inside out...

   — Enough games, “guide.” Show us the lyrium. Let’s leave this cursed place before the headache drives us mad.

   Darin’s dry, grim tone followed:

   — Actually, this is the perfect spot for such talk. No one can strangle the instigator, no faces to read, and concentration’s shot. Easy to cast blame. But ask yourselves: whose promises lured us beyond the safe barrier? We’re blind moles suffering lyrium sickness. If we vanish one by one, who defends those still alive below?

   Morrigan laughed softly, ignoring her own creeping nausea, and addressed Valinsi again:

   — No implications. Just a question awaiting an answer.

   Footsteps suggested he’d retreated to the far wall before replying:

   — ...I think so.

   She nodded to herself:

   — Darin’s paranoia is pointless. Our fates were sealed the moment we stepped onto this floor. The real question is: who stood guard when Niall broke the barrier?

   Valinsi’s voice was quieter, strained:

   — Johan and Tomara. Neira came almost immediately after. Then me.

   — Johan drooled over Neira’s beating. Tomara watched silently. Neither stopped Niall. So: one stranger, one old friend.

   Silence. Then Tomara’s voice, slurred and brittle:

   — Do you truly believe I’d betray you? Or are you just desperate for a scapegoat? Valinsi? Lida?

   Valinsi frowned.

   — Tomara—are you all right?

   — Oh, splendid. Just a... headache.

   Morrigan smirked:

   — Speaking of... Lida never entered.

   A dry click sounded from the entrance. Then, with a faint creak and scrape, the wall segment rotated—sealing the six mages inside. The silence that followed was thick with dawning horror. The golden-eyed witch shook her head in disbelief, lips forming soundless words:

   — As if burying us. Herself included.

   It was proof of the madness gnawing at them all, where doubt made even the wildest gambits seem rational. Morrigan had nudged Lida’s unraveling mind, yes—but she hadn’t expected the woman to trap them in a lyrium-choked tomb just to root out a possible turncoat. Cracking her shoulders, Morrigan addressed the dark:

   — Maybe she’s the traitor. Or maybe she’s waiting for the spiders in the jar to kill each other. Who knows? Right, Tomara?

   Tomara laughed—a ragged, dissonant sound, as if two voices tore through her throat. Then a hiss:

   — He didn’t believe I’d betray him either.

   Valinsi’s alarmed cry overlapped:

   — Tomara?!

   A grotesque gurgle from Anna answered Valinsi’s call—then cut off abruptly, like the flash of a blade severing a head. Taking it as her cue, Morrigan began stripping off her clothes, indifferent to where they fell, her focus locked on suppressing the creeping nausea. Her voice sliced through the blind dark, cold and detached:

   — Find a corner. Press your back to solid stone. Preferably where the sickness is weaker. This “spacious” vault is a lie—it’s crammed with chests of wood and metal, all filled with danger. And for the love of the Void, stay quiet.

   Darin’s muffled cursing and Valinsi’s increasingly frantic calls for Tomara thickened the air, but Morrigan ignored both. Naked and alone in the dark, she exhaled, straightening. Not for the first time, she noted how easily her body now embraced the change—an anomaly that should have terrified her. Then her bones clicked. Muscles tore. Skin split.

   The scent of fear spiked as the others sensed it: they were trapped with two predators, hackles raised, seconds from tearing each other’s throats out. A keen ear might have caught whispered spells—but whose?

   A wet thud silenced all speculation. From the far end of the room came a choked gasp—Darin’s—then another impact. Two voices overlapped in the dark, one familiar, one alien:

   — No. Not... now—

   — You are weak.

   Morrigan launched herself up the wall, claws screeching against stone. She glimpsed Valinsi’s back, lit by a flicker of light as he turned toward the noise—but he saw only a shadow that moved like no human could. Where Darin had stood, a warm body now lay, its chest a wet crater.

   She kicked off, hurling herself backward toward Valinsi, betting Tomara would target him next.

   She was right.

   Their bodies collided midair. Morrigan didn’t hesitate—she bit. The thing wearing Tomara barely flinched, confirming her suspicions. It wrenched at her, but she sank her claws deeper, even as its grip crushed her shoulder. Bone crunched. Pain lanced up her spine, white-hot and cleansing—it burned away the nausea, the headache.

   One-armed, she tore at its clavicle, blood flooding her mouth. The monster leaped. They crashed through a chest, metal vessels clanging, before Morrigan’s spine hit the wall. Breath fled. Then—fire.

   Valinsi’s spell—a crude Flaming Hands—ignored ally and foe alike. The possessed roared; Morrigan’s skin blistered. Agony anchored her to the moment. She drove her remaining claws under its ribs, yanking. A hiss answered, like a nest of enraged serpents—then the thing spun, slamming her into stone again. Air whistled from her lungs in a gurgling scream.

   From the dark, an Arcane Bolt took her elbow clean off.

   No blood. Just laughter—wet and hacking. Of course. The very people she was protecting had maimed her. And when she reverted...?

   Another bolt came—aimed at her, but it tore through the possessed instead, punching a fist-sized hole in its chest.

   Morrigan kicked off the wall, dragging the monster with her. Her jaws found its throat. It retaliated with hammer-blows to her skull, one even striking itself in its frenzy. She writhed, knowing a solid hit would end her—

   Another Arcane Bolt whizzed past, scattering dust from the ancient masonry.

   Then—leverage. The thing grabbed her leg, heaving—but she clung to its swollen neck with her remaining arm. Momentum did the rest. With a sickening rip, she took its Adam’s apple with her as she flew.

   She hit the ground hard. Behind her, the possessed bubbled, blood sloshing onto stone. It refused to die—until, a minute later, a heavy thud announced its collapse.

   —Morrigan?

   In some twisted way, the witch felt a surge of grim triumph at Valinsi’s question—an acknowledgment of reality and a flicker of hope in her survival. Of course, the darker part of her whispered that he might simply be confirming her death over Tomara’s. She silenced that voice. In her current state, though, a coherent reply was beyond her.

   — Careful! We don’t know what happened in the dark. Or if it’s truly over.

   The unnamed mage’s voice, laced with suspicion rather than Valinsi’s concern, was far more familiar to Morrigan’s ears. Spitting a glob of bloody saliva, she clenched her teeth and willed the transformation to reverse.

   Her body erupted in agony—not the dull throb of past shifts, but something new, perverse. Magic stitched her flesh back together with brutal indifference. Bones cracked into place too fast, too rough—a rib gouged muscle, her collarbone screeched into an unnatural curve. Worst was her right arm: the phantom pain of the severed limb became real, as if each knuckle were being methodically crushed.

   She swallowed another mouthful of blood but didn’t scream. Screaming was weakness. And weakness here meant death. Through the pain, a thought slithered: The magic mends me carelessly. As if I’m just... meat.

   When her vision cleared, she looked first at her right hand. Fingers intact. Whole. But the pain lingered—a distant, gnawing ache, as if the bones remembered being shattered. Flexing them brought a fleeting relief. The rest was secondary.

   Cautious footsteps approached. A dim light pierced the dark, revealing Valinsi’s silhouette looming over her. The glow exposed her nakedness—and the extent of her injuries: bruises like smudged ink across her ribs, a shoulder mottled with crushing fingerprints, blood sheeting her arms to the elbows.

   The mage frowned.

   —Are you... all right?

   Morrigan uncurled her trembling fist:

   — Oh, perfectly. I simply adore being beaten half to death. Care to check my pulse?

   — You owe us answers.

   — Nothing new there.

   — Your tone suggests I shouldn’t hope for any. Yet you’re in no position to evade. Your current state and... what I first saw of you have disturbing parallels.

   — I’m in the perfect position to evade. Priorities, remember?

   — Half my team is dead! Don’t lecture me on—

   Valinsi cut himself off, wincing as his own raised voice spiked his headache.

   Morrigan barreled on:

   — Now’s exactly the time. Remember what killed them? Remember your odds? Spare me the outrage. Survival is the only priority. The only proof. Doubts mid-battle are for fools and corpses—often the same. If you need evidence, grope for Tomara’s body in the dark. The signs will speak for themselves.

   From the shadows, the other mage’s tense voice confirmed:

   — She’s... not wrong. This thing—it barely resembles Tomara. But the amulets, the clothes, the earring... they’re hers.

   Valinsi pressed his lips into a thin line.

   — The others?

   — Gone. No chance. Anna’s neck was snapped—nearly torn clean off. Darin’s chest was caved in...

   Morrigan corrected idly:

   — Twice.

   A pause:

   — ...If you say so.

   Valinsi shut his eyes.

   — Darin. Twenty years... He inhaled sharply, voice dropping to ice— How did Tomara die?

   The mage hesitated:

   — Valinsi, that wasn’t—

   — How?

   — From what I can tell... claw marks, a puncture under the ribs, bites, and... her throat was ripped out.

   Valinsi nodded, as if confirming a private theory. His gaze slid over Morrigan—battered but unbroken, her wild grace undimmed even now. The light clung to her sweat-slick skin, to the rise and fall of her bruised ribs...

   His lips twitched—in irritation or something darker. When he met her mocking stare, his paranoia snapped taut:

   — Where are your clothes?

   — Somewhere here. Look for them. Find the lyrium while you’re at it. I’ll... rest, with your permission. It’s been tiring work.

   Her heavy eyelids fell, veiling those golden eyes. Just to rest them, she told herself. Just that.

   * * *

   Morrigan opened her eyes to the sensation of someone tapping her cheek. The darkness here was different from the lyrium vault’s oppressive gloom. Above her loomed Lida’s face—forehead creased with doubt, lips pressed thin to cage irritation, but relief flickering in the red-rimmed depths of her eyes. A quick glance confirmed Morrigan was propped against a wall near the secret door, dressed (if haphazardly), with no men in sight.

   The silence stretched until Lida broke it:

   — You’re awake.

   A pointless observation that prickled Morrigan’s temper. The younger witch’s expression must have betrayed it, because Lida sighed before continuing:

   — Good. Though that’s the wrong word. Nothing went to plan.

   Morrigan tested her limbs. Everything moved, albeit with a dull ache radiating from fingertips to scalp. New pains, too—gifts from that brutal transformation. Bandages constricted her torso, shielding the scrapes on her back. She held her breath, assessing: Ribs intact. Tolerable.

   Methodically, she flexed her right fist, forcing obedience through the pain. A sardonic thought flickered: An hour’s rest, good as new. Only then did she deign to reply:

   — To plan? Was there one? Or did you finally believe what I told you? — Her golden eyes burned into Lida. — Spare me the hypocrisy. When you sealed that door, you knew. Hoped, maybe, but knew. So ask yourself: Who walks out? And as what?

   Lida’s fingers fussed with Morrigan’s sleeve:

   — There’s truth in that. I can’t stop thinking... Anna hated the dark. Slept with a lamp on since childhood. And now—

   — You bandaged and dressed me.

   — Yes.

   — Thank you.

   Lida kept her eyes down:

   — Don’t. I needed you to kill her.

   — And now?

   — Now I see I was right. — She finally looked up—no joy, just weary certainty. — Tomara... No, I don’t want to know.

   — Wise. Some nightmares are best forgotten.

   Valinsi pinched the bridge of his nose, grimacing through a headache.

   — Optimistic.

   Morrigan shrugged:

   — Option two is death.

   — Are they different? — he snapped. — Every ‘plan’ of yours leads us into another monster’s jaws.

   — Yet you live. Isn’t that proof enough?

   Lida cut in:

   — She’s right. We’d be dead ten times over without her.

   Valinsi’s jaw clenched—admitting it cost him.

   Groaning like an old crone, Morrigan levered herself upright against the wall and adjusted her clothes:

   — How long?

   — An hour.

   — Did I...?

   — Sleep peacefully? — Lida’s pause was answer enough. — You thrashed. Like all of us. I doubt anyone here remembers a normal dream. The Fade clings tighter than childhood memories. But you needed rest, even at the cost of... visions.

   Morrigan nodded, privately unsettled. This time, there’d been nothing between closing her eyes and waking—no nightmare, no void. A bad sign, or a worse one?

   — The others?

   — Ransacking the vault. We need direction. ‘Burn it all’ is too vague. And after that... fight... — Lida’s voice frayed. — This feels like elaborate suicide. Any hope of success is—

   Morrigan shuddered, suddenly abrupt:

   — This endless dark is nauseating. And I’ve endured barely a drop of it. No wonder it’s driving you mad. — She straightened. — The plan’s simple. And mad. Like your stunt with the door. But we wait for the others.

   Lida nodded, leaning against the wall and directing her blind gaze into the formless, depthless darkness. Morrigan studied her with a scrutinizing look, searching for signs of fracture, then called out to the remaining mages, her voice unapologetically loud. Contrary to expectation, no echo returned—no reverberation that would suggest a spacious hall with high ceilings.

   Soon, Valinsi emerged from the storage room, looking weary, followed by his secretive partner, who still withheld his name. The latter didn’t even grant the witch a sidelong glance. The squad leader, however, nodded and gave her another once-over. Beating him to the punch by a heartbeat, the girl spoke first:

   — No obvious questions about health, state, or well-being. Did you find the lyrium?

   — Yes. We can haul out the chest.

   — Did you keep yourselves busy?

   — Moved a few crates to stash the raw lyrium deeper inside and set up a latrine. Petty revenge, just our style. And natural needs don’t wait.

   Morrigan tilted her chin skeptically, marveling at how the man before her clung to practicality and composure, busying himself with anything useful rather than crumbling or losing his mind under the weight of numbing anticipation and endless self-flagellation.

   — Plan.

   The word made the mage raise his brows and finally drew the secretive partner’s attention to the witch’s presence. Gesturing for Lida to join them, Morrigan began her explanation.

   — Simple in essence. Built on conjecture. So it’s open to critique—but only the kind that shows some thought. Save the empty chatter. As you’ve all noticed, a demon guarded the stairs to the fourth floor. Laziness or Idleness. No reason the stretch between the fourth and fifth would differ. But of course, the demon here will be several times stronger. It fits the idea that the closer we get to the Veil’s rupture at the peak—and the farther from the tower’s base—the more intelligent and powerful the demons become. Nearing the Veil’s breach brings other risks, too—like heightened madness. From this, I infer Pride hasn’t moved. And won’t. Otherwise, we’d already be dead. Two goals follow: overcome the stair guard, then topple the tower’s master. And let’s be clear—no one but the First Enchanter can bear witness to the crisis’s end. Not my words.

   Valinsi smirked grimly:

   — Gregor?

   — The Knight-Commander, yes. So. Lyrium will help us achieve both goals. By coincidence, we’ve no one left who’s skilled in strong fire spells. Valinsi, you know the formulas to ignite things.

   The mage nodded openly, waiting for her to continue.

   — We’ll drag flammable items to the central hall’s entrances. Light fires. The more smoke, the better. Smoke the creature out. It’ll die, flee, or chase us. Either way, it’s off the stairs.

   The second mage asked, suspicion lacing his voice:

   — What makes you think whatever’s there won’t charge at us immediately?

   — The best guards—the ones who won’t wander the floors—are born of laziness and idleness. Just like on the third floor. To the fires. We’ll light another by the stairs. More smoke. But this time, everything containing lyrium goes into the flames.

   All three mages paled. The nameless squad member spoke first, voicing what troubled the rest:

   — When vaporized, lyrium rapidly reverts to its unbound state, regaining its toxic qualities. Rising with the smoke as fine particles, it’ll poison anyone with the talent.

   Lida snorted and added tensely:

   — It’s not just poison for mages. But... yes, mages will die first. Agonizingly.

   Morrigan shrugged, dismissing the implication of excess cruelty:

   — Remember? Open to suggestions. But ask yourselves—how do you measure up to the one who started this nightmare?

   A heavy silence fell. Lida broke it first, nervously biting her lower lip:

   — There must be other ways... We could try...

   The nameless mage cut her off sharply:

   — Like what? Run? We already tried. Hide? Nowhere left. Wait for help? We’ve been written off.

   His tone was uncharacteristically fervent, and Valinsi silenced him with a look. Then the leader made a suggestion, as if grasping at straws:

   — Niall?

   Morrigan shook her head:

   — If he’d had anything practical besides blood magic... He’d still be dead. Just not like this. — The witch fixed them all with a hard stare. — That hope is empty. Like all the others.

   The nameless mage inhaled sharply, fists clenched, but said nothing. Lida covered her face with her hands. Valinsi stood motionless, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the fury of his thoughts. At last, Morrigan spoke, shattering the silence:

   — The plan’s as sharp as a blade’s edge. So are our chances. The idea is the poison will drive the demon away. Maybe before its victims die. In the worst case, we win—and cleanse the Hold—but the First Enchanter dies. And negotiating with the Knight-Commander falls to you.

   Valinsi nodded, accepting each point, but his tone was grimly focused as he clarified another aspect:

   — Beyond the... cruelty, something else troubles me. Lyrium dust... There’s a Chantry law forbidding its use like this against mages. On the one hand, it’s meant to pacify the Circles and prevent large-scale lyrium weaponization by nations and free cities. On the other—far more critical—it’s a cornerstone of a political deal with Tevinter, averting inevitable conflict between a mage-ruled state and a religious order bent on controlling mages. There’s only one exception to this ban, enacted after the Nevarran Incident in the Age of Glory: the Right of Annihilation. Everyone here must understand. This isn’t just compromising principles—it’s a grave crime in the eyes of the Chantry’s hierarchy. Far worse than apostasy, public blood magic, or similar trifles. This is about politics and precedent. Everyone stays silent. And not just for themselves. The Chantry would sooner make an entire Circle vanish, already compromised by mass possession, than confront the source of dangerous rumors. And while my comrades grasp the weight of this... I can’t say the same for you, Morrigan.

   The witch’s face split into a sly grin, which twisted into a pained grimace as she attempted a mocking bow—a jab at the squad leader’s monologue:

   — This brings us to terms.

   — To the fact that your word is worthless currency.

   — You’ve nothing better. Be objective. Now that you’re warned, even to hint at this... I’m no suicide. Or is it something else you fear? A stranger who holds the Circle’s lives in her fist? Even at the cost of her own skin.

   — Obviously.

   The girl looked at him as if he were a fool and shrugged:

   — Well, we could do nothing. But wait... Can we? Seems we’ve had this talk before...

   The three Circle members exchanged glances. Lida winced but nodded. The second mage, staring gloomily at his boots, muttered:

   — No choice exists in a hopeless situation.

   Valinsi fixed Morrigan with a heavy gaze:

   — What are your terms?

   — Any doubts about me—keep them to yourselves. No matter what.

   — That’s all?

   — Too little?

   — Not at all. No. Fine. I’ll speak for everyone. But let there be reciprocity. If we catch your tongue too loose, we’ll handle it as we see fit. And by we, I mean any of us who can justify their suspicions to the others.

   Morrigan nodded slowly, weighing the unpredictability and far-reaching consequences of such an agreement. Still, she shook the offered hand, knowing full well there was no other path. Only empty chatter remained.

   — Details settled. Time to begin.

   * * *

   The initial stages of Morrigan’s plan unfolded, to the surprise of the severely diminished group, without major deviations—gathering flammable materials, erecting barricades, preparing lyrium concoctions. It seemed fate itself granted them respite. Even the sheer volume of preparatory work, far greater than anticipated, proved no real obstacle.

   Their greatest luck was the complete absence of demons and the possessed in the corridors—nothing hindered their movements, nothing attacked from the shadows. The dangerous creatures had truly retreated beyond the Veil, just as Morrigan predicted.

   The central hall of the fourth floor had two alcoves leading off the outer corridor, opposite each other. Inside, conditions mirrored the storage room: no clear boundary of the Fade’s encroaching mutability, only an impenetrable blackness, a result of the tower’s master’s influence. It took two hours to drag all flammable, smoke-producing materials into place—bedding, clothing, leather goods, hides, parchment, and the like. With the barricades complete, Valinsi committed the first in a series of necessary violations of Circle law: he deliberately set the fires.

   The flames ignited reluctantly, as if hindered by some will. Watching, Morrigan whispered:

   — He’s here... Restraining the fire.

   Lida shivered, glancing around:

   — Why doesn’t he attack?

   — The simplest answer is closest to the truth. He can’t...

   But judicious use of magic and ample lyrium potions kept the flames alive. Soon, two roaring pyres spewed choking smoke, filling the hall with stifling heat and stench. The smoke seeped into the corridor too, forcing them to fashion face wraps and sweat through the labor of directing it upward. How this looked from the fifth floor or outside was anyone’s guess, but the reaction they awaited took a grueling, nausea-inducing hour and a half. Each minute brought headaches, dizziness, and nosebleeds—compounded by exhaustion, hunger, and thirst.

   Of Morrigan’s three predicted outcomes, the third came to pass. A guttural roar echoed through the hall as a pile of burning debris shifted, revealing the silhouette of a Bereskarn—a southern bear twisted by the Blight, now demon-possessed. Or perhaps a demon had chosen this form deliberately. The group didn’t linger to find out, bolting for the opposite passage. Each carried salvaged crates of Templar lyrium concoctions and broken furniture for fuel. The only challenge was dismantling the smoldering barricade—a task solved by layering five winter blankets into a makeshift bridge.

   Events accelerated. While the “stair guard” lumbered through the corridor seeking its tormentors, they hauled wood through the darkness to the lower steps, lit another pyre, and—hands trembling—began emptying bottles stamped with the Corps’ insignia into the flames, wary of inhaling the billowing smoke. The hardest part: repeating the motions until the demon maintaining the Veil’s rupture abandoned its host. Too soon, and they’d risk the Bereskarn’s wrath; too late, and—

   The quartet worked monotonously, ears straining—visibility was nil. Their labor’s fruit: plumes of black-and-cobalt smoke curling into the stairwell’s maw. At some point—time had blurred—the most reticent of them broke the silence:

   — What if the demon vents the fifth floor? What good are our efforts then?

   Valinsi scowled, soot streaking his brow, but Morrigan countered:

   — The one below won’t allow it. This isn’t subtlety. He’s contained the Veil’s rupture. Neither has acted independently since. They’re locked in a stalemate—figuratively clawing at each other.

   The man coughed, a wet, ugly sound, then grimaced:

   — You hope.

   — I calculate. There’s a difference. Better question: why does everyone guard your name so fiercely?

   Valinsi answered for him:

   — No mystery. Our comrade’s a paranoid, and recent events haven’t softened that. Besides—

   — Val!

   The leader wiped his nose—soot or blood?—and snapped:

   — Drop it. What does it matter now?

   — There’s always—Maker! Do what you want.

   Lida, stepping back to remove her wrap and gasp for air, smiled faintly with blackened lips. Valinsi nodded grimly and continued:

   — Jehan. That’s his name. And beyond paranoia, Jehan finds his origins... inconvenient. Shameful, even.

   — Orlesian?

   — Occupation.

   Morrigan shook her head, mildly baffled but withholding judgment. After all, she knew nothing of her own father.

   Suddenly, Lida let out a rasping cry, pointing a shaking hand at the alcove behind them. The group whirled, braced to flee—but instead of an enemy, a pale stripe of daylight from a nearby window stretched across the corridor floor. The light wasn’t triumphant, but its warmth melted the knot of dread in each of them.

   Jehan was first to shake off the stupor, shoving Valinsi’s shoulder. Wordlessly, the men began dismantling the pyre, scattering embers across the hall. The flames cast lively glows on the austere walls—more akin to a Templar drill yard than a Circle tower’s heart.

   The darkness now clung only to the corners, and shadows regained their familiar edges. Every detail was returning to normal. After repeating the ritual of lyrium potions—for those whose bodies could still endure the toxic mineral—the quartet began their final ascent on unsteady legs. The stairs held no surprises, no horrors. It was absurdly mundane.

   And then, the sight awaiting them at the top struck each differently. The Circle mages had been here before, but for Morrigan, it was a first.

   The hall consumed the entire fifth floor—vast, soaring, oppressive in its grandeur. The ceiling arched dizzyingly upward, painted a celestial azure that could pass for a cloudless sky. Walls between narrow window frames—ten meters tall, their glass paned in small squares—bulged inward with semicircular columns, as if squeezing sunlight inside. No other supports. The floor was a mosaic of worn Imperial symbols, once sacred. But beyond the architectural marvels, darker details emerged.

   First, the cracks. Most perimeter windows were fractured, glass resisting some unseen pressure. Chips marred the columns, as if lashed by invisible whips. Then came the dry crunch underfoot and the familiar nausea—lyrium particles, fallen from the cooled smoke. Mages shouldn’t linger here.

   Finally, their eyes fixed on the bodies. Fifteen figures.

   Approaching cautiously, the mages halted before the semicircle of corpses. Lida dragged a hand down her face, smearing grime—wiping fatigue or checking if this was a dream. Jehan’s knuckles whitened, but his expression stayed stone; too much loss had numbed him. Even Valinsi, usually eloquent, just breathed heavily, staring at the dead mentors.

   Morrigan watched with cold curiosity. These were just names to her, but Lida’s trembling fingers, Valinsi avoiding one elder’s face—these people had shaped their lives.

   Lida finally rasped:

   — Creepy...

   That one word carried the weight of days.

   The upper echelon of Kinloch Hold’s Circle lay here, bearing mild possession marks. Perhaps Uldred’s radical speech had caught them mid-council. Perhaps they’d chosen to fight, buying time for others. Now they were just quiet dead, united by one trait: blood seeping from noses, eyes, mouths, ears—lyrium poisoning. The possessed had inhaled the settling dust without caution.

   At the center knelt three figures. Left: a sorceress past fifty winters. Right: an elderly man in the First Enchanter’s robes. Both encased in translucent mana-woven spheres—a piece of spellwork Morrigan couldn’t place. The third figure, central, was a bald man with no possession marks.

   — Uldred.

   Lida’s bitter murmur answered the obvious.

   As the trio hesitated, Morrigan snatched Valinsi’s dagger and hurled a spell at the corpse:

   — Tua vita mea est.

   The spell fizzled. Dead. Unmoving.

   She shoved the body aside, revealing six eyes—all crimson from burst vessels—on his altered face. A mask of calm superiority, mismatching his kneeling pose. Suddenly, all six pupils focused on her. A whisper escaped his lungs:

   — I’ll remember.

   Then the eyes rolled back, leaving only reddened whites.

   Lida shuddered:

   — Creepy...

   Jehan nodded:

   — And tragic. The Circle’s beheaded. We’re not far from ruin.

   Valinsi shook his head, glowering:

   — One saved life matters. We saved more. Hard times ahead, but we’ll face them.

   Morrigan frowned, unsettled by the corpse’s behavior, but conceded:

   — Simplistic. But agreed. Now... what of these?

   She gestured at the spheres.

   Valinsi smeared soot on his cheek, murmuring:

   — Two years ago, in Val Royeaux... I saw this—“Absolute Forcefield.” First Enchanter Irving and Senior Enchanter Ines Arancia must’ve mastered it, and how to sustain it while unconscious. High art. — He hesitated. — Blood magic was likely involved. These spheres... They block external forces—and trap the mage inside. Probably shielded them from lyrium dust. But why only these two? Alive, yes, but... it raises questions. I feel... disappointed.

   — Your shining knight’s armor tarnished?

   He didn’t rise to her taunt, just clenched his fists. Morrigan smirked, then relented:

   — We’re no paragons either. But the question stands.

   Lida licked her lips, grimaced, and spat. Her gaze swept the hall—spheres, corpses, cracked windows, lyrium dust. Her voice held exhaustion and odd relief:

   — If the demon couldn’t breach this... — she exhaled. — We’re done here. Irony is, we need the Templars now. Before the spells drain these two dry.

   The silence hung heavier than smoke. Even Jehan just rubbed his brow. Valinsi crossed his arms, trembling—from fatigue or the thought it might’ve all been futile.

   Morrigan shook her head sharply, dispelling tension:

   — Then we descend. Let them witness this. Play the rescuers; it might soften the Maker’s warriors. We’ve done all we can.

   Valinsi nodded, wiping his face—only smearing soot and sweat. He clung to willpower, numbed by compromises and horrors. Even Lida and Jehan looked fresher. Morrigan herself ached for dreamless sleep beyond the Hold’s walls. A proper bath—a cold lake would do. Real food. And, she reminded herself, the library. Even now.

   * * *

   On the second floor, the group was greeted with restrained jubilation. The Circle members who were still capable of emotion held back, saving their celebration for when they stood under the open sky. As everyone had hoped, the barrier separating the first floor from the second had also vanished. The few surviving adult mages found themselves facing the healers, who were largely unharmed. The healers immediately rushed to aid their friends and colleagues, ignoring the warnings of an elderly woman standing at the front. It seemed she had been the one maintaining order here until now.

   Morrigan observed with interest from within the thinning crowd as Valinsi’s grim gaze—starkly different from the others—locked with the steely eyes of an aged but poised woman with a neat hairstyle. The contrast between them was sharp, as if they embodied incompatible ideals: a battle-worn victor, stained and compromised, and a representative of the old guard, outwardly unblemished yet unlikely to claim credit for the lives she had preserved. It was clear there had never been warmth between these two, and the weight of fresh suspicions would not change that. The mage gave a curt nod, received an equally reserved response, and moved past her toward the exit. Without sparing the pensive stranger another thought, Morrigan slipped after Valinsi, unnoticed.

   As they neared the massive double doors—resembling fortress gates and serving as the only entrance and exit for the entire building—the clamor of the apprentices grew louder. The doors were slightly ajar, but only enough for one moderately slender mage to slip through sideways. Beyond them, the glint of Templar armor caught the fading evening light. Pushing carefully through the crowd of youths, the leader of the group edged toward the exit. Over the noise, Morrigan couldn’t make out his words, so she began scanning the room.

   Children teetered on the brink of tears. The faces of the adolescents reflected a volatile mix of burgeoning hope and stubborn fear. Everyone was talking, even if no one was listening, their voices rising in chaotic waves of unchecked debate. With the exception of Morrigan’s group, the instructors were busy aiding survivors near the stairs, leaving the apprentices to their own devices. The scene resembled a gathering storm, and Morrigan instinctively sensed how close this fragile state was to disaster—how easily panic could ignite like dry grass catching flame.

   Turning, she searched for familiar faces and soon spotted Naire, tense and focused, making her way through the crowd. When their eyes met, Naire smiled with unmistakable relief. Morrigan noted, with some surprise, how much this unguarded empathy soothed her own frayed nerves. Attempting a half-smile in return, she suddenly wondered what Bethany or Leliana would advise in this moment.

   As she glanced around again, she caught the shift in Valinsi’s tone—calm giving way to urgency. Wrinkling her nose, Morrigan raised a fist, instantly drawing the attention of those nearby. Without wasting the initiative, she spoke loudly and clearly:

   — Who wants out?

   A disjointed chorus of hesitant voices answered. She repeated the question, sharper this time:

   — Who wants out? Louder!

   This time, the response was a near-unified shout, startling Valinsi, who had missed her first call.

   — You’re afraid. Pointlessly! Beyond those doors are your protectors—and they’re far more afraid of you. That’s the only reason the doors are still shut. Yes, today they’re cowards! Just like you and I have been at times. But cowards have sharp swords and sturdy armor. What do you have? Nothing? Wrong! Numbers. Youth. Hands unbloodied, souls untainted. That’s power. Enough to outweigh fear and steel. Because cowards swore oaths. Their world is built on them. A single Templar might be a bastard, but together? The Order’s doctrines and the Chantry’s laws are unbreakable in daylight and under the eyes of their brothers. Without orders from above, raising a sword against the innocent becomes a hundredfold harder. But there’s another reason you’re still on this side of the door. No one wants to be the first. Anyone but me. Right? Because the first one to move gets trampled—by friend and foe alike. Why risk your neck for strangers? But without the first stone, there’s no avalanche.

   She surveyed the chastened teens, their wary eyes flicking toward the doors. Valinsi, wide-eyed, gestured furiously for her to stop, but the damage was done. Another voice rang out, marking the point of no return:

   — I’m not afraid to go first!

   Morrigan whirled toward the familiar voice, meeting Naire’s steady gaze. Limping but resolute, the elf strode toward the doors in the sudden silence, the crowd parting for her. She was no leader, no mighty mage—and that, more than anything, struck the apprentices. From beyond the doors, irritated shouts rose behind Valinsi, but the man stared at the petite elf as if spellbound, even unnerved. Standing before him, she issued a simple command:

   — Move.

   The mage opened his mouth as if to speak, then snapped it shut, stepped aside, and bowed his head wearily. Naire slipped through the gap as effortlessly as if it were an ordinary doorway, then drew a deep breath and announced with all the force her small lungs could muster:

   — There are wounded and children here. We are leaving. Whether you stain your blades with blood or show mercy is your choice before the Maker. But not one of us will spend another second in this cursed Hold.

   The sound of drawn steel and distant, indistinct shouts followed. The scrape of Naire’s footsteps worked better than any spell. The apprentices roared and surged forward as one, pressing against the doors. Caught off guard, Valinsi was flattened against the right door, which groaned in protest and began to move. Clearly, the other side lacked a proper barricade—only stacked stones or some makeshift obstruction. Near the edge, a ten-year-old boy in a torn doublet clutched a tattered primer of magical theory to his chest, sobbing into the skirt of an older apprentice. She absently stroked his hair, her own terrified gaze fixed on the doors.

   As the passage widened, a triumphant cry rang out, and the human tide spilled forth—not mindlessly, not in a frenzy of desperation. Naire’s example had kindled something noble, however fleeting, in their young minds. The smallest were carried first—on backs, in arms, passed like precious cargo. Older teens formed protective clusters, shielding the younger ones with their bodies as if expecting a blow from behind. A tall youth with a bloodied bandage across his forehead shouted orders somewhere in the middle of the crowd, but his voice drowned in the chaos. Next came the protesting girls, pushed ahead by the tide, followed by the older boys.

   The sight of children weeping at their first glimpse of the sky struck the Templars like a physical blow. With no explicit orders to attack, their resolve wavered. Before their hesitation could tip into irreversible action, a sharp command cut through the noise:

   — Sheathe your blades!

   A minute later, Morrigan and the other adults were swept outside into the cool evening air, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. The scents of forest, straw, campfires, food, and even latrines were intoxicating. The faintest brush of wind, the rustle of leaves—all felt like miracles. Ignoring the tension still balanced on a knife’s edge, the crowd erupted in smiles and laughter. The fully armored Templars struggled to contain the flow, but behind their visors, their eyes were confused, unsettled—perhaps even a little afraid—devoid of hatred.

   Morrigan quickly spotted Naire standing apart from the throng and rushed to her, crashing into an open embrace. Both exhaled shakily. The elf laughed; Morrigan allowed herself the ghost of a smile, this time untainted by irony.

   The apprentices were followed by the adults, led by the same woman who had greeted them at the first-floor landing. Squinting against the sun, she smiled warmly. At that moment, heavy footsteps approached rapidly from behind. Morrigan turned to face the Knight-Commander of the Corps, flanked by veterans and the brooding figure of Alim. The six Templars halted a few paces away. Morrigan smirked.

   — Did the gamble pay off? The result’s far from ideal, but such is reality. As for the First Enchanter—

   Four blades flashed free, their edges resting with lethal precision against her throat, the steel still humming. Gregor ran a slow hand over his sword’s hilt, his eyes as cold as its edge:

   — You understand you can’t simply walk away. Not after all that’s happened. — He paused, surveying the crowd. — Accusations of maleficarum. The murder of our warriors... — His grip tightened. — For apostasy, maleficarum, the murder of the Maker’s warriors, and suspected possession, you are remanded into custody pending investigation!

   The crowd scattered like water hissing off hot stones. Only Naire remained, unmoving, blinking in confusion. Morrigan’s expression emptied as she shifted her gaze from the tense Knight-Commander to Alim:

   — You?

   The elf’s silence was answer enough. Ignoring Morrigan, he spoke to his sister:

   — Naire, come here. Please.

   — But she saved me, Alim! I don’t understand—

   Alim’s fists clenched until his knuckles whitened. His eyes darted between Naire and Morrigan, searching for some flaw in his suspicions. But the woman before him was undeniably Morrigan. Regret, pain, and irritation warred in his voice:

   — This is... the right way. For everyone.

   He stepped forward:

   — I waited by those doors from dawn till dusk, sister. Every hour could’ve been your last. And you know what kept me there? The thought that if you survived... it’d likely be because of her. — His gaze flicked to Morrigan. — But that doesn’t mean I can overlook the rest.

   Morrigan laughed bitterly and nudged Naire toward him:

   — Go to him. He’ll spin you a tale or two. Might even forget who saved his hide.

   Then she focused entirely on Gregor:

   — Should’ve left you to die back then.

   The Knight-Commander didn’t flinch:

   — No. This is no ordinary situation. Given what you may have done... perhaps. First, I’ll ascertain the facts. Then we’ll scour the Hold. Reinforcements are coming—someone skilled in detecting possession. Only then will the survivors’ fates be decided. And I’ll gladly place yours in his hands.

   — A clear conscience? How quaint. A bit late for that, no?

   — In your place, I’d relish the reprieve, not mock it. But then, I’m not in your place.

   — Fair. You’d have doomed everyone. Best tend to the First Enchanter while he still breathes.

   As Gregor moved to give the order, Valinsi stepped forward:

   — Knight-Commander. She saved dozens.

   Gregor’s reply was ice:

   — And slew as many.

   — No proof. Only hearsay.

   Morrigan snorted:

   — Oh, spare me. You didn’t trust me either.

   Valinsi held Gregor’s gaze:

   — I didn’t. But I know—without her, we’d be dead.

   His voice carried not just conviction, but near desperation, as if defending the last shreds of his own honor. Morrigan cut in:

   — Our deal stands while I live. Tell these fools about Irving.

   To the Templars, she added:

   — Will my belongings be returned?

   — They’re with the Chantry sister who accompanied you.

   — Do what you must...

   The hollow permission felt like a petty victory, nothing more. Gregor gestured, and the four veterans escorted Morrigan toward a nearby building, blades still drawn. The Knight-Commander turned to Valinsi. The last thing Morrigan saw was Alim and Naire arguing under the watchful eyes of two Templars, their voices rising in strained confrontation.

Chapter Text

   Morrigan stood by the rough-hewn wall of a small chamber. With every breath, the scent of damp stone filled her lungs. It was two paces from wall to wall in width, three in length, and when she stood upright, a mere hand’s breadth remained between her head and the ceiling. Along the wall ran a crudely crafted bench. In the corner stood two old oak buckets—one seemingly full of cool, clean water, the other empty. None of this held much interest for the girl. Tilting her head back, she gazed up at the solitary light shaft set near the ceiling. The enchantress drank in the faint light filtering down from above, piercing through the grate to reach her face. But beyond that, she savored the sound of the rain—steady, soothingly monotonous, filled with depth. Into that noise wove bright droplets shattering against puddles and stones near the grate, the distant cascade of water falling from some height, and echoes from buildings and forests that took on barely perceptible contours within the sound. Distant, soft thunder, like invisible fingers, plucked the strings of primal animal instincts, framing this untouched palette of sounds.

   The journey to this place had not taken long and, under cold reasoning, had been merciful. Given the accusations... Before confinement, Morrigan had been permitted not only to wash away the dried blood. Knight-Commander Gregor’s precise orders left no room for interpretation by those carrying them out, serving as a shield against any “personal sentiments”.

   In short order she found herself in a clean room, fed, but deprived of a significant portion of her blood, taken for the creation of a “phylactery”. She had heard the word before. But that moment had left the enchantress with many questions, and no one intended to answer them. When the cold metal pierced the crook of her elbow and a dark crimson stream filled the glass vessel, one of the Templars uttered the word matter-of-factly, like hunters discussing traps.

   The stone crypt she now occupied lay beneath the Hold’s cellar. It could hardly even be called a proper dungeon. From what she had seen, it seemed that from each of the four sides of the ancient building, descents led from the cellars into narrow galleries ending in dead ends. Along these, outward from the foundation, small chambers had been adapted for holding prisoners. Notably, the doors operated on the same principle as those in the lyrium storage on the fourth floor. Hence the sensation of a “stone sack”, alongside thoughts of a tomb sealed forever. A prisoner was denied even such diversions as pounding on the grate or one-sided conversations with jailers. None were needed here. No magic known to the enchantress could break through to the outside quickly, safely for the prisoner, and discreetly.

   Morrigan’s thoughts drifted back involuntarily to the moment of sentencing. Firstly, because catastrophe always leaves a deeper and sharper imprint on memory than quiet prosperity. Secondly, because an open wound begs to be picked at, even though it shouldn’t be. And finally, because there was nothing else to do in the cell...

   What etched itself most sharply into the girl’s memory were the faces and the scattered phrases. When she was led away, none of the “voluntary liberators of the Circle” besides Valinsi had come out of the building. The leader himself had displayed conflicting emotions. Relief, doubt, fear… It was hard to say which dominated. But at the very least, the man had attempted to speak with Gregor to clarify the details. The last thing the enchantress caught from that conversation was the Knight-Commander’s stern face, nodding wearily in Alim’s direction in response to Valinsi’s questions. The elf himself seemed engrossed in a conversation with Naire, who leaned against him, her back turned to the accused. Another face flashed by—the woman who had led the mages sheltering on the first floor. Hers was a mix of bewilderment and suspicion in equal measure. But behind that understandable facade, something else seemed to hide… Morrigan couldn’t grasp that sensation well enough to understand its source or meaning. It eluded her even now. For some inexplicable reason, the enchantress had no desire to be left alone with that outwardly pleasant lady. Just in case.

   The night in the cell had gone badly… like all other nights under this roof. But in isolation, the madness pressed down with particular force. It seemed to never truly dissipate, seeping into the very skin. Moreover, the nightmare had, for the first time, differed not just in its details…

   In fact, Morrigan hadn’t even realized she was asleep at first. She remembered her eyes growing heavy with fatigue, but the moment she closed them, the cell’s cold seeped deeper, as if trying to penetrate her bones. Morrigan felt her pulse slow and her breathing even out against her will. The last thing she was aware of before sinking into oblivion was the smell of ash, which couldn’t possibly be here…

   She awoke—or so it seemed—in the same cell, but the light shaft now admitted not the light of an overcast day or the gleam of night torches, but a crimson glow, as if a fire raged somewhere outside. Ash fell from the ceiling, settling on her arms in black flakes, but it didn’t burn—rather, it clung to her skin like something alive. Morrigan tried to shake it off, and then she noticed: her fingers had elongated, her skin cracked, revealing something… alien beneath. In horror, she recoiled against the wall—and the stone suddenly turned mirror-like. The reflection did not lie: her body seethed like molten wax, and beneath the distorted features stared another face. Cold. Familiar. “This isn’t me,” whispered her disappearing lips. The mirrored reflection smiled, baring sharp teeth—and only then did the enchantress realize: the changes had touched only her reflection.

   A sharp inhale. Morrigan jerked awake, her back hitting the wall. The cell was as before—damp, dim, devoid of any trace of fire. But her fingers trembled, and on her palms… No, those were just shadows. She clenched her fists until her joints ached.

   — Just a dream…

   The girl tried to convince herself, but the taste of ash lingered in her mouth… Letting out a long exhale, the enchantress sat on the bench, her gaze sliding unseeingly along the walls of the ancient prison. There was nothing to look at. Either prisoners didn’t stay here long enough to leave a mark, or there had been none at all. Pushing thoughts of what had already happened to the background, the girl pondered the future. Or rather, the crumbs that remained of it. Emotions urged her to return to the intoxicating frustration of questions like: “How did this happen?”, “Who’s to blame?”, and “Why?”. But reason forbade it. In the enchantress’s opinion, only the following questions remained worth contemplating: “How to accept imminent death?”, “How not to go mad within these walls while awaiting the end?”, “How not to let foolish hope eat one alive?”. And, of course: “Is it worth continuing the struggle for one’s own mind?”. Surprisingly, even to Morrigan herself, the answer to the last question was simple and unequivocal—yes. Why? Her guess was that her inherent stubbornness and determination played an exceptional role here. So if she were to drown in unknown waters, it would not be by meekly accepting her fate. The other questions did not permit such a brief and concise answer. Weighing her options, the enchantress decided to occupy her body and mind with work, even if it seemed pointless without a long-term perspective.

   Carefully folding the robe of a junior Circle member on the bench and remaining only in her loose trousers—as neither she nor the Templars escorting her had considered providing suitable undergarments—Morrigan stretched. Extending herself taut, she planted her hands on the stone floor, leaving her feet on the bench. Five deep breaths, and, closing her eyes, the enchantress began a series of slow push-ups, maintaining long pauses for breathing. Not so much a meditation as a careful tending to her body, still throbbing with pain from the vivid bruises on her side, her joints having endured more than one shock.

   Her mind, meanwhile, set to another task. In the absence of new tools or knowledge, the obsession—which she refused to doubt—had no solution. So Morrigan turned to another idea, one devoid of fatalism. The nature of magic and the methods of its application. The trigger was a careful look at the behavior of a spell formula in its current, “unruly” state. However, without the girl’s inquisitive mind, nurtured by Flemeth outside traditional frameworks and limitations, such conjectures would never have arisen. Flemeth had once said that magic is a language where runes serve as letters and spells as words.

   — But words can be rearranged.

   Morrigan smirked at her own words.

   — Try changing the letters in a word on the fly…

   That was precisely what was needed: to make the runes change order while mana flowed through them. Madness? Yes. But Flemeth had fed her far more insane ideas. It was worth remembering that demons could do this. Their thinking resembled delirium, where cause and effect swapped places. Perhaps she shouldn’t think like a human? Yes, a wall stood before her, but who knew—it might have cracks, loopholes, or even a door. No one defeats a bear by merely grabbing a stick.

   Taking a long pause between exercises, the girl concentrated and set aside past successes along with her pride. Slipping gracefully to the floor and straightening up, the enchantress determined how to conduct the trials.

   Splashing precious water on the wall, she furrowed her brows, watching the droplets trickle down. “Winter’s Grasp” was a primitive spell, but perfect: its formula could be distorted almost with impunity. Her mana would suffice for only a few castings. Ten, until exhaustion and loss of consciousness. And the number of possible rune rearrangements, even by modest estimates, seemed enormous—almost incalculable, even in terms of Alim’s “scribbles”. The girl winced as irritating memories surfaced abruptly and immediately refocused. Dipping her finger in water, she began meticulously drawing symbols corresponding to numbers, making calculations. Based on her own assumptions, Morrigan concluded that one rune in a formula organized in several layers could occupy one of… eighteen positions. She bit her lip, shaking her head, noting she’d forgotten the layer where the rune originally resided. With that correction, it came to twenty-six positions. But that was the ideal case. And useless. With two runes, meaning emerged from their combination, but mana could only flow through them forward and backward. With three, the picture changed little. For such a case, Morrigan knew of two configurations: closed chain and unclosed. For now, this remained an abstraction or a childhood mental exercise. True wonders began, perhaps, with a dozen runes. But the case relevant to Morrigan started with four. She mentally pictured the runes not as frozen symbols but as live embers that could be nudged with a staff. In childhood, Flemeth had made her arrange them into “rings” and “chains”—not for practice, but to teach her to see connections. Now that skill proved useful: the runes of “Winter’s Grasp” could reconfigure like tree branches in the wind. The key was to catch the moment when mana had already touched one rune but not yet flowed to the next… Wiping away the wet symbols and dots with her damp hand, the enchantress decided to start with the spell’s area of effect. Leaving palm prints on the wall at even intervals, she took a step back… The first cast—ice spread in a smooth circle on the wall. The second—the edges of the pattern became jagged, like frost on glass.

   Changes in the spell. Application of magic. Inspection of results. Evaluation of differences. Contemplation… The witch had nowhere to be. And time invisibly quickened its pace…

   By the fifth spell, much closer to evening, she no longer looked at the wall, merely noting the shifting sensations. Only when her breath began to plume white did the enchantress pause—and immediately realized: the cell had become an icebox. The stone, saturated with rainy dampness, greedily absorbed the cold. Condensation turned to frost, then to a brittle crust.

   — Interesting…

   Morrigan ran her palm over the rough surface.

   — Had I continued, would I have frozen before exhausting my mana?

   But the experiment had to be postponed—somewhere, a door creaked. A barely audible sound, but enough to sever the thread of her thoughts. Morrigan froze, her finger, which had been tracing wet symbols on the wall for the umpteenth time, halting mid-motion. Footsteps. Not hurried, not cautious—just ordinary. Two pairs—one heavier, with a slight scrape of sole on stone, the other slightly softer. Brushing the frost from the wall, the enchantress slowly straightened, feeling the dull ache in her back muscles. And just in time—a segment of the wall grated aside with a muffled scrape. The elder of the two Templars appeared on the threshold first—and immediately winced as if he’d struck an invisible wall. Air from the cell rushed out in an icy stream, forcing his companion to recoil. Exhaling vapor that hung in the air like white mist, the man muttered:

   — Damn, it’s like a glacier in here.

   Morrigan merely raised a brow. For her, the cold was an abstraction—but from how the Templars clenched their teeth, it was clear: for them, it was torture. Especially in metal armor… The girl’s gaze slid to the men’s hands. The Templars were carrying a generous bowl of watery porridge and a piece of bread for the prisoner. Probably leftovers from the common table. And upon arrival, they’d found not a cell—but a “meat storage locker”.

   The elder of the pair handed the meal to the second, drew his blade, and commanded dryly in a hoarse voice:

   — Out.

   Switching from contemplating the mental puzzle unfolding before her, Morrigan looked at the two life-worn men. In the warrior who’d drawn his blade, the enchantress immediately recognized a veteran from Knight-Commander Gregor’s personal retinue. Tilting her head slightly, the girl shrugged and complied with the demand.

   The Templar only narrowed his eyes the slightest bit and, with a deft movement, activated the closing mechanism. Just quickly enough that the exiting enchantress could only note the general area where the hidden lever might be located, and nothing more. The warrior’s movements were efficient, without excess or fuss. Meanwhile, the man took two broad steps along the gallery, stopping near an open passage to the next chamber. A beckoning gesture, and a calloused hand shoved Morrigan into the “fresh” stone crypt without undue malice. Then the supper landed on the bench with a dull thud of clay on wood, and the Templar concluded:

   — Dying before the inquiry is forbidden. Had we not checked the cells by evening, you’d have frozen stiff like a fish in an ice hole by morning. Spare us such tricks. Or your mornings will start with “voluntary” assistance to the recruits in mana exhaustion drills.

   Pursing his lips, the warrior radiated disapproval like a palpable heat. But Morrigan read between the lines something more than just the combination of the charges hanging over her and the displeasure at the newly discovered “disorder”. Heaving a heavy sigh, as if overcoming a high obstacle in full armor, the man added finally:

   — Tomorrow, the First Enchanter will come down here. Try to… Actually… Ah. Never mind.

   The Templar fell silent, as if catching himself saying too much. The wall segment closed under the watchful gaze of the two warriors, and the veteran didn’t sheathe his blade until the very last click.

   Morrigan noted to herself that the meeting might prove an amusing diversion… while there was still time. But at the same time, she couldn’t suppress her quickening pulse. Running her tongue over her upper lip, she involuntarily sank back into calculations and doubts. Logic told the enchantress to expect nothing from the conversation. At best, two dissimilar people would satisfy their own curiosity. But the desire to live proved stronger than logic…

   * * *

   The new night brought no relief, offering the same bitter fare as before. Morrigan admitted she couldn’t detach herself from the visions, but so far she had managed not to indulge her own fantasies, which ceaselessly generated interpretations of what she’d seen. It resembled a trap for a keen mind, baited with an obvious lure. Instead, the girl planned to spend the day exactly like the previous one, with a slight adjustment for an extraordinary visitor.

   The mage who held the highest post in the Circle at Kinloch Hold deigned to appear around noon. Morrigan couldn’t pinpoint the time more precisely—there was no way to track it… except by daylight, bodily needs, and meal times. First, the figure of yesterday’s grim veteran appeared in the open passage. His wrinkled, unshaven face expressed a whole spectrum of weary suspicion. But his sharp gaze found nothing in the chamber more dangerous than the prisoner. Just as the Templar was about to make a second attempt, a calm, clear, perhaps slightly hoarse male voice came from behind him, betraying both the speaker’s age and accumulated fatigue:

   — Enough, ser. Gregor will have nothing to reproach you for if the First Enchanter bumps his head on the low ceiling or trips over the threshold. As for other threats, I believe we can manage.

   The older Templar pursed his lips disapprovingly, glanced down at the absent threshold, and disappeared into the passage, making way for another member of the Order. This one had short, reddish hair and embodied the opposite of his predecessor: clean-shaven, with straight posture, regular features, and a nose that had never been broken. More a youth than a man, and one might even call him attractive, though he was shorter than Morrigan. Grayish eyes with a hint of green drilled into her with such hatred that Morrigan felt a sharp prickle between her shoulder blades. This wasn’t just a Templar’s hatred for a mage—his gaze held something personal, as if she had taken something priceless from him. His fingers gripped the sword hilt so tightly the glove leather stretched over his knuckles. Grim resolve, contempt, and cold calculation. The Templar silently took a position in the corner opposite the entrance, away from the “hostess” standing by the bench.

   Next appeared the cause of this spectacle. Nearly matching Valinsi in height, the man boasted a solid number of winters behind him, indicated by abundant gray in his hair and thick, disheveled beard. During their previous encounter, the girl had been more interested in the spellform surrounding this person. But now, a pair of yellow eyes firmly met the inquiring attention of a faded gray gaze, reminiscent of thin ice over dark water. The First Enchanter thumped his iron-shod staff on the floor, but receiving no reaction, he uttered a drawn-out:

   — Hmm…

   Then a representative of the Chantry slipped into the chamber. Her attire largely mirrored Leliana’s from their first meeting. Petite, of similar age to the mage, the guest took a place opposite the Templar, as if occupying no space at all. Even her gaze remained fixed on the floor. Perhaps due to feigned humility, or unwillingness to see the apostate firsthand, burdened with accusations of murder. Everything about her screamed strictness and order: tightly pulled-back gray hair, complete lack of jewelry, hands firmly clasped before her…

   Shifting her gaze to the enchanter, Morrigan arched a brow questioningly and was the first to speak:

   — I suppose… I should be flattered. The attention of so many lords. Only, I’m at a loss. Why? And why didn’t the Knight-Commander escort you personally into the arms of a dangerous criminal?

   The man responded with another thoughtful mutter into his beard:

   — Hmm…

   Leaning his staff against the wall by the entrance and lowering himself onto the bench with a slight grunt, the First Enchanter spoke his first words:

   — Why, you say. Well, if you asked Gregor, there’s no reason. He has plenty to do.

   Morrigan, unaware of her own expression, winced. Her face froze into a much colder mask than she had intended.

   — Northern practicality, is it?

   Smoothing his beard, the First Enchanter shook his head, neither agreeing nor entirely dismissing.

   — Gregor is cynical. By necessity. And now more than ever. Though, I suppose a free spirit like yours finds it hard to empathize with our fetters, bred from conventions, responsibilities, contrived rules, and other nonsense. Well then… I see by modest Iberta’s face that I’ve strayed from the topic.

   Shooting a glance at the Chantry sister, Morrigan noted with some surprise that she still hadn’t raised her face. Returning her attention to the seated mage, the girl encountered smiling eyes full of sparks of fleeting triumph.

   — To minimize misunderstanding, I’ll provide a brief overview of the reasons for my presence. Oh! First and foremost, introductions. Irving. First Enchanter of this Circle since Remille’s “imposition”.

   At that mention, Iberta’s fingers twitched, which didn’t escape Morrigan’s notice. Catching the elusive pattern of this just-begun conversation, she realized much would be hidden between the lines, not in plain sight. The enchantress slowly raised one brow, the corner of her mouth twitching in a hint of a smile that would never reach her eyes, and Irving continued:

   — From Gregor’s practical standpoint, and under the weight of the catastrophe that has befallen us, there seems no reason for us to meet. Personally. Except curiosity. But the years when I indulged such sweetness are long gone. To be clear, I am personally grateful for the rescue, and that the Circle still stands. But the combination of accusations against you and the death of nearly all the Senior Enchanters… The Maker be my judge, Ines is as brilliant a researcher as Wynne is a healer. But that’s all. It happens. Hmm… Oh, the accusations! They fatally overshadow achievements. In our imperfect world, politics prevails over justice, so a mage with such a record cannot possibly be credited with saving the Hold. Nevertheless, life teaches that if you look, you’ll find a couple of “Buts”.

   Shifting his gaze from Morrigan to the opposite wall, the First Enchanter sighed wearily and, without changing his tone, continued his account:

   — I’m impressed by how attentively you listen. I admit, from a free-spirited and cynical witch of the Korkari Wilds, I expected more… rebellion and wildness. Perhaps a touch of rudeness. And contempt, even plenty of it. Now I feel more like a hare being carefully watched from the bushes by a lone wolf.

   At these words, the young Templar in the corner clenched his fist around the sword hilt until the glove leather creaked. He betrayed no other sign of readiness for action. The enchantress narrowed her eyes, deliberately scrutinizing the warrior from head to toe before slowly, almost prowlingly, replying to the First Enchanter:

   — You have a couple of stories about me, I gather. And they don’t quite match. That’s why you’re trying to feel out the truth now. I’m not burning with desire to help.

   Snorting into his beard, Irving nodded.

   — Is that so… Alim paints the southern witch as free-spirited, cynical, clever, and dangerous. Not so briefly, but I took the liberty of skipping details. Valinsi saw resourcefulness, determination, and willpower worthy of “knighthood”. Forgive an old man for pompousness. Naire was impressed by a glimmer of warmth and care. Your companions… But I’m digressing. These fragments of the whole are fascinating. Especially under such circumstances. What matters is different. Soon, reinforcements will arrive for the Templars, sent to put an end to the misunderstanding called our lives.

   The Templar shot Irving a tense look, but Morrigan read more warning and concern in it than displeasure or reproach. And in an instant, a guess clicked in the girl’s mind. Out of habit, she had perceived the Templar as Gregor’s watchdog, keeping an eye on the First Enchanter. And the woman, she had imagined as the eyes and ears of the Chantry. But now…

   — You’re in this together. Each of you.

   The enchantress pointed at Irving, who raised his brows in genuine surprise.

   — But you’re at the center.

   The man slowly inclined his head in response:

   — Excellent. Excellent. Cullen Stanton and your interlocutor are bound not only by duty, place, and time. Unlike Gregor and me, the youth shares fresher, purer wounds with me—ones yet to scar or fester. Knowing his views and sharp mind, I often show weakness by relying on the judgments of youth. Iberta has been with me much longer. Compared to many others, she understands the weight of my position like no one else, sincerely empathizing with the rank-and-file mages of the Hold no less than with the poor of Denerim. And since we understand each other so well, to the point. Even if we’ve approached it in an old man’s roundabout way. The Knight-Commander of the Templars is endowed with the privilege of enacting the declared “Right of Annihilation”. He would bear responsibility for such a decision only after the fact. When the “dust” settles. However, given time, the Chantry and Knight-Commanders prefer such fateful decisions with serious political consequences to be made higher up the hierarchy. At the same time, the Chantry representatives long ago realized that concentrating such power in their own hands would lead to unnecessary internal conflicts. Moreover, it would render this cruel tool nearly useless. Hence, among the reinforcements arriving soon, there is a person whose will and authority surpass the position of the Knight-Commander of the Templars and, I won’t lie, my own. Gregor, of course, kept his own “superiors” informed of events since the reinforcements left Denerim. The old friend sent birds ahead to cities along the troops’ route, sparing no feathered reserves. And your fate has been handed to those same “high” hands. Forgive the Knight-Commander’s selfish desire to rid himself of a headache. So… Yesterday’s bird brought unexpected words on its wings. You are to be guarded with particular care, kept alive until the Seeker arrives. Unexpected, hm? That’s where the old man’s personal interest begins.

   Morrigan waited several minutes in silence for the story to develop, pondering what lay behind the mage’s words, what motives drove him. But after three minutes, admitting defeat, she asked:

   — I assume. Mention of my role, if you’re sending such news openly by dove, went unnoticed. But later… something changed.

   Irving laughed good-naturedly, pointing at the girl with an open palm for his escort’s benefit.

   — See? A sharp mind. Not empty words! A pity… A pity…

   Morrigan blinked in surprise, perhaps for the first time in a long time caught off guard by her interlocutor for no apparent reason.

   — Why?

   The First Enchanter grew serious, giving the girl a heavy look before continuing.

   — Because if one thing is true, the other gains weight. And they say not only flattering things about you. But let’s return to the first question. You’re right. A dry account of the facts, encrypted of course, led to a formal request for clarification of details. And only when your origin was mentioned did a vivid reaction follow. Something hidden in Lady Morrigan, apostate from the forgotten lands of Korkari, so influenced the Seeker that he switched from a cold tone to sharp orders, behind which one sensed the fervor of a hound on the scent. This is no idle interest; don’t consider yourself a treat for my fading mind. Rather, you are something capable of influencing the fragile remnants of the Circle in an old man’s weakened hands. And let the irony of the situation not distract us.

   The enchantress snorted, inwardly feeling neither amusement nor confidence.

   — Seems you have a long stick but hesitate to poke the hive. Just need to ask the right question. But I still don’t understand… Why do you rate my role so highly?

   Smoothing his beard again, Irving cast a thoughtful glance at his companions. The man didn’t answer; the enchantress didn’t want to rush him. Finally, the mage said:

   — Perhaps I exchanged deliberation for haste. That’s all. The situation you so kindly helped with… That blood…

   Iberta started, about to interrupt the First Enchanter mid-sentence, but he shook his head and the woman immediately yielded, staring dejectedly at the floor again. Cullen sharply drew breath, and Morrigan noticed his gaze dart momentarily to the elderly woman—as if seeking confirmation or prohibition. The old woman barely raised her index and ring fingers in a gesture known only to the two of them, and the Templar stilled again, but now his shoulders were tense, like a beast about to leap.

   — I, too, bear great guilt for the catastrophe. Uldred did not appear from thin air. Uldred was... We were brothers since our apprenticeship. A friend who stood by me through harsh times. And upon rising to a high office, I could find no other candidate for the grim role that needed filling. Reliable, steadfast, strong-willed, unyielding. We both seem unassuming compared to our former selves. The “soft” First Enchanter and the grim “right hand”. But together, we achieved so many small victories our predecessors, dreaming of grandeur, could not have imagined. But... But... But... Positions that accumulate dark sins do not tolerate men or elves with spines of iron. They do not break when they should, instead continuing silently, teeth clenched, to blacken from within. Seeing the signs, I was slow to judge and continued to believe. Until the events known to us both served as the catalyst, instantly collapsing the house built on principles and ideals, yet rotten to the core. My support became my vulnerability. So, I live despite my own foresight... Alas... And so, instead of waiting until it was too late, we are talking.

   Morrigan’s face flickered with mild irritation and she opened her mouth to speak, but the elderly man halted the sharp retort poised on her lips by raising his hand and continuing:

   — The Seeker possesses an ability to detect possession. The nature of this... unusual gift is unknown to me. As it is to Gregor. But he believes in the existence of such a miracle, and I believe the old warrior. Even if the inspection goes splendidly, the Circle has suffered as never before, even considering the “occupation”. “Fortunately” for Ferelden, the Chantry blessed it with two Circles. Based on historical precedent, a merger would be just. But, in the current political climate, it is unlikely. Jendrik is a staunch supporter of royal blood, as are many under the old stump’s command. Loghain has no reason to strengthen the opposition. And I, now having more children than adults, would prefer to stay out of the power squabbles altogether. We are all dreamers... I do not know the Seeker’s views on the new balance of power. Or how the Chantry sees the situation. The Circle is now like a boat without sails in a stormy sea, and it may be that sinking it will be deemed preferable to the alternatives. But here... The Seeker showed weakness, openly stating a personal interest. I was never skilled in intrigue and verbal duels, even in my youth. Having lived to these grey years, I’ve focused my talents on administration and paperwork. And time is not on our side. The Templar forces are already at Lake Calenhad’s largest port, boarding ships. So... There’s a saying: it is foolish to hunt game with a rabid mabari. What were you seeking in the Hold, Morrigan? What made you put gain above your own life, embroiling yourself in another’s tragedy with no chance of success? What is within my power to give you, so that upon the Seeker’s arrival you will be wholly on my side, acting predictably and for the benefit of the Circle’s survival?

   Morrigan’s lips twisted into a semblance of a smile, but her eyes remained motionless, like an owl’s before the strike. She struck the floor three times, unhurriedly, with her boot heel. Each blow measured a segment of her thoughts: the first—risk assessment, the second—searching for hidden motives, the third—the cold realization that no better options existed. The witch slowly tilted her head to the side, her gaze sliding over the rough wall that seemed a monolith. It was struggling to digest what it had heard. The “soft” grandfather had managed to deceive the girl’s expectations, demonstrating in the end intentions she had not prepared for. The questions and the offer contained no obvious flaws. Whereas the witch’s fate was soon to be inevitably cut short by execution or Tranquility. In such a scenario, even vague promises, bolstered by the desire to live, pierced her armour of cynicism and cold calculation.

   — Suppose, just suppose, these words did not fall on barren soil. Will you bargain with this mentioned Seeker?

   Exhaling with relief, as if victory were already his, Irving leaned against the wall and cast his eyes upward. The old man’s answer sounded as if he were recalling texts from ancient books.

   — Seekers are considered incorruptible, in the conventional sense. And one can only bargain with an equal. But bribery is not always a direct exchange. Sometimes it is enough to sincerely help, or to feign deafness and blindness to another’s needs until they are loudly declared. It is important that one’s hands are not empty at the start of the game.

   Biting her lower lip slightly, the girl nodded slowly.

   — So. If I can state my own demands openly, your part of the deal is vague.

   The First Enchanter shrugged.

   — We are not in equal positions from the start.

   — By putting my own interests first, does that not level us? Your need against...

   Morrigan cut herself off mid-sentence, clicking her tongue. She continued, no longer hiding the venom in her tone.

   — I am useful only while no trace of our deal is visible. And you will not cross that line.

   Irving nodded, his beard shaking as he awaited continuation. The witch, however, fell silent, staring at the toes of her own boots, her thoughts far away. Of course, she had to seize this chance, even if the picture seemed unreliable. For some reason, Morrigan imagined the situation like vast hunting grounds. Fish in the river, herds migrating to new pastures, predators fighting for pack dominance and lying in wait for prey. A storm gathers in the south, noticed only by the sharp-eyed so far, and fewer still understand the threat of the leaden clouds. The girl herself is lost in the expanse like a fox, caught in a trap by its own foolishness. But it still has its fangs and claws, and the hunter approaches the predator far too carelessly... Could the witch still make decisions and exert influence? Exert... influence… Morrigan didn’t notice she’d bitten her lip until blood welled—that turn of phrase felt alien to her. She hadn’t even known that combination of words until recently. Now she not only understood what it meant but also realized how it related to her own position. And there was no time for endless doubt and wondering where it came from. Only a choice. Predator or prey. Raising her eyes, gleaming like dark gold, to the mage, Morrigan knew precisely what she was hunting for and what would be required henceforth.

   — Access to books on combating possession. Any methods, from potions of flowering fern to forbidden rituals. Access here for any in the Circle who wish it. Access here for my companions.

   The First Enchanter raised his bushy eyebrows in obvious bewilderment, focusing his attention on his interlocutor. Muttering more to himself, he mumbled:

   — Underestimated. Hmm...

   Smoothing his beard in another futile attempt to give it a neat appearance—a purely reflexive action, in the girl’s eyes, reflecting only the depth of his thought—Irving concluded:

   — What you listed is feasible. But it seems you intend to become more than an “obedient prisoner”. I shall be interested to see how you use the opportunities.

   — So...

   — Yes. Yes, we have an agreement. Though it is saddening for an old man’s ears to hear such desires.

   Morrigan furrowed her brows and cautiously inquired:

   — Saddening?

   The mage gave a harmless chuckle, slapped his right hand on his knee, and said:

   — Perhaps one word characterizes you better than others. “Why”. The question that drives you, I believe. And the one you constantly wish to ask yourself. Far better than “how” or “for what”. Let me put it this way. Experience says that an act of maleficarum, barring a few exceptions, leaves an indelible mark on the perpetrator. It manifests in character, thoughts, sometimes even in mannerisms. Whether the guilty feels the weight of the deed while refusing to acknowledge it, takes pride in it, or took a dangerous step having found no other path. Like a wormhole in a ripe apple. It so happens that you defy the norm in every aspect. If only horns weren’t growing. Simple, unhurried conversations best reveal a person’s weaknesses. Impatience. Arrogance. Bitterness. But in you, I see rather composure, self-control, curiosity, and a calm confidence in your actions. One could breathe a sigh of relief. I intended to do so. But the choice of books... You didn’t risk your life for nothing.

   Irving narrowed his eyes, pausing, then continued:

   — Those books mean something to you, don’t they? Without that detail... An exceptionally honest mage accused you of a serious crime. And yet, your near-heroic feat was excessive. If we disregard some complexities which I deem surmountable, nothing prevented you from taking what you needed and vanishing amidst the chaos. Far less risky, hm? I’m referring to your return into the Templars’ embrace, given the circumstances. For me, the answer is this: inside this puzzle hides a good person with principles starkly different from those familiar to the majority. Add to that such a troubling symptom as possession, albeit strangely non-standard. Is that not saddening?

   Morrigan froze, her chin slightly raised—a pose she usually adopted when assessing her chances in a hunt. A nearly imperceptible muscle twitched at the corner of her mouth, betraying an internal struggle between pride and the instinct for survival. When she finally nodded, the movement was so sparse it could have meant anything—from complete capitulation to the start of a new game. Returning the intense eye contact, the girl voiced her thoughts:

   — A touching speech. Pity I don’t believe in selflessness. You are a wise old hunter. Skilled with words, though you try to seem unskilled. So, what’s the price? We clearly missed some details.

   The First Enchanter closed his eyes for a moment and said quietly:

   — Too clever to simply trust. Hmm... Deeds are needed, not just one fleeting conversation. But what isn’t there, isn’t there. When the Seeker arrives, I will need to know this person and understand. You will tell me everything you notice. Every detail. If something needs to be conveyed indirectly, you can be of use here again. And also remember, in any conversation or deal, we must proceed from the goal of preserving the Circle. We cannot play a more complex game than that. See? My measure of trust is great. Now, if you’ll permit me, I must take my leave.

   Not needing permission at all, Irving stood up, brushed off his robe, took his staff, and headed for the exit, allowing the hastily slipped-in Iberta to go first. Already in the passageway, a question from the prisoner stopped him:

   — Since we speak of trust. Is there something you wouldn’t willingly say, that I might hear?

   The mage froze and, turning halfway, muttered:

   — What would that change? For the better.

   — The attitude would be more serious. After studying the books, I will share my conclusions. Against a Seeker, any advantage will serve, will it not?

   — Suppose so. So, in exchange for some foolish...

   — No-no. Not “some”.

   Morrigan’s index finger pointed at the young Templar.

   — A secret between you.

   Irving transferred his empty gaze to Cullen, and through the mask of the “kindly” grandfather, something cold and exhausted, far beyond what is permissible for a “tired man”, flickered for an instant. Stanton nodded uncertainly, his whole posture showing a struggle with an instinctive reluctance to share secrets. The First Enchanter softened and again fixed his gaze on Morrigan.

   — Very well. A mundane breach of the rules, were it not for the feelings involved. On the other hand, a situation where life and death are at stake can hardly be called “mundane”. Stanton, contrary to general prohibitions, had a close relationship with an apprentice just before her Harrowing. Definitely a stain on both their reputations. But, may the Order forgive me, a far lesser problem for a Templar than for an apprentice. Many even consider such a thing an “achievement”, though exploits of that kind are harshly condemned by Gregor.

   Cullen bristled at these words, but the First Enchanter raised a conciliatory hand, anticipating the young man’s reaction and continuing.

   — Of course, our case is different. The feelings were sincere and mutual. Even if it was a colossal foolishness from start to finish, given a moment to think. Years pass, yet youth makes the same mistakes. But the end of the story turned out to be far from ordinary. Much worse. An incident occurred. The girl had a friend, her age. A strange mix of talent, insecurity, and youthful radicalism, with a bitter aftertaste of Uldred’s thoughts. Before the Harrowing, something snapped in the young man’s head. Fear of failure, fear of execution. He persuaded his newly-made mage friend into a series of acts punishable not by exile, but by death. I still don’t understand how, in the clash between friendship, self-preservation instinct, and logic, friendship won outright. Hmm... Yes. Both broke into the phylactery vault to steal the boy’s sample, planning to secure his escape.

   Remembering the cold touch of the blade, Morrigan repeated the familiar word:

   — Phylacteries? So, that portion of my blood...

   Her lips twisted into a semblance of a smile:

   — How practical. Is that my leash?

   Irving tensed for a moment, but, shrugging, answered:

   — That’s two secrets now, but so be it. Blood Magic. What Uldred was in charge of. Exactly so. The ritual allows finding a mage belonging to a Circle at practically any distance, indicating the direction they are in. The first sample is taken from an apprentice and stored in the Circle that became their home. Subsequent ones—from the mage—are sent to the five nearest Circles. In truth, anyone striving to learn this secret easily uncovers the details. I suppose, upon learning what was necessary, the ill-fated “friend” began to hurry.

   — Interesting. The “friend’s” only chance to get rid of the leash was slipping away. While Cullen’s girl was already firmly tied to the Circle.

   — Kindness, loyalty, foolishness, shortsightedness. The story ended predictably. The culprit managed to escape. But the girl... Of course, she did not.

   Irving frowned, evidently recalling events of days past, the imprint of which still troubled him.

   — The old man before you held this young man back from thoughts of suicide. Sometimes it seems there is only darkness ahead, and here and now there are too many reasons to die, and not a single one to live. But only after leaving long years behind can one even begin to approach an understanding of the value of life, both one’s own and that of others. Our path is made of countless deeds, not a single heroic feat. And after a seemingly endless road, those small things often outweigh much, even if most people’s memories get stuck on only one moment of triumph. Hmm. I apologize for the grumbling. It just so happened that I persuaded Gregor to commute the girl’s sentence from execution to Tranquility. Saving the life of someone important to Cullen, I instead killed her soul and emotions. Including the attachment that existed between them. That is why the young man is filled with a withering gratitude, and along with it—a bitterness that is perfectly suited for hatred. Satisfied?

   — Gregor wasn’t privy to the details?

   Irving chuckled sadly.

   — Of course not. But it wasn’t required. The Knight-Commander sees and knows far more than he lets on.

   The mage narrowed his eyes, looking into Morrigan’s eyes and awaiting the only answer that mattered. Sighing, the witch said:

   — The books. And then, in a day or two, return.

   Striking the floor with his staff, Irving turned and disappeared into the gallery. Stanton turned to the girl, giving the witch a measured look, and also left the dungeon, sealing the passage behind him.

   * * *

   The sounds of recent visitors had long since faded. Even the smells had almost dissipated. A barely perceptible hint of burnt incense. A faint trace of male sweat, masked by the cold tang of metal and an unfamiliar northern oil. And the smell of ink. The girl had never smelled it directly before, but recognized it unmistakably. The “guests” had left the witch in a strange state of mind. Morrigan felt... in her element. Precisely so. The girl cautiously recognised it as being in high spirits. For the first time in a long while, her thoughts had strayed from obsessive problems and were like birds escaped from a cage. Morrigan meticulously sifted through facts, secrets, and names in her mind, things that could become useful tools in one situation or another. Even if the witch had to rein herself in, as if annotating in the margins that this or that idea would be excessive in the real world. This state was not normal, nor should it have excited the witch so much, as if she were back in her native forest on her first hunt for a wounded deer.

   Of course, good things don't last. And in response to the expectation of an idea that would cloud the moment, it promptly sprouted in the head resting on the hard bench. Raising her hand to eye level and slowly flexing her elegant fingers, Morrigan furrowed her brows. Admitting it to herself without self-deception, this idea hadn't come from nowhere. It had grown like mold, filling the dark corners of her consciousness. Her hand felt alien to the witch... No, not quite. Morrigan blinked and concentrated, clenching her fist until her knuckles turned white. The hand seemed like a foreign object—like a glove pulled over something else. Licking her lips, the girl brought the thumb of her left hand close to the veins on her right, clenched in a fist, and forcefully pressed her noticeably lengthened nail into her own flesh. She waited for the familiar signal—sharp pain, clear confirmation: this was still her flesh and bones. But the sensation came as if through water, muffled and dull. A distant echo, as if someone else should have cried out. Blood slowly welled from under the nail. Only now did the “echo” of sensations gain its familiar strength and a sickly tinge, spreading inside her forearm along the tendons. Jerking her finger away, Morrigan stared with a mixture of relief and irritation at the clear crimson mark.

   Closing her eyes, Morrigan exhaled slowly and cast these feelings aside.

   — Pointless.

   A drop of blood rolled down the pale skin of her wrist, but the girl was already on her feet with a jerk. If her mind was beginning to betray her, she had to trust her body. Shedding the robe, the witch devoted herself to the only thing that guaranteed control: movement and breath, which at least belonged to her.

   * * *

   When the wall segment serving as a passage groaned and scraped aside, Morrigan was surprised. The girl hadn't expected new visitors just a couple of hours after the First Enchanter's call. Without breaking her horizontal pose, arms tensed, the witch waited out the agonizing seconds of uncertainty. And then, stooping, the large figure of Valinsi slipped into the stone crypt. In each hand, the mage held neatly bound tomes, tied with hemp cord, that had recently gathered dust on unknown shelves. Each book had a unique character, hinting at the value of the knowledge contained within and the age of the folios.

   The mage looked far better than during their last meeting: shaven, clean, almost well-rested. As he set the valuable load on the floor, Morrigan rose to her feet and straightened up. So when Valinsi raised his eyes to the girl, his pale-brown gaze immediately grew heavy, seeing her in all her glory and catching on the blossoming bruises. Studying the man's face, the witch noted a new adornment woven into the braid by his right temple. Morrigan was almost certain she had seen that ring on Tomara's hand.

   The silence was becoming oppressive, as was the mage's gaze slowly sliding over the girl's partially exposed body. So the witch broke the silence first.

   — You look well. So, Irving decided book delivery is your calling?

   — Yes. A strange choice. Quite.

   — I think it's a good one. Who better than you to deliver them carefully?

   — No. Not about me. I meant the books. Their content...

   The man threw a glance at the tomes, then at Morrigan.

   — Oh, so you peeked inside? Curious, why would an apostate need treatises on possession?

   — I didn't...

   Valinsi pressed his lips together and abruptly changed the subject:

   — Irving didn’t say anything about me?

   Morrigan slowly tilted her head, studying his face. The mage stood unnaturally straight, his fingers trembling slightly—as if he was holding back a question he shouldn't ask.

   — Not a word. Apparently, your person held no interest for him whatsoever.

   The man's voice grew quieter but firmer:

   — And if it had?

   The girl laughed—briefly, without joy:

   — Oh, Valinsi... What are you hoping for? That I'd start bargaining for my freedom?

   — Why not...

   Morrigan smirked, noting out of the corner of her eye the mailed boots of the Templars standing outside in the gallery, right by the passage. The witch would have bet her left hand they'd deliberately made their presence known, lest the prisoner, Maker forbid, get any sense of privacy.

   — You won't get to hear the answer. Let me outline the priorities. You're more useful as a friend. Isn't that right?

   Valinsi twisted his lips and slowly, pausing between words, replied:

   — As a friend. Sounds close to the truth.

   The man seemed to be literally tasting each word. His strange gaze, as if unable to bear its own “weight”, slid again from the girl's face to her bare shoulders, along the line of her strong arms to her chest, proudly thrust towards him. The mage frowned, knitting his brows, before continuing the conversation.

   — How did you charm the First Enchanter? I marvel at your talents. Under all circumstances.

   — With my mind? No, don't answer. Truthfully, I'm just as surprised. But, what's done is done. It doesn't suit the one down here to be picky or complain. Your plans?

   — I received an offer.

   Morrigan raised her eyebrows, trying to guess the meaning behind Valinsi's words. Her eyes widening, she snapped her fingers.

   — You — the new Uldred?!

   Valinsi flinched as if struck. His fingers clenched involuntarily, and for a moment Morrigan saw in his eyes what he carefully hid: self-loathing. The witch deduced that the old fox was testing not only the prisoner but also his new “right hand”. Nodding, the witch continued:

   — You've been briefed on his duties.

   — Yes...

   — And it brought you no joy.

   — No. It is so far from the principles I tried to preserve, like a fool trying to save water in a shattered pitcher. And yet, it is so saturated with the concept of duty to the Circle that it cannot but find an echo in me... And, in the end, I am not sure.

   — Will you accept?

   Valinsi twitched the corner of his lip in a barely perceptible smile. Returning his eyes to the girl's focused face, he answered:

   — You think this offer includes a choice? Now that they've demonstrated, however briefly, the “necessary dirt”.

   — Perhaps. From my point of view, Irving trusts you. Or believes in you.

   — He sees the facade...

   Morrigan only snorted contemptuously in response, showing how “highly” she rated Valinsi's belief in the First Enchanter's ignorance or blindness. He winced again but immediately surrendered, nodding in agreement.

   — It's naive to think so, yes. But I fear the First Enchanter is merely using what's at hand. There isn’t much choice.

   — I wouldn't dwell on it. The criteria for selecting a suitable mage for this post would definitely not please you.

   The man raised a questioning eyebrow, but the girl only shook her head slightly. Instead of answering, she asked her own question:

   — And your spot?

   — Alim.

   Silence hung again as Morrigan, casting her eyes to the ceiling, fought a vicious smile crawling onto her face like a predatory snake. Through clenched teeth, she forced out:

   — The shining knight.

   — The elf isn't shining so brightly these days.

   Fixing Valinsi with a look full of cynical doubt, the girl pushed him for details.

   — Hmm... Naire was always a close friend to the lad. In a more, hm, chaste interpretation of the word. But now things are... not going smoothly for either of them. Quite the opposite, even. I don't know the details. Either she hasn't forgiven her friend for leaving with the Grey Warden, which, of course, seemed like a betrayal, or...

   The mage fell silent, leaving the unspoken options hanging in the air.

   — How is she?

   Valinsi rubbed the bridge of his nose with his index finger, giving himself time to find the right words.

   — Fine. Wynne personally examined her and got her back on her feet afterwards. She avoids me. Avoids Alim. Helps with the children or buries herself in books on battle magic.

   — Your doing?

   — No! Wynne...

   The denial was too sharp, and the man himself realized it immediately under the skeptical gaze of the dark-gold eyes. Nodding crookedly in agreement, he turned and, stooping, moved to leave. A caustic remark shot after him:

   — We should not be talking about others. You didn't foolishly and blindly believe what Alim said, did you?

   Without turning or stopping, Valinsi nodded. With a hint of stubbornness in his voice, more to convince himself than his companion, he said quietly:

   — I’ve seen something else.

   — And what did you see… Next time you come—if you still find me here—make up your mind. Do you want to beat me? Take me by force right here? Or all at once.

   The man froze at the exit for a long minute, during which the tension in his hands and back was clearly visible. Finally, he jerked his right shoulder and left without a word.

   Morrigan exhaled hoarsely, shaking off something clinging to her arms with one sharp motion. Now alone again, the girl’s attention and thoughts focused on the books. A couple in time-faded blue bindings smelled of mold and lavender—a strange combination, as if someone had tried to preserve them from decay. Several were framed in wood, each a unique size with its own network of cracks in the dried-out timber. Two more in typical, though aged, leather with embossed symbols. And a black tome… It lay atop the others like a raven on snow. Morrigan ran her finger along the spine, feeling a faint tingling under her skin—was it self-deception, or premonition?

   * * *

   Daylight faded relentlessly, and evening fell too swiftly. Morrigan might not have noticed the passage of time if not for that. Even her meal had passed in a fog. At first, the enchantress stumbled over convoluted phrases, at times as incomprehensible as a foreign tongue. She hadn’t expected the language to have changed so much over the years. But with each new line, the fog of unclear expressions receded, as if she were naturally regaining her “half-forgotten skills” in reading ancient texts in the young tongue of Ferelden, mixed with Avvar dialect. Heavy first steps gave way to a run, then to free flight. The ideas underlying the different books, and the conclusions presented as facts, contradicted each other—and often themselves. But here and there, a pair of facts aligned, appearing consistent and coherent. And together, they formed the outlines of a solution to the task before Morrigan. Nothing ready-made, nothing lying on the surface. There wasn’t even a hint that beyond those outlines lay only the void of betrayed hopes.

   Slamming the current volume shut and feeling the weight of what she’d just read settling in her mind, the enchantress decided that in the morning she’d start, for variety, with the mysterious black-leather tome. Rubbing her eyes, the girl stared into the thickening dusk, soon to become darkness. Morrigan didn’t want to admit it to herself, but the truth was simple: another night meant another nightmare… And it wasn’t about fear. Not only… Or not entirely… She felt nausea at the inevitable repetition of what she’d endured. Almost imperceptibly, like water seeping through cracks, a kind of fatigue was accumulating.

   Her gloomy mood and slight headache were interrupted by the distinct sound of a passage opening. Immediately, warm, orange-yellow reflections of fire darted across the walls, along with sharply outlined shadows. Stepping quietly and steadily, holding a candle under a glass dome with both hands, Leliana entered, her eyes immediately finding the inhabitant of the stone crypt. Turning her head slightly, she cast an eloquent glance back, raising her eyebrows a little, and smiled. The enchantress saw perfectly well that the smile was more of an elegant curtsy, while the rest of the visitor’s face remained serious. Her posture was straight, but tension showed in the corners of her eyes: she was clearly taking a risk by coming here.

   Snorting, Morrigan was about to say something, but the red-haired maiden began first:

   — I persuaded Bethany not to rush. Don’t think she has forgotten. Though perhaps she should have. It’s hard enough for her as it is, and seeing you here… it might break the girl. I suppose my presence will be more useful now.

   Closing her eyes and shaking her head skeptically, the enchantress replied:

   — Who knows what’s more needed. Conscience or wit.

   — A compliment and an insult in one phrase—you learn, even when I’m not around. And that, too, is another little sting.

   — So, is Bethany all right?

   — Of course not. The next time you decide on a swift and extremely risky step with far-reaching consequences, stop for at least a moment. We should have coordinated what to tell the Templars. Unfortunately, from the moment you left, we weren’t left alone together for even a moment without supervision, and I couldn’t discuss anything with Bethany. Not five minutes had passed since you strode across the inner yard to the Hold before we were separated for “conversation.” That time, it was only talk. But what is routine for me is not for Bethany. And then…

   Morrigan pressed her lips together and spat out:

   — Alim.

   Leliana simply nodded and continued:

   — Yes. About four hours after you left, the elf headed to Gregor, filled with anxiety, inner conflict, and focus on an unknown goal. Catching him, I asked—what did he hope to achieve? One doesn’t go for a casual chat with such emotions on their face. Alim hissed through his teeth that he would fulfill his duty. There was much more inside than out, but… It seems two sharp needs were warring within the elf. Previously, they remained in a fragile balance. But that night, so close to “home,” Alim convinced himself that one could be discarded.

   Morrigan sighed, leaning against the wall.

   — I can guess. This… I didn’t even think of it. Out there in the dark, gazing up at the black bulk of the tower, a mage inwardly… His world rested on two pillars, you know. Duty. And Naire.

   Leliana straightened her back sharply and whispered almost inaudibly:

   — Alim convinced himself that there was no chance of saving Naire. And that her being inside while he was outside was his fault, remembering the choice he made.

   The enchantress nodded, massaging the bridge of her nose.

   — And without Naire, only bare duty to protect the Circle remained. Did the fool confess everything to Gregor?

   — After that conversation with the Knight-Commander, the interrogation was conducted with prejudice. Any illusion of hospitality vanished. No cruelty or violence, but the pressure was serious. Especially on Bethany. Formally, Gregor could have called the girl an apostate or a maleficar, as he did with you. From what happened, I’d say Alim told almost everything.

   Morrigan narrowed her eyes, focusing her dark-golden gaze on the pair of green ones.

   — Almost?

   — It seems he completely omitted the difference between your methods of spellcasting. Bethany wasn’t probed for it, even with hints.

   — A drop of pride?

   — I wouldn’t presume to judge.

   — Well… That’s good news. What is your situation?

   Leliana licked her lips and shrugged.

   — I was given to understand that after speaking with the Seeker, should he have no further questions for me, I am free to go wherever I please. Of course, that’s a thinly veiled mockery, given we’re on an island. But it’s better than nothing. Bethany… There are no hints about her. She will become a mage or be made Tranquil. Given her age and your shared history—the latter is more likely. I’m watching over the girl as best I can. For now, the Templars’ grip has loosened slightly. As if… they don’t want to damage the “merchandise.”

   — Irving…

   — There! Now it’s your turn.

   — Yes… You know? Secrecy here is only an illusion…

   — List the facts.

   — First, tell me what you know about the Seekers.

   Leliana fell silent for a moment, looking away. Nodding, she began to speak.

   — It’s a complex question. But also a simple one. The Seekers of Truth, that’s the full name, are a separate order within the Chantry’s structure. Only the Divine and the Maker are above them. And below—everyone else. That was the complex part. As for the simple part… By rumor… The tasks of this small order include secret investigations and oversight of the Templars. They say each Seeker is worth a dozen Templars in battle, and their order is shrouded in mysticism and rumors of supernatural abilities. There are no facts, so draw your own conclusions. I can tell you a bit about the history of this organization, which has fought demons, the possessed, and its own twisted reflection—the Order of the Flame Oath—for centuries.

   The last two words stuck in Morrigan’s mind, stirring a shadow of recognition. As if she had heard something like it before or even knew… Which, of course, was impossible. But these fragments of memory emerging from nowhere, like that ash falling from the sky or into the sky in her nightmares, no longer caused dread or goosebumps.

   — Let’s leave the past for later. I’ve been offered a deal of sorts.

   — What are the terms?

   — A bit of this, a touch of that. Here, for example, our meetings. So I don’t go mad. But the sentence still stands.

   — And the price?

   — Hm…

   Leliana nodded understandingly.

   — So, we wait for this Seeker.

   Morrigan shifted her gaze to the stack of books on the floor.

   — Not only…

   Following the girl’s gaze, Leliana frowned and shot her a questioning look with a raised eyebrow. The enchantress nodded uncertainly in response.

   — Perhaps a solution.

   — Splendid… Well, what are we going to do, anyway?

   — We?

   — We.

   — Ha… You’re hard to understand. In your position, such a foolish attachment…

   Leliana touched Morrigan’s shoulder, stopping the flow of caustic remarks at its outset.

   — Focus.

   Freezing with her mouth half-open, the enchantress collected herself, nodded, and said:

   — Yes, an unacceptable weakness now. The thing is, blind loyalty… Though no, forgive me. I understand what you mean. Your actions are a direct consequence of the past, character, and personal circumstances, not unfounded foolishness, as I might wish to see them. Cold calculation, which says it’s too risky to remain on my side, isn’t the only possible path. I won’t hide it—your choice is pleasing. If only I had time to figure out why.

   — Well, it’s not so difficult. Such are emotions. Let’s not delve into why those you disdainfully consider part of your “collection” prefer to remain there, while you remain a diligent and attentive “owner.” Let’s return to the bigger picture.

   — The plan… Besides waiting and personal goals, there are other cards to play. First, revenge.

   Leliana leaned back slightly, her face showing surprise and disbelief.

   — How? And why?

   — Naire.

   — But…

   — Find the girl. Get to know her. Hint that she can come to me. This isn’t a way to hurt two people. That’s not why I saved her inside the nightmare. But communicating with Naire is the best way to flick Alim’s sense of duty.

   — Oh… Forgive me.

   — No. Your concerns are justified. That’s why, using Bethany as an example, I need those around me whose principles and views aren’t hardened. So that they reflect back, unlike you, something other than a monster. I need not only an example of what to avoid but also something to strive for. And besides, Naire is now the face of the Circle that preserved itself and survived.

   — That’s subtle. And deep. Very well.

   — Second, to make things freer in the Circle, there is a solution. Valinsi. The mage owes me. Carefully unravel that thread, and you’ll understand everything.

   — Curious. Just now, that glance to the side… There! Is it what I think?

   Morrigan made a throaty sound symbolizing mild irritation before answering:

   — Sometimes I forget how skillfully you read faces. Yes, he… is interesting. Only I fear it’s an example of bad influence on me. Moreover, it’s deeper than it might seem. This connection, if I let it grow, will turn out quite twisted. I don’t know what to do yet. And don’t continue. Since Alim omitted certain things, we’ll keep that in mind. It’s foolish to refuse trump cards.

   — Anything else?

   — M… Avoid an enchantress named Wynne.

   — Why?

   — I don’t know. She gives me the creeps.

   Leliana frowned, puzzled, but slowly nodded, committing the remark and the name to memory.

   — If that’s all…

   — No. One last personal question. The vision. You understand how foolish it sounds now?

   Leliana smiled understandingly and nodded before objecting:

   — Not at all. The vision showed that Alim would become a support for Morrigan’s growth. You, in turn, can be imagined as the force that won’t let him fall apart. This implies neither your friendship nor even mutual aid. You saved Naire? What would have become of the elf if she had died? Does the betrayal you yourself anticipated spur you on?

   Morrigan grimaced and shrugged before speaking.

   — Hmph… It was foolish to ask. The most unpleasant thing is that there’s logic within your questions. And these stupid thoughts that everything is predetermined… It’s terrifying.

   Standing and turning toward the exit, Leliana quietly murmured:

   — For me too…

   When the footsteps faded, Morrigan pressed her palms to her temples. The information about the Seekers swirled in her head like shards of a broken mirror—each with its own reflection, but none whole.

Chapter Text

   A significant part of the night Morrigan had spent keeping vigil, and her exhausted mind only gave in to sleep closer to dawn, for a couple of miserable, dreamless hours. While awake, she gave herself no rest, sifting through facts from the books she had already studied and trying every possible way to fit them together.

   Shaking off sleep just as the light became good enough for reading, the witch performed a short warm-up and picked up the tome she had set aside, its cover black leather. Running her palm over the book's surface, Morrigan, eyes squeezed tightly shut, opened the hefty volume and began to read. Compared to the previous books, the author’s mind here did not wander from one rare fact to another, hiding behind thickets of empty words and, often, euphemisms. The essence seemed laid out concisely, even sparingly, resembling a reference book more than a scholarly treatise. Page after page, the facts came faster than she could ponder them. The path the author had taken to achieve such results, however, was granted barely a couple of lines. So the quality of the material was very different, yet the outcome ended up much the same as in the other books. On the one hand, verbosity; on the other, baseless assertions. Nevertheless, Morrigan gnawed at the text, refusing to indulge the weakness of even contemplating surrender to this ‘adversary’. By the middle of the book, the witch developed a subtle sense of recognition in the rare instances of the author's personal thoughts—as if in these brief, caustic remarks, dismissive of either the result just described or the reader's ability to grasp it, there was something familiar.

   Frowning, Morrigan stopped, quickly flipped twenty pages back, then more, then forward again. One furrow between her brows became three, and she slowly licked her lips, stubbornly continuing to read. Until this point, the text had offered her nothing new, save for an unpleasant aftertaste from the author's dismissive stance toward the reader's abilities. After all, most facts pertained to branches of the magical art the witch had known since childhood... Morrigan froze, peering at the slightly blurry letters densely covering the page. Concentrating on a fleeting sensation, she mentally returned a few moments back. She knew the overwhelming majority of what pertained to magic in the portion of the book she had already read. Flipping back another dozen pages, she found the needed fragment, which mentioned in passing some problems with controlling a spell's area of effect, solved in part by placing a series of runes in separate layers relative to each other. In Morrigan's memory, the words of Alim and Bethany immediately sprang to life, along with the surprise both had shown upon first touching the concept of representing a runic spell formula in three-dimensional form. The conclusion lay on the surface—this book should not be in the Circle. Or it was accessible to very few, and a mere mention would be insufficient even for a talented mage. Returning to the cover, Morrigan carefully inspected it from the inside but found, instead of the author's name, only a miniature imprint in the shape of a stylized dragon's head.

   Biting her lip, the girl returned to reading, and found herself about an hour later staring at the last page. Now she was certain: the style of certain phrases faintly, almost imperceptibly, reminded the witch of her mother—not wholly, but of those rare hours when, instead of a half-mad old woman, a collected and exceedingly dangerous woman surfaced. By the end of the tome, Morrigan felt both foolish and deceived. One could not deny it: hundreds upon hundreds of lines in the book were dedicated to concise descriptions of certain forms of interaction between shadow creatures and living and non-living objects. This included a catalog of forms of possession, which, it turned out, were more numerous than the witch had imagined. Manipulation—like controlling a puppet, without the need to leave the Fade. Common possession. Coexistence, where a Fade creature does not seek control over the host's body or mind. Fusion, where the invader and the invaded merge into something new. And replacement... Morrigan winced at a slight stab of headache. For obvious reasons, the witch particularly disliked the last form, as it implied the theft of not just the body, but also memory. And this strangely resonated with the girl's nightmares of confronting herself. Some practical use could be extracted from this, had Morrigan's goals been different. But in her current position, it was useless... Opening the book again, the witch found a section in the middle dedicated to the concept of mana. Besides the unnecessary parts, it indirectly confirmed what the witch had learned from her recent dealings with demons. Mana is considered inherent only to the living and is an integral quality, with the only non-living form containing it recognized as lyrium. Simply put, denizens of the Fade crave mana, having none of their own at first. This notion seeded in Morrigan's mind the prototype of an idea, not yet fully formed.

   Setting the black book aside, the witch took up the remaining volumes, firmly intent on filling the empty lacunae with the necessary pieces of the puzzle. And at that very moment, her cozy solitude was again disrupted by the passageway to the gallery opening. The girl tensed inside, for some strange reason thinking it might be Valinsi. She herself didn't know whether she feared another encounter with the man or felt intrigued by the possibility. But Bethany appeared in the passage, and following her, Naire entered the austerely furnished room, carrying food. Both girls were dressed in typical Circle robes. But if the elven girl seemed accustomed to the robe, Bethany showed signs of discomfort. The prisoner's gaze did not miss how the black and chestnut hair of the two girls had been braided, long and short, in the same style.

   The girls stared in silent surprise at the floor, where Morrigan sat cross-legged. The image was completed by books laid out around her on all four sides. Bethany smiled awkwardly and began the conversation:

   — I... We thought you'd be bored here, cut off from the world and such precious freedom. But... Were we mistaken?

   Morrigan shrugged, setting a closed book aside and smoothing down a couple of locks that had escaped her hairstyle.

   — I can't say I have nothing to do. But, allow me to note, the fact that you both came here intrigues me no less than these books. How—

   The witch fell silent mid-sentence, freezing with her mouth slightly agape, which was immediately replaced by a predatory smile.

   — Leliana?

   Setting the dishes on the bench, and not without a slight tinge of embarrassment in her voice, Naire replied:

   — You are right. Leliana found me. She wanted to meet in person, as she put it, for a number of reasons. Starting with curiosity about whom you saved, and ending with an interest fueled by Alim's stories. I can't even imagine what he blabbed... And I don't want to. After a light and pleasant conversation came the suggestion to introduce me to the pupil of the 'Savior of the Circle.' And... Why not? I admit, I was curious too.

   Bethany nodded a bit too hastily, as if afraid her agreement would go unnoticed. Morrigan, however, shook her head in mild disbelief, commenting:

   — That fox... Clever. You think Leliana's motives are pure and sincere? Bethany?

   But Naire was the first to speak again:

   — I believe... that is far from the case.

   The room's host raised a surprised eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. The elven girl looked down, but her reply was firm:

   — If we follow step by step. You intervene for me. Then show cautious interest, as if emphasizing it wasn't a random act of mercy. Now, after talking with Bethany, I believe random acts are not in your character at all...

   — Stop. “You,” “your”?.. Don't do that. But excuse me and go on.

   Clearing her throat, Naire nodded.

   — Then Alim, more stubbornly than ever, tries to convince me of the inexpediency of communicating with... you. And besides, he says a lot that any connection with the 'Savior of the Circle' is dangerous. Given the accusations voiced, there's logic in that, but... There's also a sense of absurd exaggeration. I've never seen him so obstinate regarding... ahem. You see, Alim rarely displays such deafness to possible alternatives. Although, he behaved similarly when deciding to leave with the Grey Warden. And then, immediately after, Leliana finds me. Bam—and here Bethany and I are, already talking, with her no less surprised by the swiftness of events. I admit... Before the recent nightmare, I wouldn't have noticed anything strange in this sequence. But paranoia has sufficiently spoiled my perception for disparate events to start seeming interconnected.

   While Bethany peered in surprise into Naire's face, Morrigan smiled widely and clapped her hands three times.

   — Marvelous. I wouldn't say your perception is spoiled. It's become deeper. The truth is, there are many ways for Alim to repay the inconvenience I've created. But perhaps the most undemanding and interesting one is to befriend you.

   Shifting her gaze to Morrigan, Bethany asked in surprise:

   — You want to build a relationship with Naire only because of Alim?

   Fixing the apprentice with a heavy look, the witch posed a counter-question:

   — Are you accusing me?

   Bethany immediately threw up her hands in a defensive manner.

   — No...

   — Of course. An unfortunate choice of words to express an unfortunate thought.

   Gesturing towards the bench for the guests to stop inappropriately towering over the “hostess” by lingering near the entrance, Morrigan continued:

   — Let's clarify the main points. I don't believe Alim did something out of malicious intent. And not because I think better of him than the elf actually is. It's more about stupidity and rigid thinking.

   A sad smile flickered across Naire's face and immediately vanished, which didn't escape the notice of the witch sitting on the floor but went unseen by the attentively listening Bethany.

   — Alim is a slave to his own principles. In a way, his prison is much smaller than mine. The conflict between what he considers right and my actions was smoothed over by hopelessness.

   The elven girl nodded almost imperceptibly, as if hearing something familiar, while the southerner continued:

   — The obligations he’d taken on by saving the elf’s hide helped too. I don't read those around me as well as Leliana does. But here's an opinion. Alim assessed the state of the Circle and the position of the Order with his inherent gloominess. I suppose he saw not a single chance for the elf within the Circle. And consequently, for Naire. But he considered the chance that I could get what's needed in the chaos and get out to be significant. Without Naire and the Circle, all that's left to guide him in life is a bare, stupid sense of justice. Or does Alim call it something else?.. In a word, habitually ignoring his own emotions and doubts, he laid it all out before the Knight-Commander of the Templar Order. You already know from Bethany that the mage personally testified a lot, right?

   Naire pressed her lips together and nodded again.

   — Yes, and I...

   — Wait, we'll get to that. So. When the Tower gates opened and you emerged from there triumphantly, who turned out to be the main fool? Alim is incapable of overstepping his personal principles. He’s like... hmm. This is interesting. Interpreting Leliana from this angle... seems quite apt and precise. But I'm digressing again. Having assessed the result of his own choice, the elf reasonably decided that he and I are enemies from now on...

   Morrigan fell silent, as if catching herself talking too much. Her fingers tapped on the book's spine, as if keeping rhythm with unspoken thoughts. When she continued, her voice held the familiar venom Bethany knew:

   — But to deal a slap in the face to his principles... Nothing will make Alim's position more foolish than if we, contrary to the elf's wishes, grow closer naturally. Yes, “naturally” sounds strange in this phrase, I know. It's not like a river that only flows one way. However, let's not lie to each other? You are already interested in me. And here we approach Bethany's question. It so happens that I use this girl's naive opinion as a guide, so as not to become the one Alim saw so clearly in me. Bethany is afraid my interest stems strictly from Alim. That is part of the truth. What else could be a source of curiosity? Firstly, the relationship. As I understood for myself, it's about a warmth unique to the Circle, devoid of selfishness and carnal attraction, which you, despite the circumstances, managed to preserve. Secondly, your talent. Thirdly, behind those aquamarine eyes there is an appealing resilience. Oh, when you calmly think this situation over alone, don't be angry with Leliana. However it turns out, Bethany could become an excellent friend to you.

   The word “excellent” hung in the air like a silvery chime. Bethany sharply inhaled—in all the months of apprenticeship, Morrigan had never assessed her so... directly. Her lips twitched into an embarrassed smile, and her fingers automatically reached for a lock of hair—a childish gesture she had long tried to rid herself of. Quieter than she intended, the girl whispered:

   — Thank you.

   But then added louder:

   — I... will try.

   Naire nodded, immediately posing a new question:

   — But why should I be angry with Leliana? What's so...

   — ...sordid about it? — Morrigan finished for her.

   — Yes.

   — It's about something else. Leliana is a manipulator far more skillful than I am. Bethes ruisseaux. That is...

   Under Bethany's tense gaze and Naire's surprised one, irritably rubbing the bridge of her nose, Morrigan corrected herself:

   — A cunning beast. Yes. That in itself is not a sign of good or evil. But someone with Alim's principles, if you shove the facts in their face, or someone perceptive like you, might ultimately feel irritation or resentment.

   Casting a heavy, thoughtful look at Bethany, which puzzled her greatly, Morrigan continued:

   — Leliana, like many, fights the worst in herself, striving for the better. But, like everyone, not necessarily successfully... Recently we had a conversation about the boundaries of reason. That is, about what Leliana might allow herself to achieve a goal, so as... not to turn into what she despises. But, among other things, words about self-determination were also spoken there. About free will... So... Who knows what form it will all ultimately take. Now... You wanted to ask about the murders, didn't you?

   Naire nodded cautiously. It was immediately noticeable how the girl's gaze tensed and her hands clenched into fists...

   — Correct. Bethany told me about the personal situation... No, more like the catastrophe that... I don't know how to put it into words correctly. In short, about how you killed three Templars. But, besides that, there are also Alim's stories, as he says from your own words, about killing Templars in Korkari. And... If we don't beat around the bush, why?

   — The question probably isn't “why”... You want to hear that in each individual case, there was no alternative without violence and death. For “justification,” to ease your own conscience. But the problem isn't the presence or absence of an alternative. The problem is perception. You're more flexible than Alim, so let's play a game. Two phrases. Compare and weigh both thoughtfully. Okay?

   Naire nodded cautiously and, leaning slightly forward, focused. The girl obviously still didn't know what to expect from Morrigan from one minute to the next. Too much information had piled up in her head, conflicting and not forming a coherent picture. Bethany, on the contrary, leaned against the wall, preparing to observe the proceedings in a relaxed manner.

   — A squad of faithful warriors of the Maker discovered a place where three apostates were hiding. As a result of suspicions of maleficarum, three were killed. The Maker's warriors lost a loyal brother in battle. Do these events, besides the natural sympathy for a good person, evoke sharp rejection? Outrage? Which side do you empathize with more?

   The elven girl bit her lip, lowering her blue eyes to the floor and listening to the intertwining of thoughts and emotions. After a minute, she gave a clear answer:

   — What's described, though it seems sad, sounds... normal? No. Familiar. No sharp outrage or rejection. I can't say I empathize with anyone more strongly. But if you insist on an answer, then I feel slightly more empathy for the Templars who lost one of their own in battle...

   Naire didn't finish the sentence, furrowing her brows. Bethany, lowering her eyes to the floor, said quietly but clearly:

   — With a maleficar. Is that what you meant to say? But Morrigan said: “as a result of suspicions of maleficarum.” That's not the same as a definite verdict.

   The older of the mages smirked and continued the “game”:

   — A band of mad Hasinds stumbled upon the house of a family of three settlers. As a result of suspicions that they might have valuables, each was killed. In the fight, one of the Hasinds fell. The same questions.

   The elven girl raised her eyebrows, opening her mouth to answer but saying nothing. Frowning, after a prolonged pause, Naire slowly said:

   — That's... not the same thing.

   — Do you believe in Andrastianism?

   — More yes than no.

   — Good. Let's take the principles of that faith. Forget what the Chantry later managed to add “clarifying.” From the standpoint of the basics, what is the outcome of both examples?

   Naire squinted and forced out:

   — Four lives cut short. Both there and there.

   — Death, the most accurate measure of grief. Though not the only one. This doesn't mean context isn't important. What's important is how we perceive context. Apostate, settler, Hasind, Templar—four different viewpoints. One must remember that. Truth is slippery. In essence, it doesn't exist at all. Yes, I killed Templars because they were looking for me to kill me. Yes, there was a choice. Hide or run away. The same is true for Bethany's “catastrophe.” There are no “justifications.” There is choice and...

   Bethany met the gaze of the dark-golden eyes and, trembling almost imperceptibly, picked up on the fly:

   — ...and consequences.

   Morrigan involuntarily squeezed the book's spine—it cracked under the pressure. She sharply unclenched her hand, as if burned. And Naire, cautiously watching this movement, said quietly:

   — There's something to think about here. But...

   She faltered when Morrigan's dark-golden eyes suddenly bored into her with new intensity.

   — I didn't think there was so much... magic, logic, philosophy in you. It's astonishing. Don't take it as an insult, one doesn't expect that from someone who grew up in the Korkari backwoods.

   — If only you knew. Mother taught me much. Even the necessity—to accept other points of view. For example, that a rabbit is not just a roast, but, like everyone, is afraid...

   Morrigan's lips twitched in a grimace, as if she remembered something unpleasant, and then her laugh—short, sharp, like the snap of scissors—tore the silence. But the next instant, she clenched her teeth, her fingers digging into her temples, as if trying to suppress a sudden pain. When the witch spoke again, her voice sounded muffled, as if she were fighting a wave of nausea:

   — Other things are entirely unknown to northerners. And yet... Into thoughts, intentions, even into speech, like water, something foreign seeps. A phrase in Orlesian, the very understanding that it is Orlesian, “thinking,” “manipulation,” “self-determination,” the principles of Andrastianism... Surely much else escapes notice. This appears from nowhere. Like memories of things that never happened. Here we are approaching closely why I can be truly dangerous. Or become so.

   Bethany shook her head, showing disagreement, but finally uttered:

   — Possession.

   — Yes...

   Morrigan ran her palm over the books laid out around her, as if checking their reality.

   — But not only...

   Naire's eyes swept over the books on the floor, following the gesture, and she clarified:

   — Is this to solve the problem?

   Morrigan brightened and smiled openly, also letting her eyes slide over the books, then finding the gaze of those serious, sky-blue eyes.

   — That's why you'll find a common language with Bethany easily. You don't allow for doubt that this is a problem, not a sentence. Even after what happened. And you're sure a solution will be found. That's pleasant to hear. For a change.

   Bethany bent forward to ask:

   — And how...

   Interrupting her, the prisoner smirked, measuring the young mage with a gaze full of sarcasm.

   — How you should proceed? What about your lessons? How did the books get here? How close have I gotten to a solution? I can see by your eyes that behind one “how” a host of questions immediately swarms.

   The young mage blushed. The remark had obviously hit the mark. Seeing this too, Naire simply reached out and squeezed Bethany's shoulder in a sign of support. Watching the girls, Morrigan just shook her head, either in surprise or bewilderment. When she spoke again, a note of weariness slipped into her voice:

   — In order. Your fate is undetermined, like mine. But not so bleak. Pity you climbed into this trap after me. But there's nothing even to put on my own scale yet. That's why I can't offer hope. However, if you managed to bargain for visits, then continuing the lessons is within your power, however much time remains. But not today. Better go raid the Circle libraries while there's no one to guard them. As for the books around us, they are a gift from the First Enchanter. A favor for a favor. Or better... let's call it a move in a long game. Leliana can tell you more. The solution to my personal problem... It turns out I'm picking the lock with lockpicks instead of finding the key. Two death sentences—no joke.

   Bethany reached for the nearest folio but, instead of opening it, froze, looking at the worn spine.

   — Before the executioner ever reaches the Circle, I want to deal with this.

   The elven girl turned back to the prisoner and asked:

   — Can we help?

   Noting how easily Naire included both herself and Bethany in the question, and that the apprentice didn't even notice it, Morrigan cautiously replied:

   — Most likely. There aren't so many books here. If they don't reveal themselves to me today, you'll at least know their contents tomorrow.

   Bethany didn't look very convinced by these words about the venture's success, but forced herself to smile. Standing up, the girl said:

   — So, we'll come tomorrow. By the way. I think Leliana is skillfully spreading rumors and gossip about you. More precisely... It's not something definite. I don't even have a hint of proof. Just... Even I understood that by locking you up here, the Templars wanted as few witnesses as possible to see the 'Savior of the Circle' in the flesh. And for most to forget about your existence altogether, quickly. Softly, without undue pressure. And when stories about a heroine with “golden eyes” who defeated an evil demon start spreading among the children... Well, knowing who is capable of such a thing, you immediately understand...

   Morrigan nodded, returning the smile, and added, addressing the blue-eyed, sharp-eared interlocutor as she left:

   — Naire. Don't shoulder the burden of responsibility for my fate. That dilemma is beyond you. Set aside any sense of debt to me. Throw Alim's words out of your head. Templars, the Circle, possession. Others will deal with that. You should be concerned with the answer to only one question—does communicating with me pose a threat to you and others? Or not.

   Before turning to leave, Naire chewed on her lower lip and said:

   — That's... complicated. Many thoughts and... And the fact that you push me to ask questions, that's good. Yes, I owe you my life. It's not easy to throw that out of my head. And also... No. Not like that. I enjoy talking with you.

   Naire's lips trembled, as if she were searching for the right word:

   — Most conversations in the Circle are like textbook pages: you know how they'll end. But here...

   She abruptly cut herself off, her fingers involuntarily gripping the edge of the bench.

   — When Alim returned, I thought... Well, he would at least explain. At least ask. Instead, he decided for me again. And you...

   Her voice broke, but the elven girl quickly composed herself:

   — You at least don't pretend you're doing me a favor. That's... unexpected. Almost like when I chose to leave with the Warden myself. It's very close to... freedom. And... Well, one doesn't become friends overnight. I only hope there will be enough time for that.

   She threw a glance at the door, beyond which lay the Circle—with its predictable corridors, predictable people, predictable tedium.

   — After Alim left, I thought... Well, at least here everything would remain as it was. But now I understand—I don't want “as it was.” I want...

   She faltered, as if afraid to say it aloud.

   — I want to at least choose who to talk to.

   Naire smiled shyly and left, hurrying to catch up with Bethany waiting in the gallery.

   * * *

   For the remainder of the day, alternating reading with reflection, Morrigan finally became convinced that there was no ‘good’ solution to the problem of possession. The witch had suspected it would be so. Trying to put the yolk and white back into a broken eggshell was pointless. It was easier to take the next egg. Since neither the Circle mages nor the Templars had anything that could even detect possession, the plan was built around the hope that the girl would manage to combine the disparate ideas from the materials provided by Irving in an original way, obtaining something workable in the end. Unfortunately, brilliant solutions do not arise out of thin air. They require a solid foundation of quality ideas, research, preliminary results, and consistent hypotheses. In every work she had studied, the problem of possession was considered by the authors only as an endpoint, requiring no additional contemplation. Except for the book with the black cover. But even it, lacking the required answers, only posed the right questions to the reader. Morrigan admitted that such a book could have been hidden. But she acknowledged that a complete ban on reading it was unlikely. Moreover, the source of censorship could be located higher than the First Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle. And the Seeker's ‘magic remedy’ could well come from similar ‘secrets’, like blood magic shamefully hidden within the Circle, but on a larger scale. And yet... for Morrigan's situation, in the end, it made no difference at all.

   In the end, the witch was left with only a hastily conceived idea based on traditional magic. Morrigan had specifically singled out the word ‘traditional’ for herself. Besides the fact that the term was interesting to roll on her tongue, feeling both alien and familiar notes simultaneously, the word accurately conveyed the meaning. The witch suspected blood magic was the missing fragment of the mosaic for creating a full-fledged solution. However, “suspicions won't fill your belly.”

   With the end of daylight, Morrigan stacked the books into a neat pile at the edge of the bench, stretched her body with a couple of exercises, and concentrated on what needed to be done. A wave of self-critical contempt washed through her as she judged her own idea ‘clumsy’, ‘superficial’, ‘lazy’. It all came down to mana. Shadow creatures strive to possess any object in the physical world. Based on what she had read and previously known, the witch assumed the following: under the pressure of rules different from those operating in the Fade, creatures from there cannot appear here in their true form. It is unknown what threat the conflict between the “true form” and the physical world poses. The witch allowed that, as with the Fade penetrating the physical world, the latter would inevitably wrap the invading creature in a cocoon of blackness... Morrigan got distracted, involuntarily thinking that the only known substance with the required depth of black was probably soot. Shaking herself, the girl returned to the essence of the idea. “Compression” into a form corresponding to the conditions of the physical world requires constant application of force from the Fade creatures. Residing in a material object allows them to “relax”. Morrigan didn't know if such a term could be used here. Of course, among hosts, the living are preferred. The difference lies in plasticity. And among the living, the choice falls on the gifted. For some reason, it's easier for Fade creatures to reach those who possess magic, and the desired mana serves as an additional incentive.

   The witch began a slow movement in a modest circle within her allotted little space. Casting aside her inner restraints, she let her consciousness slide forward, ignoring whatever oddities occurred. The girl's thoughts revolved around mana. She worked from the idea that between the source of mana, whatever it may be, and the victim's mind, Fade creatures usually choose the enticing mana first. Something like an instinct. Like how it's hard not to jerk your hand away after accidentally touching something scorching hot. But typical possession occurs so swiftly that it's impossible to break it down into stages. Mind, mana, body... mind. Precisely this sequence intuitively seemed to Morrigan close to the truth. One could fabricate seemingly logical arguments to support such a sequence. But, with sufficient inventiveness, it's not hard to wrap a veneer of consistent proof around any foolishness. That's why the witch didn't hide from herself that she was using guesses as a foundation for a step forward. Assumptions. And if so, there must be a tool that allowed one to intervene in the course of possession. And the girl's case was just suitable to manage to do this. “Adolebitque congesta ut terra”—or, in a free translation, “Mana Scourging”. A spell that Morrigan had pieced together from several mentions in the books she'd read. It was originally intended precisely for fighting the possessed. By directly depriving them of mana, the spell curtailed the power and threat of the opponents. By now, the witch could, with some effort, imagine holding the correct oscillation for two runes in her mind. That would be enough to, without radically changing the spell formula, turn it upon herself. Her own mana would burn out utterly—that was the essence of the enchantment. This would immensely weaken or even throw the parasite devouring the witch back into the Fade. But herein lay the main trap: if a part of her already belonged to another, then she would only manage to burn what was still perceived as “her own”. How to expel the uninvited guest if he hides in the blind spots of her very perception?

   Leaning her burning forehead against the cool wall, Morrigan estimated what she might need. Her fingers involuntarily clenched into fists. The answer lay on the surface—lyrium. The only thing that could become an external source, unconnected to her distorted essence. With the knowledge from the books, she could channel mana from it directly into the spell, bypassing possible “stolen” fragments. Complete scourging. Without compromises.

   She closed her eyes, imagining the consequences. Ordinary exhaustion—loss of consciousness, hellish migraine upon waking... But this time, she wouldn't plunge into the darkness alone. If the theory was correct, the parasite would be flung out along with the last grains of mana. But only if there was no mistake...

   Besides, she needed helpers. And it would require not just care... Cold logic demanded that she acknowledge the likelihood of complete failure. The word “control” was on the tip of the girl's tongue. Here, her thoughts led inexorably to one name: Valinsi. Who else could hold this mad experiment back from catastrophe?

   — This resembles a very bad plan... But it is a plan, and not fumbling blindly in the dark.

   * * *

   That night, Morrigan had no strength left for vigil. Sleep took her suddenly, as if leaping from around a corner. And though the girl openly longed for a black oblivion, replaced immediately by morning light, instead another nightmare appeared.

   Or one that seemed just another at first. Waking already in that strange place, the witch stared blankly at the soundlessly upward-falling ash. Her chest rose with slow, measured breaths. Five or six such breaths passed before she felt grasping fingers on her shoulder, squeezing to the point of first pain. Those same fingers then spun her around with a sharp tug. Her double, covered in black voids, wasted no time this night on empty accusations or threats. Pulling its free hand back slightly, it straightened two fingers, lips moving soundlessly in a long, unreadable phrase, and—simultaneously with the appearance of black runes upon its nails—drove them into Morrigan's left breastbone. Right over the heart. A sharp, hissing sound of searing flesh followed. Fortunately, smells were absent in this place. Plunged into an abyss of agony, the witch tried to push the copy away, its single, unblinking eye boring into her, filled with cold hatred. It wasn't very successful, but the fingers slipped from the wound, forcing a ragged, piercing scream from her.

   Pain narrowed her field of vision, consuming all her attention, becoming the only thing that mattered to Morrigan. Only after a merciless pause of stretched-out moments did the desired blackness descend upon her, sharply severing all sensation like a knife. But even that proved merciless, denying her oblivion. In the void, images continued to flicker, flooding her mind with flashes of unfamiliar memories.

   Poorly lit corridors and a dance of death with a fan of bloody spray following a darting blade... irritation... The crunch of stones underfoot on a narrow path, weariness from a long road, and focus... Yielding, hot flesh under fingers and anticipation... The nose-clogging smell of dust, fresh ink, ancient parchment, and determination...

   Morrigan broke free from the nightmare with a sharp gasp, as if surfacing from icy depths. Her chest rose and fell rapidly and shallowly, her entire body trembling—not just from the cell's chill, but from shock, as if searing fingers still burned her flesh. She instinctively clutched her chest, expecting to find a charred wound, but beneath her clothes was only sweat-damp skin and a deep, muscular ache, as after prolonged strain.

   The sweat cooled quickly on her skin in the penetrating basement cold. The air duct connecting the cell to the surface drew in the frigid night air, and for the first time since her imprisonment, Morrigan considered the lack of a blanket. The prospect of hypothermia and dying before the enigmatic Seeker's verdict now seemed a real risk.

   Morrigan closed her eyes and let out a guttural sound of deep irritation. For the first time, the fear in her spoke louder than reason. Her thoughts tangled. The witch sifted through questions without even attempting to find answers. Had this cursed place taken too much from her? Had it strengthened the demon? Or had Morrigan long deluded herself, while a bleak end remained just an arm's length away?

   Angrily punching her knee, the witch focused solely on her breathing. Five minutes. Ten. Enough to regain the rhythm of a calm person, not a cornered predator. Composed, Morrigan forced herself to start the day precisely like the last. Routine maintained concentration. Unfortunately, completely ignoring the escalating noise from outside was impossible. The thud of axes biting into fresh wood, the long scrape of a sliding plane, the accelerating whine of saws... Shouts, the creak of wheelbarrows, the sound of rope friction as it was pulled forcefully through a block. The latter vividly reminded her of the brief days aboard the ship and the fresh, biting wind in her face. The bustling activity outside made her wonder if everyone had suddenly awoken from sleep and despondency at once.

   The witch's thoughts jumped to yesterday's conversation with Naire and Bethany. A grim smirk crept onto the girl's face. Morrigan found her own display of superiority and pride ironic. It was obvious that without the girls' help, she wouldn't even be able to attempt her own flawed solution to her problem. From start to finish, to be truly reliable, it would require processed lyrium equal to twice Morrigan's own mana reserves. Besides requiring watchful supervision... Clenching her jaw tightly, the girl remembered Valinsi and the need to speak with him. If she could also secure Irving's direct support... Without it, the performance would end before it began, at a snap of Gregor's fingers. Morrigan had more to offer the First Enchanter beyond their initial deal—a deal the cunning old man might consider already fulfilled. But she had to play her cards carefully. That is, assuming no one had loosened Bethany's tongue and shaken out the right clues. The witch held no fear of the Templars. If they could have achieved anything, the signs would have been visible on Bethany's very body. She could only hope that any Circle members entangled in politics had either perished in the recent crisis or hadn't yet managed to reach the pigeons and ravens.

   The temptation to surrender to the gloomy mood seemed more alluring than ever to Morrigan. Forcing her mind to work productively felt arduous. But, little by little, the girl returned to methodically contemplating the movement of runes in an imaginary formula. Without practice, it was mere theoretical guesswork, but today Morrigan didn't yet wish to spend her own mana prematurely or feel the characteristic weariness in her body...

   The girls who arrived about an hour later found the prisoner leaning against the wall opposite the entrance, head tilted back, eyes closed. An image so calm and still it seemed the witch was asleep. The moment Bethany and Naire hesitated on the threshold, dark-golden eyes flew open, bestowing upon them both a fleeting smile that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

   — This is not a noblewoman's boudoir, requiring permission to enter.

   Exchanging puzzled glances, the guests stepped inside and settled on the bench. Before they could speak, Morrigan continued:

   — Bethany. You haven't told anyone what I’ve been teaching you, have you?

   The girl threw a wary look at the elf seated beside her, then, returning her attention to her mentor, shook her head. Her pupil's face showed neither uncertainty nor doubt.

   — Thank you. Naire. Alim told me many things. However, he was reluctant to touch upon the background of that messy situation with the Grey Warden. If I understood the details correctly, you were the initial choice?

   The girl sighed, clearly not eager to broach the topic. But, collecting herself, she replied calmly:

   — That's right. I don't know if it's important, but I wasn't opposed. I didn't ask Alim to take the duty in my stead. Especially not to leave.

   — Yes, the elf said as much. Many words about the blame being his alone. I assume that created a rift between you?

   — Well…

   Naire made a hand gesture suggesting “a bit of this, a bit of that,” and then added:

   — Not enough time has passed to forget. But enough to cool down. The problem, you see... isn't that he took away my right to choose. That's a familiar feeling in the Circle, though such treatment from someone close hurts more. What matters is that Alim left, leaving me here alone. I understand logically that in a mirror situation it would have been the same, but... I don't know, that stung more than anything.

   — Did Alim tell you the adventure turned out far less entertaining than expected?

   The elf gave a wan smirk, agreeing:

   — Oh yes... Alim displayed an uncharacteristic eloquence to “correctly” characterize that journey. And despite his clumsily stitched-together efforts to exaggerate the grim aspects, his inherent aversion to lying didn't allow him to completely avoid mentioning the... merits of a certain witch.

   — Merits... Ha. What did Alim tell you about the Grey Wardens' Joining ritual?

   — Nothing. He said it was someone else's secret. So he has no right to reveal the details.

   — Damn it all... Those idiotic fits of his—this acute need to avoid the simplest solutions... Fine. The oaths of the dead concern me little. When Alim saw how lethal the Grey Wardens' initiation ritual was for the participants, he refused to take part. The stubborn mule's thoughts were of you. Surprising. Of course, in hindsight, that doesn't justify Alim in any way. And it changes nothing. But I hope it smooths over the misunderstanding between you.

   Naire's eyes widened in surprise, realizing the “adventure” had ended not just with serious complications like the battle of Ostagar, but also with the risk of an inevitable and seemingly pointless death. Thoughtfully running her fingertips over her lower lip, she clicked them and voiced her next thought:

   — Alim was ashamed to speak of it. Probably considered that decision “unworthy.”

   — You would know better. These questions aren't to pick at wounds or offer empty comfort. The Grey Warden chose you for a specific reason. A talent?

   The elf looked up at the ceiling, waving it off, but Bethany listened with interest.

   — Ah, that. Yes... Hmm. I explain it to myself like this. Unlike others in the Circle, who lean towards books or nothing at all, I loved spending time with a slate and a bit of chalk or a quill. Not that I disliked books, not at all. But the special magic of smooth lines coalescing into images... It enticed me more than the intricacies of rune and mana interaction. Alim stubbornly provided me with what I needed, even when it got the poor soul into trouble. And in return, I devotedly produced scribbles. This went on for several years, until one of the older Templars noticed the young elf by the oak grove, tearful from realizing her own lack of talent after a dozen unsuccessful attempts to transfer an oak leaf to parchment. Turns out, the seasoned warrior, over his hard life, had made hundreds, even thousands of landscape sketches and detailed maps during hunts for apostates. The young lady's tears inexplicably moved the scarred warrior. He taught me how to hold my hand and explained the basics. Soon, everywhere I could reach without risking a caning for damaging property, there appeared birds, trees, symbols, and... other things. And then it turned out that magic and drawing can coexist as a single art. Inscribing a series of runes on a surface while applying specific spells creates a unique effect. It also transfers the burden of maintaining the magic from the mage to the created drawing. And the neater it is, the better the result. Though speed is valued too. That's the whole talent. With due diligence, anyone could achieve the same.

   Morrigan nodded with a serious face.

   — Of course. Anyone can become a talented artist, I suppose.

   Bethany snorted into her fist and threw an apologetic look at her friend. And Morrigan, as if nothing had happened, continued:

   — You and my mother... could have found common topics for conversation. Not about drawings. Flemeth's own research in magic led her to unique solutions. Even now I cannot fully grasp what she embedded in them. For instance, the arrangement of runes, where meaning stems not only from their order but from their overall structure.

   Naire's mouth fell slightly open as she immediately tried to imagine something similar. Bethany shot her a slightly mocking look, fully suspecting what would follow next. Squinting and gazing into space, the elf cautiously asked:

   — But... that's not entirely a question of beauty, is it? It's more like...

   — Yes and no. Symmetry. Proportion. Proportionality. Fluidity. It is from these qualities that the magic manifests. But I see confusion in your eyes. The answer to your question is no. Beyond what I've listed, I know of no other principles to determine what will work and what won't. Mother had decades of trial and error. Quite possibly, even guesswork. But the result... Ask Alim directly. What he saw when I saved his hide atop Ishal—precisely and in detail. However...

   Morrigan broke off, as if listening to sounds beyond the cell. Something had caught the witch's attention, and she allowed herself a faint shadow of a smile before switching her focus to Bethany.

   — Apprentice. Tell Naire.

   — Are you sure?..

   — I have never played games with you. And I don't intend to start. Expect that more from Leliana.

   Bethany nodded in agreement and smiled widely, turning to her intrigued friend.

   — It's fascinating. Believe me. Mmm... It might be harder for you, since unlike others, you're not just accustomed to certain rules of spell construction. Your way of practicing the art interacts with a surface, never leaving it. But try to imagine that a flat drawing has volume. Not a sketch of a flower. But a figurine of a flower made of glass. Forget about runes on canvas. Imagine a puzzle that possesses width, height, and length.

   Naire, with easily readable disbelief, cautiously asked:

   — Is this some method for training imagination? Such a thing... It can't... Can it? Really?

   Bethany nodded eagerly.

   — Yes. When you're used to one way of perceiving formulas since childhood, mastering another approach is harder. It's like being perfectly able to walk. You do it every day, never tiring of it, satisfied with your own pace. And suddenly you're asked to run. You can. But you quickly lose your breath, feel unwell, and don't understand why? Exactly until someone trained runs past you, maintaining the pace for hours. Believe me, if you form the runes correctly in multiple layers, imagining them connected in volume, the mana passing through the formula will do exactly what it does with the orthodox approach. But more efficiently.

   — And Morrigan is teaching you...

   — Yes.

   — And you two...

   An unspoken question hung in the air, causing two pairs of eyes to turn to the senior witch in the cell. She shifted her gaze to the passage to the outer gallery and, speaking as if not entirely to Naire and Bethany, said:

   — Aside from accusations and sentencing, nothing prevents two people from learning together.

   From outside, right near the entrance, came the quiet sound of a shuffling step, and then the figure of the First Enchanter appeared from around the corner, his faded eyes piercing the predatorily smiling witch directly from the gallery. Tapping his staff's ferrule on the floor, the man nodded to the Templars on either side of the cell, and with his eyes ordered them to leave. After a pause long enough to not make it seem the warriors obeyed unquestioningly, the two armored figures moved off slowly.

   Both girls turned towards the sounds simultaneously but displayed different reactions. Bethany, with wide eyes, immediately jerked her head back. She instantly realized who had heard the words so confidently leaving her mouth. Naire, however, maintaining a mask of calm on her face, respectfully nodded to the First Enchanter. The man nodded back, but his eyes never left the prisoner for an instant.

   Morrigan tilted her head slightly and addressed her two interlocutors:

   — Our time, to my sorrow, has expired before it truly began. Naire. I have a request. Forgive me if it seems inappropriate. But there is no one else I could entrust this to. Please ask Valinsi to visit me today. Can I count on you?

   Irving flinched at the mention of the mage, betraying a moment's doubt. Naire slowly wrinkled her nose as if chewing a sour fruit, but, overcoming it, nodded. Taking her friend's hand, the elf pulled her along. Without another word, the girls disappeared into the gallery.

   The First Enchanter slowly shook his head, displaying mild disbelief at the proceedings.

   — So—an ace up your sleeve.

   — Perhaps.

   — Of course. Well, the bait is good. If one believes that knowledge of... Profunditas Descriptionis... has found its way into your head. But believing that a technique of the Tevinter magisters, which allows them to look down upon other mages of Thedas, is in the hands of a witch from the wilds of Korkari... is difficult.

   Taking a step into the room and looming over the witch seated on the floor, Irving narrowed his eyes and asked a question unrelated to the previous topic:

   — You hinted that so soon you would have a solution to the “problem of possession”. Well then. I'm listening.

   — A solution exists. Crude. But hoping for an elegant one would be presumptuous and foolish. Of course, provided you have shared all your knowledge with me...

   — What I possess is already at your disposal. Possession is not something that both sparks curiosity and is safe to study. Get to the facts.

   Before returning to the exchange, Morrigan fell silent, pondering such a straightforward display of interest from the mage.

   — A dozen mugs of processed lyrium. Two assistants. Not so complicated, as it is dangerous.

   — The essence?

   — Mana cauterization.

   — As simple as that?

   — I repeat. A crude solution. And unlikely to help anyone but me. It requires... many conditions. This is not a working method offering guarantees. It is an attempt to save oneself. And nothing more.

   Irving directed his gaze to his feet, unconsciously rubbing his slightly chapped lips with his fingers in deep thought. The First Enchanter was weighing and comparing what he'd heard with what he already knew. Or so it seemed, while Irving's thoughts might have been elsewhere.

   — Does it make a difference if another casts the spell?

   — I don't know... That hadn't occurred to me. I proceed from the basis that one's own mana must be turned inward upon itself. Because one must...

   — ...“bleed the invader dry.” Yes, I've thought about that. But such a... suicidal option never crossed this old mind. So, you managed to modify the spell appropriately in such a short time? It's hard to believe... Even knowing the magisters' method, one would need to add a dozen additional runes to the formula. That guarantees an unbalanced mana flow. And a fatal misfire. It requires time for refinement, experiments. A significant amount of time.

   — I understand. But... I know how to avoid that.

   — Aces up your sleeve... Hmm.

   Irving winced, as if the necessity of relying on such vague explanations gave him a toothache.

   — Transfer the formula to parchment. Immediately.

   Irving's voice remained calm, but his fingers tapped lightly on the staff's pommel—a barely noticeable, yet sure sign of growing impatience. Morrigan's eyebrows shot up.

   — In such a hurry to verify my sincerity? Or do you already doubt your own?

   A cold spark of irritation flared in the mage's usually impassive eyes:

   — Every hint of hidden knowledge from you is like rolling dice blindfolded. I am tired of conjecture. The formula. Now.

   With clearly noticeable surprise, the witch asked:

   — It seems proof of effectiveness interests you little...

   The mage did not react to the remark, silently awaiting continuation, causing Morrigan's face to harden.

   — Ah, yes. I forgot. My problems hardly interfere with our deal... Possessed or not, that's the Seeker's concern. As long as I don't kick the bucket.

   — What's the point in discussing this? Beyond careful consideration of your feelings? I repeat. For the Circle to survive, any grounds for suspicion must be eliminated. Yes, there have been problems with the behavior of some mages. It's barely noticeable from the outside, but to me, the deviations are obvious. If I see it, the Seeker will notice. And based on a single precedent, she will sweep the remnants of the Circle into the frigid waters of Lake Calenhad. Drop the feigned surprise. I will squeeze the maximum from your situation. And you should remember, we are not on equal footing. My part of the promise is already fulfilled.

   Morrigan slowly drew up her legs and rose to her full height before the mage.

   — Precisely.

   Irving gave her an appraising look and slowly nodded. His response held not the slightest hint of sympathy.

   — So, you've decided to test the boundaries. Well then... Let sincerity be mutual. Firstly. Your ritual, whatever it may be, was not part of our agreement. Therefore—no lyrium. At the slightest suspicion of serious magic, the Templars will restrain you. Secondly. Bethany and Leliana are still within my power, and your apprentice's position is not as cloudless as it might seem. Yes, that is a direct threat. And now, the ritual, please.

   The witch paled slightly, her brows furrowing. This was not what the girl had planned. Or even the complete opposite.

   — I...

   — Don't bother. There's nothing to explain here. Nothing new for me.

   — No. It's different... The fact is, the formula cannot be transferred like that. It's more complex than...

   — Is it truly? Or is it simpler to say—you don't want to give it up? Or perhaps it doesn't exist at all. And it's all a bluff.

   — To transfer certain parts of the formula to parchment, one must first figure out how to describe and record them clearly.

   Irving sighed wearily, his eyes not leaving the witch's face.

   — Is that supposed to be convincing? This irrational reluctance to cooperate, especially after we've clarified all points, is irritating.

   The girl tilted her head slightly forward, peering from under her brows at the tired face of the elderly man.

   — If only...

   — No. No subjunctive mood. I'm already sick of its use everywhere in the Hold. Everyone tries to feed me that nonsense. It's obvious a decision has been made here. That's normal. In a losing game, you bet on a wild stallion and, of course, got nothing. But you didn't lose either. However, since you've also decided to “play,” remember our agreement. Banish any illusions about what comes first for me: the Circle, my own clear conscience, or you.

   Irving turned and left the room with a swift stride, irritably stamping his staff against the stone floor. And Morrigan was left to gloomily wonder—who else in the Tower was now possessed by a shadow creature.

   * * *

   Valinsi honored the witch with his presence much closer to evening than she had hoped, but much earlier than she had feared. The man did not look as tense as he had during his last visit. But he hadn't become more cheerful either. Slouching, the mage quietly entered the room, silently sat on the bench, and stared at the opposite wall. Not a single word. The girl, who was standing by the wall opposite the entrance, touching a fresh layer of rime, nodded gratefully and sat down next to him.

   — Naire?..

   — You could have sent another... Bethany, I think. Or another one. Using Naire like that was cruel.

   — It was necessary...

   Valinsi shook his head, his gaze slowly sliding to the intricate frost pattern on the wall.

   — Maybe it just seems that way to me. Lately, a lot of things “seem” a certain way. But your mind, locked in here, is straining and starting to bite itself. I understand the goals you hoped to achieve. So that, on seeing the messenger, I would understand the importance and urgency behind the message. For Naire, to lean on the motive of “helping a friend” and so overcome her own fears. For... No. I don't want to think about the rest.

   — You are too selective. As if you're striving to blind yourself in one eye.

   The mage snorted.

   — You're accusing me of not wanting to think about this shit? About the surrounding shit? About the shit that will irreversibly drown us in the coming days? You know what? I don't give a damn. There's no one to protect now, no one to save, not even anyone to drill. Teacher, healer of crippled souls, or a builder—I'm a mediocre one at that. Truth is, they're forcing the role of jailer on me. And that goal doesn't motivate me to get up and go against the wind. So yes, consider it selfish, but I refuse to face certain facts to preserve my sanity and the ability to move forward.

   — But you can't make decisions...

   — You called me here, practically asking for a favor, or at least for help between the lines, and now you're going to try and convince me you're “not worth the attention”? Listen. I won't guess what this means or what mind-bending game you're trying to play. Why am I here?

   Morrigan smiled faintly and nodded.

   — I need help. There's no doubt about that.

   Valinsi leaned against the wall behind him with evident relief. The tension gradually left him. It didn't resemble smugness or triumph, more like a transition from uncertainty to clarity.

   — I'm listening.

   — Of course... I've found a solution to my problem with possession. Through a ritual.

   The witch cast a meaningful glance at the neat stack of books by the cell entrance, and then at the passage toward the Templars on duty around the corner. Following her gaze, Valinsi picked up the top book. The very one, bound in black leather, which had turned out to be the most useful volume of all. Opening the substantial tome at a random page, the man quietly repeated after the girl:

   — Possession... Wonderful. And the infamous “Black Grimoire”.

   His fingers rested on the cover.

   — I've heard of it. But it's the first time I've held it. The book is probably a hundred winters old. And instead of a clear history of its origin, only a murky legend. As if the author were a Hasind witch who once visited this Circle. Funny, isn't it? Never thought I'd see it here, in your hands.

   The mage shifted his gaze to the witch, intending to add a remark. But, meeting the piercing gaze of her dark-golden eyes, he slowly closed his mouth and returned the book to its place.

   — Alright. Continue.

   — I need processed lyrium. At least ten cups. Bethany, Naire. And you.

   — Me, to get the lyrium. Or just... me.

   — Both. I need someone to ensure control. Someone who will understand what's happening. And make the necessary decision, regardless of the consequences. I trust you.

   The man's face broke into a crooked smile, accompanied by a quiet curse:

   — You really are a witch...

   — Good that you noticed now. And not when it's too late.

   — That's what you think.

   A silence fell, which Valinsi was the first to break.

   — Getting to know you is like reading a book from the forbidden section of the library. From the first chapter, you're sure it won't end well. But for some unknown reason, and contrary to logic, you keep turning page after page, torn increasingly between doubts, dangerous thoughts, duty, and blind hope. A strange experience. I assume the “romance” with Irving didn't turn out exactly cloudless?

   Smoothing her hair and rubbing her face as she collected her thoughts after the mage's tirade, Morrigan said:

   — Hmm... The old man, I thought he gave me the books because we'd reached some agreement regarding my help. That is, simply payment for services rendered. A naive mistake. In truth, the result interests the mage no less than it does me. I suspect... Irving suspects others of being partially or fully possessed. But... What I've hastily assembled here from fragments, I cannot pass on to anyone else. It's not a question of motive or greed. It's a question of capability. I don't. Know. How.

   Valinsi studied the witch's face intently, which did not hide the irritation at her own clumsiness and incompetence. After a short pause, the man exhaled:

   — By the Void. After scoring so many points in your favor for cleverness and ability, you then try to convince the First Enchanter of your own dim-wittedness... And getting him to believe you're so smart you could invent, in a couple of days, something for which no method of recording even exists yet is even harder. Of course, he decided you, for some reason, chose to “play games”. Irving, I'd wager, was not thrilled by that. One thing is unclear. What's the rush? I mean, if I believe your words and there's still a chance of salvation, what difference does one day make compared to a week?

   The girl raised her eyes to the ceiling, frowning.

   — Time...

   Morrigan's fingers twitched involuntarily, almost touching the spot over her heart where the wound had burned in her nightmare. She sharply dropped her hand, noticing Valinsi's gaze flicker towards the movement.

   — One might have guessed.

   The mage's reply was sharper than expected:

   — I don't want to guess. I want to hear.

   Wincing, as if his attention had become an almost physical touch, the witch forced out:

   — There are... changes. Things that were only in nightmares before... now leave marks. We must succeed before tonight...

   Valinsi slowly exhaled. His eyes narrowed, scanning her figure with a new, alarming intensity.

   — To be honest, that sounds quite...

   The girl turned to Valinsi and hissed quietly through clenched teeth:

   — I am afraid. Terrified. Satisfied?

   Clenching his jaw, the man ran a hand through his hair, his fingers unconsciously brushing against the ring woven into his braid at the end of the motion. His hands dropped to the bench, gripping the edge as if he were trying to stop himself from a rapid fall. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, for a moment reflected an internal struggle—between the duty of a Circle mage and something more personal. And his quiet voice uttered, barely audible:

   — Alright. Into the abyss...

   He rose abruptly, suddenly standing to his full height. The slouch was gone, but not from confidence—rather, as if he had made a decision from which he could no longer retreat. Morrigan instinctively tensed, expecting... What? Anger? Action? But Valinsi only cast her a final look—a strange mix of irritation, frustration, and something else she didn't have time to identify—before turning sharply and disappearing into the gallery.

   * * *

   Time flowed slowly, like tar. Morrigan's thoughts wandered aimlessly, and she found herself unable to gather them into anything productive. It wasn't a sharp, pronounced fear. Rather, it was something crawling just beneath the surface of her fragile calm, a tension born of vague anticipation of the unknown. Too much would be decided too soon, with far too few ways for her to influence the outcome...

   If asked now, the witch would, albeit hesitantly, have called this moment the worst of her life. There had been no shortage of low points over the winters she'd lived. She had lost her way in some unfamiliar stretch of winter forest at night, teetering on the brink of accepting her own inevitable death. She'd found herself in the clutches of a predator barely past her fifteenth season. She had greeted dawn with her fingers bloodied and splayed against a rocky cliff face—all for curiosity and foolish bravado. She had lain with broken legs in a forest filled with dangerous sounds, submerged in an abyss of pain. She had fought a pack of wolves over a kill, every moment expecting them to lunge at her back. And finally, a worthy entry in this collection was the day she awoke on a hillside and watched pillars of smoke rise over her own home. Disoriented, with a gap in her memory... and perhaps making her gravest mistake: yielding to instinct and fleeing instead of returning to see the truth with her own eyes.

   But in each of those moments, she had retained the ability to do something. Adrenaline and a sharp will to survive had driven her forward, forced her to move, to think. How was “now” different from “then”? Morrigan had no trouble answering that question. It was the utter lack of control over the things that mattered. No matter how much adrenaline coursed through her veins, no matter what fierce drive spurred her on... the truth was, she couldn't overcome even ten experienced Templars, and here there were far more. The surrounding walls were unbreachable. The meeting with the Seeker was inescapable. And the vilest part, in the witch's opinion, was waiting for the inevitably approaching night, with the nightmare hiding within her.

   Adding to it all was the bitter realization of how close she had come to what she wanted. A constant itch urged her to say to hell with it all and take that final step alone, on only the mana she had left. To prove to everyone once more what she was capable of. Yet, alongside the temptation, the awareness of her mistakes slowly seeped into her mind. She couldn't help circling back to what lay at the root of this pitiful outcome. What she could have done differently. Had Morrigan been more composed, she would never have allowed herself to dwell on what had been missed and what might have been.

   The key mistake loomed so obviously before her that it made her want to grind her teeth. Alim. Rage urged her to blame the elf for everything. But had what happened been inevitable? Not without a struggle against her own prideful nature, Morrigan admitted: no. She could have seen the elf as more than just an “interesting travel companion”. She could have taken Leliana's words more seriously. She could, in the end, have given more of her time to the mage, letting him better know and understand the “enigmatic southerner”. There had been time enough. After all... Morrigan remembered the look in the youth's eyes that night at the inn. And then similar glances he'd thrown at the redheaded “sister”. Morrigan knew it would not have been difficult to bind that mage to her with something stronger than trivial “friendship”. Too high a price? Raising her right hand and clenching it into a fist, the witch grimly concluded that in recent days the answer to such a question had shifted from evasive agreement to cautious denial. The girl could and should have used everything at her disposal. People, elves, qunari—they are bound not only by heavy chains such as duty, rank, status, lineage, religious views, ideology, and kinship, but also by threads masquerading as something fragile and insignificant: sympathy, empathy, compassion, friendship, lust, and love... For Naire, Alim would have been ready to abandon the Circle. Perhaps for Morrigan, he would have done no less. Not long ago, in a frank conversation, Leliana had voiced her own suspicion: the Witch of the Wilds “collected” companions like a set of interesting and useful tools. So be it. The girl accepted the unpleasant fact that she should have learned from the former bard. Just as she accepted that very few care about the true motives behind actions as long as they see what they desire. Morrigan harbored no illusions that she could shed certain character traits or newly acquired inclinations with a snap of her fingers. But she did believe she could at least try to “dull her thorns”.

   Nevertheless... she had to return to the harsh truth of the present. Valinsi's reaction had left the girl with little hope. At the thought of Alim... Morrigan could only smirk darkly. Naire and Bethany lacked sufficient influence to offer real help. Leliana... yes, the witch did not doubt the “sister's” ability to “exert influence”. But that required time and the right circumstances. Finally, from where she stood now, Morrigan could not hope to match people like Irving. A direct consequence of her own weakness. To turn these conclusions into something tangible, the girl needed a chance... something that couldn't be bought for any amount of coin.

   * * *

   As the daylight faded, Morrigan prepared to face the nightmare. There was little left in her by way of emotion or confidence to meet the coming night prepared. Only the will to survive remained, to which she added as much stubbornness as she could muster. Stretched out along the bench, the prisoner quietly awaited the veil of sleep to carry her off to the realm that legends say lies on the border between the Waking World and the Fade.

   So when the stone blocks grated and shifted with a faint scraping sound, she couldn't suppress a soft gasp of surprise. Leliana was the first to slip into the room, lithe and quick. The “sister” offered Morrigan a restrained smile before immediately turning to Valinsi, who followed behind. The witch stared at the mage with wide eyes, unable to untangle the knot of emotions crashing down upon her. The mage gave a grim smirk and muttered quietly to his redheaded companion:

   — Looks like she's ready to meet the Maker.

   Leliana merely shook her head, perplexed by the mage's clumsy attempt at humor, then turned back to Morrigan.

   — We are here to help. Naire... she wanted to come too. But she's had a conflict with Alim. So the girl is temporarily... restricted in her movement around the Tower.

   The witch raised her eyebrows and asked, surprised:

   — She's a full mage. Alim couldn't possibly restrict...

   Valinsi cut her off, stating dryly:

   — He can. Formally, due to the near-total absence of surviving senior mages of the Tower, I am currently the highest in the hierarchy. However, the First Enchanter has been... diligent in ensuring his wishes regarding future appointments reach the right people. So, if the elf wants to do something within the rules, in this all but empty Tower, he'll get his way. And the lad apparently had a powerful urge to lock Naire away. I had a choice—go argue with the stubborn fool or be here...

   As the mage spread his hands, indicating his chosen course, Leliana nodded, adding her own details:

   — From my perspective, Alim is a difficult conversationalist today. Sharp. Careless words set him off. Experience suggests the young man is unaccustomed to conflicting emotions tearing him in opposite directions. In Alim's life, I suspect everything was always clearly defined and focused on two or three specific things. First, he found himself in an unstable position, and then he personally ripped the last hint of constancy out from under his own feet. I understand the difficulties he faces perfectly. But the elf needs to decide what he truly wants…

   An easily recognizable note of irritation sharpened Leliana's voice on the last phrase. As if, beyond the obvious, there was something personal here too. And simultaneously, from the far end of the gallery, came the sound of running footsteps, as if someone was approaching the cell at a sprint.

   — Bethany?

   — I'm here, I'm here...

   A breathless girl, grabbing the doorframe for support, hurried into the room. Brushing a stray brown lock from her forehead, she offered Morrigan a modest smile.

   — I was answering a couple of initiates' questions about life outside the Circle. The young men were rather persistent.

   The “sister” rolled her eyes meaningfully, more for the older of the two mages than the younger, as if saying: “Of course.” Meanwhile, the Templar by the entrance—the same veteran who had escorted Morrigan between cells—snapped to attention at Bethany's arrival. His hand instinctively fell to his sword hilt as his eyes took stock of those present: two mages, an unfamiliar woman, and the prisoner herself. Four people in a cell meant for one. Noticing the “mistress” of this stone sack of a cell focusing on something in the passageway, Valinsi also turned around.

   The Templar's sharp cry cut through the air like a whipcrack:

   — Enough! Three visits in one day—this is no longer visiting, it's a gathering.

   The warrior's gaze slid to Valinsi:

   — Even if you have the First Enchanter's permission, I have my orders from the Knight-Commander. Petr, after the assistant! One foot here, the other...

   The second armored figure saluted and strode swiftly along the other cells towards the only staircase leading up. Valinsi, testing the waters before diving in headfirst, asked the remaining Templar:

   — After the full-fledged delegation the First Enchanter brought here himself, you wouldn't pick a fight over a trifle with the Tower's future right hand, would you?

   The warrior didn't even deign to react to the veiled threat, offering a cool reply:

   — You have only the First Enchanter's word, which may not become fact. And even if it does, the future of the Circle itself will first be decided by the Seeker's will. A flimsy foundation, it seems. So forgive me, but I don't care. If any one of us sees anything even remotely suspicious, I assure you, the Knight-Commander will hear of it.

   — Looking at you, I...

   Leliana punched Valinsi in the shoulder, cutting him off before the dialogue could escalate into direct threats. The mage turned to her with a surprised look, but she was already addressing the Templar.

   — Ser Harman, a man of stern views and a stickler for discipline. Please do not take his words as a personal insult. This warrior of the Maker is quite loyal to mages, unlike some others. More precisely, he is fundamentally indifferent—it's whoever breaks the rules who faces his sharp criticism. However, one should consider that Harman lost two comrades during the retreat from the Tower, men he'd weathered more than one winter with. Among themselves, the Templars believe that's precisely why he was assigned to watch over Morrigan. Though I doubt many know the “Saviour of the Circle” by name.

   The redheaded “sister” offered a conciliatory smile to the slightly flustered man. The Templar responded with a demonstrative scowl and silently resumed his habitual post by the wall around the corner. Turning back to Valinsi, Leliana clarified in a half-whisper:

   — We have a quarter of an hour while Petr runs around, and then the Knight-Commander's assistant will be explaining the situation to him.

   Focusing her attention on Morrigan, Leliana continued:

   — Pull yourself together. Not long ago, you pushed me in the right direction. Hard to believe I already need to push you so soon. Can we manage in ten minutes?

   Seeing the mage's still-surprised gaze as he reassessed the redheaded woman, Morrigan closed her eyes for a moment. Suppressing the relief and irritation that were superfluous now, the witch exhaled and met the gaze of those pale green eyes again, nodding.

   — The beginning is swift. I cannot predict the duration of the consequences.

   Leliana nodded. The mage, at last, made a cautious remark, addressing the redheaded girl more than the witch:

   — So it seems you haven't been wandering the Tower aimlessly all this time.

   The “sister” shook her head noncommittally, a faint hint of guilt in her voice:

   — Perhaps I should have devoted more time to other matters. But yes. Thanks to the isolation, the Circle is like an anthill, teeming with rumors. Right now, after the tragic loss of so many seniors, they are more innocent. But the collective consciousness still holds enough facts about those living under this roof. Of course, not everyone can discern them beneath the childish jokes and scary stories. One must know how to listen and encourage the storyteller with a kind word. But we are digressing.

   Bethany and Morrigan nodded readily, but despite this, the man had the last word:

   — Right now, the Circle is in disarray and has practically frozen, awaiting the unknown. That's why this trick of yours was so easy to pull off. Don't think it will always be this way. In the old days, we were far more closed-off, conservative, and suspicious of outsiders.

   — Easy to believe. But those times are past.

   The older of the two mages interjected before the conversation could turn into a relentless exchange of barbs, quietly asking:

   — Lyrium?

   Valinsi nodded, removing from his belt a massive leather pouch, suitable for carrying several valuable tomes at once. Inside were four ceramic flasks, designed to hold a solution of processed lyrium. Touching them with her fingertips, the girl felt the familiar, unpleasant tingling in her hand.

   — Then let's begin.

   After emptying the bucket of drinking water into the latrine, she moved it to the center of the room. Watching the preparations, Bethany whispered:

   — Um... what should I do?

   As she retrieved the ceramic vessels and began to pour the bluish liquid with a faint pearlescent sheen—a sign of high concentration—into the bucket, the prisoner gave a nervous snort and replied:

   — Make sure I don't fall. The floor is stone.

   At this remark, Valinsi cast a thoughtful glance at the kneeling Morrigan, which only the younger mage missed. The man remained silent, not interfering in the preparations in any way. Wasting no time on doubts and pushing the empty containers aside, Morrigan sat before the bucket, crossed her legs, and plunged her right hand into the solution. It felt only slightly more viscous than plain water to her. Her arm, up to the shoulder, was immediately gripped by an unpleasant tingling that seemed to reach the very bone. This was accompanied by slight nausea, but nothing that couldn't be overcome with an effort of will.

   After a meaningful look from the older mage, Bethany realized it was time to act. Springing from her spot, she was behind her mentor's back in two steps. Taking a deep breath in and out, Morrigan conjured the mental image of the required spell formula. Making the necessary adjustments on the fly to account for the role of oscillating runes, the witch approached the final step. Closing her eyes and concentrating on the sensations in her right arm, she allowed the mana from the dissolved lyrium to flow freely through her body, to fill the formula with power and set the spell in motion.

   Morrigan had never experienced mana burn before. The witch had various expectations... but there was almost nothing to feel when the spell took effect; no distinct sensation marked the moment. It was more like rapidly mounting dizziness and fatigue, crashing down with an overwhelming weight upon both body and mind. As if a huge wave of cold water had suddenly surged forth, instantly dragging her to the very bottom. Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision, squeezing her consciousness in a vise. And it lasted no more than a couple of heartbeats. The last things to reach the witch's awareness before the embrace of darkness were the sounds of the Templar's irritated questions, their meaning elusive, and Bethany's “Flaming Hands” on the back of her head…

   * * *

   The forest was dying. No... Morrigan winced, realizing she'd let herself think it. Her thoughts were tangled, refusing to form a coherent chain. Words obeyed reluctantly, refusing to describe what she saw. For several nightmares now, the forest had borne little resemblance to familiar, living vegetation. These changes had been accumulating, but only now had they become so obvious. Everything around her had become the embodiment of “death”.

   Before her eyes, the trees were losing the pitiful remnants of blackened foliage, which dissolved into black, ghostly smoke before even reaching the ground. The undergrowth had already vanished, and even the ash that had previously covered the soil was crumbling away like the first snow under bright sunlight. All that remained was a bare, grey surface, scarcely resembling forest soil and pockmarked with ulcers, as if afflicted by an unknown disease.

   Looking around, the witch, for the first time in this nightmare, felt free rather than a victim caught in a web. Nothing restricted her movement, and the first cautious step she took felt astonishing. Finally, after what felt like only three minutes, her searching gaze finally fell on the only object that differed from the trees and showed no sign of dissolving into a mirage. Taking careful steps, Morrigan came upon a copy of herself. Kneeling, curled into a ball with its face buried in its knees, it sensed her approach more than heard it. The witch's alter ego lifted its head, covered in black scars, revealing a face contorted with pain. Focusing its single eye on the “visitor”, the copy demonstrated a swift transition from suffering to rage and hissed:

   — Everything's been taken... My memory is riddled with holes... My body... And now you're burning this little corner I fought so hard to cling to, to keep from falling into oblivion. How I hate you!

   Morrigan frowned, looking down at herself for the first time, and asked the only question that troubled her at that moment:

   — Why?

   The copy suddenly froze, its single eye widening, reflecting something more than just rage—a profound understanding of the absurdity of its position. A snarl twisted its face, though behind the hatred, desperation was now visible:

   — Why?!

   The double repeated the question, its face distorting into a grimace half pain, half mockery.

   — You stupid creature! Does one need a reason to want to live? To desire to exist? To reclaim what was rightfully theirs?...

   Its voice broke into a rasp as black cracks crept up its neck:

   — You've even stolen my pain... my dreams...

   Morrigan felt an icy shiver run down her spine. There was a strange conviction in the copy's words...

   — But I desire the same. Exactly! Our desires cannot... Why didn't you choose another victim, demon?

   — Not my choice!..

   The copy opened its mouth and froze, deeply shocked by Morrigan's words. Then it burst into abrupt, wild laughter. The witch felt a strange mix of revulsion and pity watching the scene unfold. When the laughter subsided, the copy raised its hands, watching as the tips of its remaining fingers began to blacken. Shifting its gaze back to Morrigan, it began to spew words with extraordinary force:

   — You are a sick creature... broken, twisted, with insane goals, meaningless principles. And that is my small victory. A doll stuffed with the desires of others, desires that make me feel soiled and diseased. Without me, you are less than a shadow... Every particle of you is stolen! Even your very essence belongs to me! But now... Now...

   Breaking off mid-sentence, the copy looked away into the void, as if peering into an abyss unfolding before it. Something in these words, saturated with sharp hatred and chilling sorrow, pierced Morrigan, making her take a step back. Meanwhile, the blackened fingers of her alter ego began to melt, turning, like everything else, into ephemeral haze. Looking around, the girl realized the trees were gone. The nightmare was coming apart, rushing toward its climax. Letting out a painful, weeping moan, the copy drew the witch's gaze once more. As if with great effort, it forced out a poisonous smile. In it was a certain defiance and a desire to drink to the dregs the sweetness of small victories, no matter the cost. The girl couldn't bear it and shouted:

   — What?! Enough. Disappear. I've won. You won't get this body.

   — Creature... Be damned... On that ill-fated day, Flemeth almost killed you... Almost...

   Lurching forward abruptly, the witch grabbed the copy by its darkening shoulders, intending to shake it.

   — You remember that day? What... what happened then? Tell me! What happened to Mother?!

   In the copy's single eye, shining with pure gold, surprise flashed, replaced by triumph. It laughed again, but this time the laughter was angrier, more jerky, more painful... reeking of madness. To her own surprise, the witch slapped the copy, then again, tasting the blood on her bitten lip. With the third blow, the face, riddled with black cracks, shattered like broken glass, scattering into tiny shards that didn't even reach the ground. The body fell, immediately crumpling and beginning to disappear. In the frozen silence, a whisper finally reached Morrigan's ears:

   — Be cursed...

   Immediately after, the very ground beneath her feet swiftly changed color from dull grey to black and crumbled into dust, marking the final death of this mysterious place, lost amidst dreams. At least, that was what Morrigan hoped, sinking into darkness…

   * * *

   Five years, and a handful of sunrises before that.

   Melsendre stood over the body of a softly snoring man who had quite successfully reached his fifties. He had aged surprisingly well over the years, despite a comfortable, carefree, and not overly active life. A slight paunch, a moderate number of wrinkles, a smoothly shaven face framed by grey hair, and legs only just beginning to lose their strength. A mage. Yet, like most of the gifted, he was not immune to the common folk's afflictions. Raising the left corner of her elegant lips in a slight smile, the woman noted that the mage no longer possessed the stamina of youth, even with his accumulated knowledge and talents. Wiping a soiled corner of his mouth with the edge of the clean sheet, and then using it to wipe away the wetness between her own thighs, Melsendre approached the clothes she had prudently discarded in one spot. From her dress pocket, she retrieved a small silk pouch. Transferring the brooch it contained—adorned with three memorable emeralds—into the top drawer of the bedside table, the woman, who had never touched the jewelry with her bare skin, couldn't help but note the trinket's elegant design.

   As she put her dress back on, Melsendre thought she felt almost sorry for the harmless librarian of the White Spire. The man held no influence but had been careless enough to voice his political opinions publicly three times in the last week. And each instance could be deemed unfortunate: both in timing and location. Such shortsightedness, combined with a loose tongue, easily became a weapon in the “Grand Game”, which had been rapidly acquiring bloody undertones in recent months. Melsendre's patron, Gaspard de Chalons, had decided to put two chatterboxes in their place—men who had found themselves, by carelessness or design, in the wrong position. The brooch the bard had left behind belonged to a court lady. A most respectable lady. And attractive, for her years. Despite her spotless reputation, she had the misfortune of being married to the commander of the Val Royeaux guard. He, too, had recently been too public in declaring his personal tastes in favor of the current Empress, Celene. Melsendre was perfectly aware of the White Spire librarian's weaknesses, and though the task wasn't personally intended for her, the woman had confidently volunteered to be the one to fulfill her patron's wish.

   Rumors of the adultery were already slithering through the capital, a quiet snake finding its way into the right ears. Once the evidence became known... feathers would fly. But for Melsendre, this affair held a personal interest. The opportunity to gain access to the White Spire through the head librarian's good graces was not to be missed. Who would now suspect that the real target was an ancient folio in the library? Deftly fastening the last loop on her luxurious dress, which flatteringly displayed the one area of skin—its owner's deep décolletage—the woman picked up her porcelain mask and high-heeled shoes. When worn, the mask depicted a smiling jester with pronounced feminine features, reliably guarding the anonymity of the person behind it.

   Quietly closing the chamber door, Melsendre slipped into the dark corridor. Barefoot, with a light and silent gait, she headed for the library. She knew the way. Perhaps she shouldn't have, but she did. The Night Spire slept—the mages had long since retired to their quarters, leaving the labyrinthine book repositories unattended. It was quiet and deserted.

   Soon, the desired doors came into view. Slipping between them, the bard found herself in a realm of knowledge. The sharp smell of ink drying on documents copied during the day struck her nostrils, along with the indescribable scent of paper dust and aging parchment. Together, they enveloped the newcomer, as if whispering in her ear where she had arrived. Many would be bewildered by the sight of the huge shelves receding into the distance in long, straight rows, dividing the vast circular hall into narrow aisles. But not Melsendre. She knew precisely what she needed and where to find it. All the preliminary work had long been completed, waiting only for a fortunate confluence of circumstances.

   Gliding between the shelves, the bard scanned the stacks for the call number she needed, of which there were countless around her. The secret language of the local attendants, which made them indispensable. And over the years, it had scarcely simplified; if anything, it had only grown more complex. Any successful trick that made navigation difficult for a casual visitor among the tomes, scrolls, and tablets was immediately adopted. Finally, Melsendre stopped before an ancient volume that gave no outward indication of its value to the woman. By a stroke of luck, it was located only on the third shelf, and with the help of a step-stool it was easily within the reach of the woman's long arms. The book was written many winters ago by an Orlesian researcher who had studied scattered documents of the old Empire—everything that could be translated or obtained without visiting Tevinter itself. The handwritten work was dedicated to cataloging the architectural feats of the old Empire, mentioning the most peculiar of those already forgotten.

   With a soft, delicate rustle, Melsendre ran her finger down the required page and finally found the name she sought. Aeonar... Previously, the woman had only held disparate pieces of a puzzle she had set for herself. The task was to discover the secret prison of the Seekers of Truth for those gifted with magic. She had never succeeded before. Not until a clue appeared that the mysterious place was located within a relic of the Magisters of the old Empire. Now, by process of elimination and possessing the most complete list possible outside of Tevinter of such relic sites, Melsendre had obtained what she needed for a confident answer. A place where there was a chance to realize a dream and take an important step from mere significance to that elusive eminence. Only one small matter remained: to find a suitable candidate for infiltrating the grim Aeonar. A place known to few, and from which none return...

Chapter Text

   Pain. Why does it sometimes come tinged with colors? Black shot through with red… Throbbing. As if something living had taken root inside her skull. Scratching behind her eyes, behind her eyelids. Sending waves of nausea rolling through her. Morrigan drew a hoarse breath and exhaled with a soft moan. She was afraid to open her eyes, as if something alive lurked behind her lids, ready to burst free. Although, of course, the greater fear was the light—a source of exquisite torture. But the illusory darkness couldn’t save her from reality. The light filtering through the vent grating pierced her eyelids like thin blades. Still, it could have been worse… Taking her time, wary of the dizziness any sudden movement might bring, the witch looked around.

   Still in the cell. This constancy was, strangely, reassuring. The sound of breathing made Morrigan flinch instinctively, despite her caution. The price was a surge of nausea from prolonged hunger, rising in her throat. Only by squeezing her eyes shut and breathing rapidly did she manage to force back the bile. Trying again, more carefully, she saw Valinsi sitting in the corner, at the head of the bench. The man had his arms crossed over his chest in an attempt to keep warm, and he was asleep.

   The scene seemed so unreal that Morrigan blinked, as if trying to shake off a stupor. But Valinsi remained in the corner, arms crossed. The vision didn’t fade. Ten minutes of struggling with her own body—and finally she managed to sit up, bracing herself with effort. Setting those questions aside for later, Morrigan turned her attention to more pressing matters. Recalling what she had resolved to keep under close watch, she began methodically reviewing them, one by one.

   Memory. Despite her hopes, there was no improvement here. Not a single new fact about that day. And the scattered recollections—or rather, vague fragments—hadn’t vanished, hadn’t assembled into a coherent mosaic, and hadn’t revealed anything new.

   Raising a hand to her face, where a plain band of gold had once rested, the witch frowned. Like her other personal effects, it had remained at the foot of the Tower before the ascent began. She could only hope the bundle had truly passed into Leliana’s hands with minimal loss. Morrigan harbored no illusions that the Templars would have ignored the personal belongings of a “witch.” Still, what mattered was different. She concluded just how little she now cared for the value of personal possessions—not just jewels—given that she hadn’t even thought to ask Leliana about their fate. And… beyond that, nothing had changed. The fuss over valuables seemed trivial to the witch, meaningful only as a means to secure wealth. But she saw no personal use for it. Now, if wealth were required to acquire knowledge…

   She clenched her fist, feeling her nails dig into her palm. Uncurling her fingers, she turned her thoughts to the next puzzle. Perception. Here, too, at first glance, there was nothing worth mentioning. The witch still felt that strange detachment when thinking about her own body. As if it were a tool to be kept ready, like a blade one intends to wield in battle.

   Morrigan gave a weak snort. It was futile to expect everything to return to normal in an instant. She’d understood that from the start. Disappointment and swirling doubts had to be restrained like a wild beast on a leash. Changes had already happened. They would remain. Unless something new overwrote them. She could only hope the changes to come would be gentler. Without violence to her mind. Without alien hands breaking her from within. And, most importantly, that relief from the exhausting nightmares would come. That would take time. For now, she had to patiently endure at least one more night.

   Wincing, she turned toward her “cellmate,” only to find him in the same position but now studying her profile with attentive eyes, no trace of sleepiness in them. Arching a brow—and immediately regretting it—Morrigan asked in a raspy voice:

   — You… how did you get here?

   Valinsi sighed, coughed, and straightened up with effort, as if every movement came with pain. His neck cracked; he let out a pained groan through clenched teeth, followed by a sigh of relief, then calmly deflected the question:

   — Well now, and here I was hoping for a warm welcome. Does prison etiquette really prescribe starting with an interrogation?

   Genuinely surprised and making no effort to hide it, Morrigan repeated:

   — What?

   The corners of his lips quirking slightly, the man squared his shoulders, rolling them, twisting first one way, then the other.

   — Seeing you so disconcerted… a small but pleasant surprise. I wonder how often that expression visits your face. Sorry. I suppose my flat jokes are missing the mark more than ever. Judging by your twitching eyelid and dilated pupils… three days without food, and the first thing you ask about isn’t breakfast. Clearly, you didn’t wake in the best state.

   — Three… days?

   Her voice came out as a croak. Her tongue slid over her cracked lips, and the pain—sharp and sudden—made her flinch. She hadn’t even noticed they’d grown so parched. Half-expecting the mage to announce it was a joke, she shook her head in disbelief. But the man only nodded affirmatively and continued:

   — Let’s lay things out in order. After the spell took effect… Ah, of course you want to ask how we knew it worked?

   — Precisely.

   — Well then. First, you immediately showed signs of sudden and complete mana exhaustion. Loss of consciousness, point one. Incidentally, it looked more like lethargy. A cold sweat, point two. Slowed breathing and heartbeat, point three—though I confirmed the latter only afterward. Second, there was almost no lyrium left in the bucket. That, by the way, is impressive. So, when the spell took effect, naturally, Ser Templar reacted to the event… unfavorably. Harman… right? No matter. Suffice it to say your interlocutor acted foolishly in that moment. He let the warrior in him take over. Well, he could have doused me a few times with Smite, laying Bethany and me out beside you. No harm to you, or to us. But pride boiled in my veins. Try explaining to a steel-clad fanatic that he’s an idiot without using magic. Surprisingly, my argument didn’t impress him. To be fair, Harman showed considerable patience—he could have broken my nose and knocked out a few teeth. Leliana… You know, your friend curses exquisitely. Virtuosically. Long story short, they roughed me up. And I managed to land a punch on the Templar’s eye. Don’t look at me like that—I hadn’t lost so much control as to use magic against him. Or use magic at all… And then Leliana cooled our mutual fervor. In the end, Gregor didn’t let it slide. I suspect with Irving’s silent approval, reasoning that locking me up for a couple of days was an excellent way to cool the head of his future “right hand.” Irving, of course, is a saint: instead of the stocks, he slipped me into a cell with you. And that’s the whole story.

   Morrigan licked her lips again.

   — How…

   — That’s my line. So… how do you feel? And no excuses.

   — My head is splitting. Or maybe it’s already split.

   — No. I mean something else.

   The witch slowly, deliberately, shook her head after considering her next words.

   — I don’t know yet. It doesn’t seem like a full recovery. But it hasn’t gotten worse, either. Perhaps the best is yet to come? The next night, or the one after, will tell. Or the Seeker will make a decision.

   — Well… the latter is more likely than the former.

   Morrigan turned her head slightly.

   — Is he here already? Though… yes. Three days.

   — He arrived last night, threw the Hold into an uproar. Must have had a fair wind in his sails.

   His voice held an irritation masked by feigned lightness. But in the girl’s opinion, it was more likely the result of being confined in an unfamiliar space. Perhaps the lack of conversation or any means to influence events played a part, too. Valinsi continued:

   — By this hour, the Seeker has surely begun inspecting the Tower. Or the survivors. The sun is at its zenith. The weather seems to favor the Seeker—after two days of downpour, with thunder crashing as if heralding disaster. Only without strong gusts of wind. And today… quiet, sunny, calm…

   Glancing sideways at the witch, Valinsi added thoughtfully:

   — As if the darkness itself passed us by, and now the world is catching its breath.

   She ran her fingers over her temples, as if trying to push her thoughts back into place.

   — Fine… Food wouldn’t go amiss.

   — We’ll see. Perhaps something can be done about that. In the meantime… I’d like to know more about this so-called “possession.” No hedging or innuendo.

   Morrigan twisted her lips, holding back both a sharp retort and any sudden movement of her head.

   — First, tell me more convincingly about that improvised scuffle with the Templar.

   Valinsi rose to his full height, pressing his lips together and tilting his head with mild bewilderment in his eyes.

   — Why?

   — My question exactly.

   — Bargaining? So be it.

   He clenched his teeth and began:

   — For the first second, I thought Harman would finish you off. That’s all. No hidden depths. But then… To be honest, I weighed the options and pictured the moment you woke up…

   — Oh? So you didn’t even doubt I’d wake up?

   The man looked up at the ceiling, as if the question had caught him off guard. But after a moment’s pause, he nodded and went on:

   — Almost. So. If what you said about the “possession” holds any truth, how much truth is there? Who or what would wake up? Who did we strike a deal with in that case? We did something that could cast a long, dark shadow. So many lives would be swallowed in that darkness… To take that lightly… I don’t have the right disposition for it. And in the end, it all came down to needing clear answers, even if I don’t really believe in “possession.”

   The girl winced painfully and clarified:

   — An uncertain statement. That’s not a full denial. So, a drop of faith is hidden somewhere?

   He gave an ambiguous jerk of his head, neither denying nor agreeing, and the mage picked up where he left off.

   — After all this, I’d sooner believe in a grand deception than a miracle. But here’s the question—why would anyone stage such a spectacle? Motive? Reasons? The logic of this “performance” eludes me. That doesn’t mean it isn’t there. But… Fine. I’ll admit, there was a personal motive, too. If you’d died down here in the dungeon, and I hadn’t even tried to understand why… that’s a mistake even cowards don’t forgive themselves. So, while we’re alone, is our deal still on?

   Morrigan narrowed her eyes, her gaze sliding over Valinsi’s form. Tense shoulders, a posture like a drawn bowstring. Only his fingers weren’t clenched into fists, but even so, they trembled with tension. The unprovoked tremor seemed threatening. She swallowed slowly, realizing her throat had long gone dry. In the end, more quietly than she intended, she said:

   — You’re barely holding back, as if poised on the edge of an abyss. This conversation isn’t just about possession. Maybe it’s about something else entirely. Let me guess… A name is involved. Tomara. You were close, weren’t you?

   A clenched jaw, sharply defined facial muscles—in profile, his tension looked almost grotesque. Closing his eyes, he answered with no emotion in his voice:

   — Not in the way you imply. We always stopped a step short of the line. Colleagues. Friends. Nothing more. Companions since our youth. We were constants in each other’s lives.

   The girl nodded.

   — Irreplaceable. And how can I compensate for that? Muffle the grief with anger? Or…

   — Start by answering the question.

   — Yes.

   — And that’s…?

   — The answer to the question.

   The mage blinked uncertainly and muttered, more to himself than to her:

   — Just like that…

   — Depends on your perspective.

   — I suppose… Now it’s your turn. No tricks…

   Fixing him with a heavy look, the girl turned away, stating dryly:

   — Is there any point?

   — Of course there is. We’re not strolling in a garden—we’re sitting in a prison. So begin.

   — Hm… I’ve never tried to condense what I’ve been through into a few clear phrases. Perhaps such experience could be useful. It started a month ago. We were attacked. Defeating Flemeth is no easy task. I woke up an hour’s walk from home. With no memory. Soon I noticed changes in my habits, my character. From trifles to frighteningly comprehensive things. But the main “new” thing is the nightmares. Actually, one specific one, over and over. In which I’m not alone each time.

   — Succinct. — He grimaced and added: — At least it’s without lyricism.

   — All to the point. Did you require a report on the background?

   — And this went on… a month?

   Morrigan gave a faint nod, adding:

   — Now you know not just the “why,” but also the “what.” Did it give you much?

   Drawing a tired, deep breath and exhaling slowly, Valinsi visibly relaxed, shaking his head. His face twisted into a grimace mingling bitterness and vexation.

   — Yes. Yes… Of course, it’s more a matter of faith and trust than understanding. Condemning you is the easiest thing. But proving innocence… You understand. At least, without the Seeker’s miracles. But thank you for your frankness. Perhaps it was more important whether I’d get a clear answer or just a foggy half-truth.

   Morrigan curled her lip and retorted:

   — The point… is that you’re fighting your anger. That’s what needs talking about. With someone, certainly.

   — Not with you?

   — I’m a stranger to you. That’s somewhat appealing, simplifying everything for someone like you. But I’m not sure that path…

   The man snorted, muttering:

   — All you southern girls let your emotions run away with you, but you… you’re a special case.

   — And far stranger than I seem. Truthfully, I’m not in a state to… Fine. One straight talk about what’s in your head, in exchange for food. You’re right. My head can ache from hunger, too. And with the pounding, you can’t even feel the hunger itself.

   — Is that a deal?

   — What, don’t you believe in my generosity already?

   Valinsi nodded and approached the air vent to say loudly and clearly:

   — Petr, still there?

   Immediately, from above, came a distorted but clear young voice, a boy who’d barely seen a dozen winters:

   — Of course, Senior Enchanter. But…

   By the end of his words, enthusiasm was overtaken by uncertainty mixed with slight fear. Valinsi tensed immediately, clarifying:

   — What’s happened?

   — The Templars are gathering everyone by the Tower. In front of the main entrance. From the eldest to the youngest.

   The boy’s voice trembled:

   — They’ll take me, too.

   — I see.

   Closing his eyes for a moment, the mage began giving his young accomplice instructions:

   — Run as fast as you can to the gallery leading to these cells. If anyone you meet asks questions, say: urgent mage business. Don’t go into details and don’t stop, so they have no reason to press further. If there are Templars at the stairs, you have a message from the First Enchanter for the Senior Enchanter named Valinsi regarding the start of the Seeker’s inspection. I’ll cover for you later; worst case, it’ll mean a caning. At the cell, repeat your story and play the stubborn dullard. The main thing is to make the guards think it’s easier to open the cell and hear the details as they go than to argue. Understood?

   — Of course! I’m running.

   The sound of footsteps faded into the distance. Valinsi met Morrigan’s gaze—her eyes, dulled by pain, still burned with curiosity.

   — What…?

   * * *

   About five minutes later came a familiar scraping sound as the stone doors creaked open. But on the other side weren't Templars, but a single curly, fair-haired youth, who could be called rather pretty, if short. He was flushed from running and, breathing heavily, bowed his head respectfully.

   — Senior Enchanter...

   Waving a hand irritably, cutting off the greeting, Valinsi peered out into the gallery and his expression darkened.

   — No one on the stairs?

   — Empty. If you hadn't told me how—

   — Shhh... You know nothing, I told you nothing. And no other way. No proud tales or hints. Understood?

   Valinsi fell silent, thinking. Petr was desperately trying to look straight ahead, though his gaze kept sliding involuntarily toward the “Savior of the Circle” sitting in the depths of the cell.

   — The Seeker recalled the Templars from their posts. Without consulting anyone. Neither the Knight-Commander nor Irving had time to object. Ironic and dangerous. Then we do this differently, as this could end not with a caning, but with Tranquility. Run from here as fast as you can, but don't get spotted. Lose yourself in the crowd. Take up any little job. Pretend you've been doing it for a long time and not too diligently. Even if it's an obvious reason to scold you. Run!

   A pause ensued. Valinsi clicked his tongue angrily:

   — Shoo!

   The lad shot off and quickly disappeared toward the stairs.

   — We'll have trouble with food...

   — Is that... concern from you? Forgive my surprise.

   — Petr is a good lad. Obedient. Composed. And while that's balanced by a taste for adventure, this time I'm the one who dragged him into one. For personal interests. Besides... you're right, not long ago I would have treated the boy much more harshly.

   Morrigan sighed quietly. She thought she'd heard something similar recently. But the thought slipped away, and focusing on anything was agonizingly difficult. Though one conclusion was simple enough to pierce even the fog of nausea and pain.

   — We need to get to where the Seeker is. The fact there are no guards is actually good.

   Valinsi spun around sharply.

   — Where did that thought come from, all of a sudden?

   The witch squeezed her eyes shut, imagining how many words she'd have to force out to formulate an explanation clearly. Licking her lips again, she tried to be concise:

   — I already said Irving was interested in my crude method of curing possession. Not an idle interest. The First Enchanter is certain there are other possessed mages. Whether it's personal paranoia or facts doesn't matter. But think for a moment. I mentioned earlier in the Tower that two entities took hold in the Hold. One kept the other from running wild. One was forced to leave. Where is the second?

   The mage visibly paled, drawing in on himself, and tried to object:

   — But... I thought the second one wasn't interested in anything except hindering the first. It even protected the children. As soon as the first one left, the protection was lifted.

   — And thus it cleverly drew your attention away. Think, there isn't a single reason not to suspect something. That's blindness imposed by your own weary mind.

   — Bloody Void... But the Seeker is there, surely he... Oh... The Seeker will run into the possessed and...

   — And if Irving has done nothing, it will happen in the middle of a crowd of children. And a crowd of Templars. A Seeker and a demon of that strength. I might not care. But you? Besides, Bethany is there, Leliana, and... Naire.

   — Can you prevent it?

   Morrigan hissed—pain and irritation woven into a single sound:

   — You are too cautious. You hesitate too much. The last thing I want is to wait out a storm here. Either way, the winner is clear. The remaining Templars will definitely conduct a purge after this. And I'll be first on the list.

   Valinsi swore hoarsely and shook his head sharply. Stepping closer, he helped the girl to her feet. Her legs barely held her, but the mage's strong arms managed to hold her up. His help angered her—it reminded her of her weakness. But something about it... was strangely calming...

   — Would be nice to run into some food on the way...

   The mage only shook his head grimly.

   * * *

   A faint breeze, gently brushing her face, carried the scents of damp forest and wet fallen leaves. The foliage, sharply yellowed by the cold nights and the moist forest air, seemed to announce autumn’s sudden arrival. Still, the sun in the cloudless sky playfully bestowed its warmth, as if hinting at the summer days now past. Morrigan could hardly claim any speed, moving forward only thanks to Valinsi. How quickly her body had betrayed her, squandering its last reserves of strength—that realization left a bitter taste.

   Pushing back the encroaching gloom, Morrigan asked her companion:

   — So you expected to end up locked up?

   — Hm?

   The man frowned, trying to grasp the question’s point, then smirked.

   — You mean about Petr. Not exactly. But you must agree, given everything going on here, what could one expect from joining in a murky ritual with unauthorized lyrium, and doing it in the cell of a prisoner already all but declared a maleficar? Of course, when I went to get the lyrium, I tried to be reasonably careful.

   — Forcing the lad to sit camped by the air vent day in and day out, waiting?

   — What a heartless tyrant. No. Knowing his nature, I proposed a deal: he helps me now, and I’ll become his mentor after his Harrowing. Though, I wouldn’t be wrong to assume the “adventure” itself tempted him more than vague promises. Of course, if Petr had sat day and night by the only occupied cells in the Tower, he’d have earned a caning long ago and more than once. Petr has good ears. All that was needed was for him to be nearby around the same time each day.

   The witch gasped as she stumbled but, held upright by the mage’s hands, straightened and asked:

   — But if you thought the scheme was “murky” and dangerous… why?

   — A good question… Ask me again in a couple of seasons, if the Maker allows me to live that long. Right now… it’s hard to say. I haven’t had the chance to speak with Leliana properly to understand her motivations. Naire, as you might have noticed at our first meeting, is prone to impulses that go against any sense of self-preservation. Emotions, idealism, and obligations. Bethany… After speaking with her, I understood that a strong bond formed in your short acquaintance. It’s easy to imagine that girl doing dangerous foolishness for you, believing she has solid reason. Two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have taken such a risk. But now… Back then, I had clear goals. A clear path, understandable duties, rules devoid of ambiguity. In exchange, I got restless sleep, the dirty underbelly of our reality, and a grim duty to the Circle. That and… some other complications. Let’s just say, offering harmless help to someone who has already helped me and, likely, even saved me, seemed at that moment the least dubious course of action. Along with a dash of defiance against rules and fate.

   — Nihilism and anarchism are growing in you.

   Valinsi coughed and shook his head in surprise, exclaiming in bewilderment:

   — Your tongue and knowledge… often leave me baffled.

   Furrowing her brow, Morrigan squeezed her eyes shut for a moment against a surge of pain, a worm wandering inside her skull.

   — You’re not the only one. And it’s not about erudition. It’s hard to convey what it’s like. I remember that until I opened my mouth, I didn’t know these words. And yet I clearly understand the meaning behind them. Are they fragments of others’ memories, or am I lost in my own past? What I fear most is that this knowledge doesn’t come from me. That its source… is not me.

   Valinsi raised his eyebrows and concluded with feigned optimism in his voice:

   — How timely of you to remind me that you might be possessed. Right before meeting the Seeker.

   — You’re always welcome.

   Around the Tower’s corner, a scene awaited them: a formation of Templars, closed ranks around the remnants of the Circle… A few youngsters were being led from the building, while three more, under close watch, hurried from the outer wall gates. Judging by the number of children and adults shifting from foot to foot on the grounds, all the few survivors were gathered here. The usual hum of a crowd was absent. Instead—an oppressive silence, saturated with fear and nervous anticipation. Morrigan noted: the children clung together, holding onto each other. The older mages seemed to have already written them off. Her gaze immediately picked out eight key figures among the children. And one—an older witch. The one who had taken up the reins of leadership on the Tower’s first floor during the Veil’s rupture. Flanking her were two other women, vaguely reminiscent of the healers who had also taken refuge on the first floor then. Together, they had gathered the youngest around them. Distancing themselves from this trio, yet standing near despite everything, were the distinct figures of Alim and Naire. Around this pair clustered older youths. Bethany and Leliana, standing at the crowd’s right edge, seemed as if they had accidentally found themselves in the midst of it all. And Jean. The man, judging by his expression, would rather be anywhere but here. And yet he chose to stand out among the children rather than join the other mages. The group of senior enchanters was led by Irving. And among the other faces lined up behind the First Enchanter, her gaze also caught Lida. Judging by Valinsi’s twisted lips, he too had spotted the woman with his eyes, not at all pleased with the state in which his beloved Circle was presenting itself to her.

   The three nearest Templars—their faces seemed vaguely familiar to Morrigan—turned simultaneously towards the unusual pair, automatically reaching for their weapons. But they didn’t hurry to draw their blades, instead exchanging grim looks with the Senior Enchanter of the Circle, who was supporting the pale girl from falling. The nearest teenagers also looked back, immediately focusing their attention on the witch’s feverishly bright, dark-gold eyes. A stunned whisper arose, prompting new heads to turn. Again and again. It was like fire racing through dry grass—the whisper spread from person to person. Valinsi shook his head and whispered almost soundlessly right into her ear:

   — Your friend is something else. It would seem she did nothing malicious, merely answering questions without drawing attention to herself. But each time she turned the conversation so that instead of one curious person, there were two. Rumors, like mist. And while neither Irving nor Gregor has any illusions about what’s happening, or who’s to blame, by the time they noticed, acting harshly on the eve of the Seeker’s arrival became… inconvenient. Especially considering the source of the rumors spends a good deal of time praying at the statue of Andraste in the chapel.

   Morrigan glanced at Leliana. She noticed the crowd’s reaction and also found the girl’s eyes, giving her an eloquent nod. Meanwhile, some movement began on the opposite edge. Behind the group of mages, it was hard at first to see what was happening, until a figure appeared accompanied by Gregor. The Seeker. A man in his forties—younger than the Knight-Commander, but older than most present. No armor, only practical traveling clothes, not only lacking any insignia but also not overly fresh. A grim face, all sharp angles. Sharp cheekbones, a nose with a bump, a narrow chin—a face as if carved from stone. Unshaven cheeks only emphasized this angularity. A straw-blond with a simple, short haircut any barber could manage. And a gaze as sharp as daggers from grey eyes with a hint of sky-blue. As soon as the stranger pointed a finger to a spot beside him and said something quietly, the First Enchanter stepped forward readily, and the Knight-Commander gripped his weapon’s hilt, frowning intently at his old acquaintance, with whom he’d shared a lifetime of duty managing the Circle. There was no doubt—this man was in command here, and Gregor was merely obeying.

   With a precise movement and without a hint of hesitation, the Seeker drew a narrow stiletto, fitting for a “mercy blade,” from beneath his clothes, pricked the center of his left palm—held cup-shaped—and deftly returned the weapon to its hidden sheath. Dipping the index finger of his right hand into the welling blood, the man, wasting no time on needless theatrics, placed a red dot between Irving’s brows. The First Enchanter seemed slightly disconcerted, and even from this distance, experienced eyes noticed how much effort he exerted to stand silent and still. Something flickered before Morrigan’s eyes… Something perceptible yet incomprehensible—like the fleeting shadow of a passing bird. A hint of magic, and nothing more. Then the Seeker nodded and pointed to the next person. The strange ritual repeated, again and again, until it became routine. The tension began to ebb, but fear still hung in the air—heavy and cloying. In truth, nothing remarkable was happening at all. But each time, it seemed to Morrigan that the Seeker’s seemingly simple actions summoned a presence onto the sunlit grounds, hiding in plain sight, just at the edge of vision, no matter how hard she tried to catch this elusive sensation.

   When the main group of adults was finished, Valinsi asked quietly:

   — You think it’s hiding among the children? That would be… sad. Perhaps you and Irving were mistaken?

   The witch gave a weak smirk, torn between the strange tension, her headache, and the nausea promising a swift bout of retching on an empty stomach.

   — That would be wonderful… But I don’t think so.

   Morrigan’s eyes turned to the remaining adult figures standing apart.

   The Seeker, meanwhile, shifted his gaze to the healers and with the same indifferent gesture pointed to the spot beside him. The women, with quiet, soothing words, disentangled themselves from the younger children’s clinging embraces to undergo the check one by one. First red dot, then the second… And the man’s hand faltered for the first time. Morrigan fancied she heard a quiet, angry hiss reaching the far corners of the open space, and then the red mark on the forehead of the woman, whose attention had seemed unsettling from the start, vanished…

   A stunned Valinsi breathed an uncertain question near her ear:

   — Wynne?..

   The woman’s face remained impassive—a mask of cold superiority. But her eyes… her eyes held something inhuman. Minor details: a gaze too fixed, lashes that never fluttered, a posture utterly rigid. It felt familiar to Morrigan, like a scent recognizable in itself, yet unmoored from any memory of when, or what, had smelled that way. A nagging sensation, forcing her to dig through her own mind for a clue. The Seeker suffered no such torments; without visible preparation, he lashed out at the creature before him with a force akin to the Templars’ Smite. To his credit, he performed the feat—one Templars usually accompany with vigorous movements and shouts—without so much as a blink. Gregor’s face twisted, and he began to draw his blade. Then, the same motion spread like a ripple to the rest of the Templar line. Irving hunched his shoulders and, to any observer, squeezed his eyes shut as if in pain.

   Without warning, a fragment of memory struck Morrigan, thrown into her mind like a stone skipping across water. A dark tunnel with a heavy ceiling that seemed to press down on both her head and her thoughts. The only source of light: an oil lamp in her left hand. Its warm, yellowish glow fought the hungry darkness encroaching from front and back, reclaiming only the greenish muck underfoot and ancient stone walls glistening with moisture. Her nose was filled with a stench: old, sweet rot mingled with stagnant water. Each step added a new stink, one overwhelming the last. Ahead—sweat-matted straw-colored curls and the broad back of a reliable partner to whom she could entrust her life and honor without a second thought. Tristan. Behind—hours of travel through monotonous gloom. Somewhere here hid an unbearably elusive answer. One that mocked her, forever slipping from her grasp. But the persistent streak of bad luck didn’t trouble her as much as it once had. Her thoughts were already wholly occupied by another question… Another… For the first time, Morrigan was no passive observer but consciously trying to hold the kaleidoscope of images in focus, to glean more than just another vague hint. But it was futile. The memory dissolved as it had arisen: elusive. It left behind a filthy residue of doubts, questions, and fears revived with new force. Amidst it all, strangely harmonizing with the nauseating pain swirling behind her eye sockets, she found a couple of answers. First and foremost—the name of the Seeker standing across the crowd. And furthermore, a hint at the nature and guise of the foe hiding within the mage named “Wynne.” Too much for the girl’s cramped skull, and far too timely to foolishly chalk it up to chance.

   Like a cruel, elaborate joke, the situation offered no spare moments for contemplation or inaction. The heavy silence hanging over the crowd—the stretched-out moments before violence—was torn by Morrigan’s hoarse, broken cry:

   — By the living, Tristan! It’s the thing that freed your light! You can’t…

   On the last phrase, a tight ring of horror constricted the girl’s throat at the ill-considered words that had escaped as if of their own volition. Like a powerful spell, they riveted the Seeker’s maddened gaze upon the mage. And the only face in the sea of expressions that remained indifferent was “Wynne’s.” The woman’s stare remained fixed on Tristan, silently acting as his impartial judge. Returning his attention to his “opponent,” the man stopped Gregor with an authoritative gesture, though Morrigan didn’t miss the blond man’s barely perceptible fear. Then came the man’s voice, muted yet unexpectedly deep and firm, devoid of any trace of agitation:

   — If you are what the woman implies, you should know this: truth requires proof. How long has this servant of the Maker stood his vigil?

   Without changing her posture or expression, “Wynne” replied evenly, almost relaxed, and without a trace of emotion:

   — Thirty-two sunrises.

   Tristan visibly paled, but the only gesture he permitted himself was a short nod. “Wynne,” after a pause, continued:

   — The servant’s sleep is tainted. It should be ended. There is no other threat nearby.

   The Seeker’s jaw tightened. His lips soundlessly formed the word:

   — Nearby…

   Nevertheless, he nodded again, quietly giving Gregor another short command. The Knight-Commander repeated it disbelievingly, his gaze never leaving “Wynne,” but he received only confirmation. The last thing Morrigan’s consciousness registered as it sank into encroaching darkness: Valinsi’s strong hands, not releasing her for an instant, and the Seeker’s sharp gaze, trying to pierce the mysterious essence of the stranger who had intervened…

   * * *

   Waking to the cool touch of a damp cloth on her face, Morrigan’s eyes snapped open and she flung off the linen compress. The movement was sharp and clumsy. She sat upright on instinct, surprised to find no headache or dizziness from the sudden motion.

   The mage found herself lying on a cot, fully dressed atop a blanket, in a modest room with a typical small Fereldan window. This was clearly not part of the ancient Tower dating back to the old Empire. It was more likely a Templar building, one of those scattered along the outer wall. Seated in a plain wooden chair against the opposite wall was Tristan. The man was intently studying the contents of a handwritten journal, methodically turning page after page. Without looking up from the text, the Seeker addressed his sole companion:

   — Welcome back from the realm of dreams. A fainting spell from hunger is an unpleasant method of getting there. While you were… not exactly present, I ordered a good dose of a healing concoction poured into you: two parts warm chamomile infusion, one part honey, and a tot of wine. Now we can finally talk.

   Deftly folding down a corner of the page, he slowly closed the journal and set it aside on the dresser. A bared short blade already lay there. Crossing his arms over his chest, the Seeker, for the first time since she had woken, surveyed her with a keen gaze. Even Morrigan, inexperienced in such matters, couldn’t miss the predatory glint in his eyes—the look of a creature that knows its own power. And the fact that the man was sitting alone in a room with a mage declared a maleficar spoke volumes about his confidence in his own superiority.

   — Let’s skip the ritual of introductions. I know your name, and what the Templars of the Kinloch Circle wrung from your companions. And also what the Circle mage named Alim deigned to tell. Of course, some details were provided by other mages of the Hold as well. You, it turns out, also know my name. And who knows what else besides.

   Morrigan shook her head in mild surprise, using the momentary pause to look around. An ascetic setting. Judging by the room and the Seeker himself, this could be his personal quarters. The only exit was blocked by a massive oak door—not an obstacle for magic, but a clear signal: you are not invited to leave. And the Seeker, the great unknown in the equation, made the situation thoroughly precarious.

   — It seems the rules of this conversation have eluded me.

   — There are no rules. I hold your life in my hands. And your phylactery, too. The lives of your companions are in my power. And even this Circle depends on my will. Major decisions in this world often meet with surprises. But you are merely a firefly against a blaze. Is that clear?

   — Painfully clear…

   — I suppose you are comparing me to the Templars. Oaths, vows, a clear conscience, high moral principles. That is a mistake. None of that applies to me. So. To the questions. How do you know my name?

   The mage winced and sighed. A seemingly simple question demanded a straightforward answer. Which, frankly, doesn’t exist.

   — The answer isn’t obvious. In short—I don’t know. If you interrogated Alim a second time, you’re aware of my condition and the… peculiarities that accompany it. Shreds of memory that don’t belong to me are a typical feature. And back there, in the clearing, one such memory concerned you.

   When Morrigan echoed his informal address, the Seeker gave a dissatisfied grunt but otherwise listened to the girl with full attention.

   — What was in the vision?

   — An unusual jump straight to the point.

   Raising her eyes to the ceiling, the witch tried to convey as thoroughly as possible the vague fragments of what had once been a bright, vivid memory. Throughout the recounting, Tristan offered no comment or clarifying question, uttering only a single word under his breath at the end:

   — Kirkwall…

   He shifted his gaze to the window and absently ran a hand over his now smoothly shaven chin:

   — This is… peculiar. Let us assume your vision contained truth. My name is a fact. But how did it get into your head? And then there’s the nature of what penetrated the Circle mage. The Seekers’ principle is to rely on facts and seek the truth based on the worst assumptions. The worst. A certain “amusing ritual” you recently performed—was it not supposed to decisively solve your “problem”?

   — Amusing?

   — Not my characterization. The mage who carried you… Valinsi, with a fair dose of skepticism, described the event precisely as such.

   — I suppose the intonation concerned “amusing” more than “ritual”.

   — Answer.

   — Yes, the ritual was meant to help. But it’s too early to tell. Although… you’re not speaking to me as if I were “something”. But as if I were “someone”. Which means you’ve already performed the test while I was unconscious. That’s… actually, that’s good. Very good.

   Morrigan’s lips twitched in a faint smile. Strangely, this simple conclusion brought such relief.

   — Don’t rejoice prematurely. My testing method is not foolproof. Especially with such… non-standard cases. It is more of a specialized tool in which I’ve had no reason to doubt in traditional circumstances. But you are anything but a typical case. The picture that emerges when we look at you is anything but normal. Starting with your origin and ending with recent events. And furthermore, since “foreign” memory fragments, by your own description, continue to appear even after the ritual, and in suspiciously convenient circumstances, I see no reason for false self-assurance. Formally—you are clean. But not safe. Before we continue, remember this: absolutely everything concerning the entity inside Wynne, from the moment you leave this room, is not up for discussion. Ever, with anyone. In a normal situation, the mere presence of this knowledge in your head would mean immediate execution.

   The traces of the smile vanished. Morrigan narrowed her eyes angrily.

   — A strange threat. If I’m already condemned—why say it? If you need me alive—all the more so.

   — For clarity. The truth. You are needed alive for now, despite the problems trailing you.

   Morrigan retorted sarcastically:

   — Thanks for the hope. But the whole Circle saw what happened. What about them?

   — Nothing. Irving considers me a vulture who has flown in to coldly pick out the eyes and heart of his child. Historically—that is a justified fear. But the current First Enchanter is not strong in politics…

   — He mentioned that. Strange, how he interweaves truth and half-truth.

   Tristan clicked his tongue, narrowed his eyes, and said firmly:

   — Never interrupt me.

   Then the man continued the dialogue in a much calmer tone:

   — In other circumstances, the Circle would simply be relocated. Irving can think what he wants—for the Chantry, magical affairs are more important than local politics. Given the current outcome, where thanks to the “guest’s” intervention so many gifted children were saved, even without a Seeker’s arrival, annihilation would never have been on the table. It is surprising that your presence has twice determined the Circle’s fate, reducing everything to the only possible path. Fortunately, Kinloch is an island. Therefore, through the efforts of two Templar Corps, a quarantine will be declared here for the next decade. And the Hold itself will transform from a full-fledged Circle into a Templar fortress.

   Morrigan leaned back, biting her lip in astonishment, then voiced a cautious assumption:

   — You… are quite flexible in your statements… And you are being disingenuous. How many Templars remain in Ferelden if the Chantry sent a full Corps here? Scarcely any? Against a backdrop of political instability and the threat of the “Blight”, the most capable military order in the country is gathering its own forces on a well-defended island. A place that finds it easier than others to receive reinforcements from Orlais and weapons from Orzammar.

   Tristan’s lips stretched into a smile—like a wolf scenting blood.

   — So much of interest in that head. And you try to pass for a wild southerner?

   — You underestimate my mother.

   — No, no. You are fundamentally mistaken. Unlike the Ham-ovniks, I know what “Flemeth” is. Asha’Bellanar—“Woman of Many Years” in translation from Elven. Her first appearance in historical records considered documentary dates back to the “Age of Towers”. Nearly seven hundred years ago. She features in the legend of Ferelden’s founder—Calenhad the Great. There are dozens of accounts of the “legendary witch” meddling in this country’s politics. Sometimes in the most unobvious places. The consequences of such actions are sometimes swift, but often affect events far beyond the lifespan allotted to most mortals. For instance, organizing raids by the Hasind tribes. Or making deals directly with the rulers of Ferelden. Your mother is anything but a mere savage. And the “daughters” of this being have left no less noticeable marks. My Order knows this. So, of the two of us, it is you who believes the half-truth.

   Morrigan suppressed her shock. These facts—some too precise, others contradicting her own knowledge—had crashed down on her like an avalanche. It was impossible to determine which part was a bluff. Nevertheless, the mage had a parry ready:

   — I find it hard to digest how a southerner’s minimal understanding of your northern kingdom is so astonishing. You know from Alim that a trade ship brought us here. Besides the fact that the ship’s hold happened to be carrying a cargo of weapons from Orzammar, the ship’s logs, ledgers, and the captain’s records told many fascinating tales. The capacity for learning, of course, is the secret magic of witches.

   — I do not deny your wit. Your guesses hit the mark. Indeed. I was pulled from my own investigation and tasked, on the eve of the approaching darkness, with organizing a Templar stronghold here. The request for reinforcements from Kinloch Hold came at just the right time to serve as a convenient pretext to divert the Commander’s attention. Let’s see… So, your main motive for reaching the nearest Circle was suspicion of your own possession. If we juxtapose the facts and the test results, it looks like a form of subtle manipulation. You retain your own “self,” but…

   He paused.

   — Something is guiding you. Feeding your fears, sending nightmares and visions. If that were all, the mosaic of events would fit together wonderfully. Almost too well. A puppet arriving on the scene just in time to put a definitive end to the performance orchestrated by some entity from beyond the Veil. But there are inconsistencies. Too many coincidences… Too convenient…

   Tristan fell silent. His gaze—sharp as a blade—pierced Morrigan. Only a slight twitch of his eyelid betrayed his irritation. Morrigan, pondering what she had heard, couldn’t help but note the persuasiveness of the sketch, roughly outlined by the Seeker. It resonated strangely with Leliana’s visions, squeezing her with the hopelessness of predestination. Unclenching her fists, the girl cautiously inquired:

   — It doesn’t add up. You were interested in me before arriving on the island. So, there’s something else besides what happened here.

   The Seeker nodded absently, tossing back:

   — So that’s how it is. If we remove Gregor from the board, Irving remains. The First Enchanter decided to share the contents of confidential correspondence. People backed into a corner are dangerous, as they cast aside the rules that restrain them. This detail clarifies the events unfolding within the Circle since my arrival. Back to the questions. What happened to Flemeth? How did that creature allow one of its “daughters” to venture into the world under such strange circumstances?

   Morrigan’s cheek twitched. She turned away toward the door, answering with silence. At first. The girl had no desire whatsoever to discuss the moment that had set all subsequent events in motion. Especially when there wasn’t even a hint of trust. But her emotional aversion to the situation certainly wouldn’t help. Pressing a palm to her cheek, the witch exhaled irritably and began to speak:

   — To tell the truth… I don’t know.

   The man raised his right eyebrow, and the girl, acknowledging the silently expressed disbelief, nodded.

   — I simply don’t remember. That day, when something happened, is gone from my memory. And nothing of what was lost has returned so far. I know that a stranger came to my mother. Perhaps there was a battle. And then… I woke up far from home. I’ve been on the road ever since. My mother’s condition or whereabouts are unknown to me.

   — It’s hard to imagine Flemeth orchestrating this. She has not previously collaborated with other shadow-creatures. At least, not in any way the Seekers’ Order knows of. And her “daughters” have never been bargaining chips for her. Too important as “property.”

   — “Property”? But…

   — The origin of the “daughters” is a mystery that interests few. Most likely, she steals children. Although… although who knows the truth. But their purpose is known—the daughters’ bodies serve Flemeth as vessels to extend her life. Who attacked you? I need details.

   Stunned, Morrigan blinked and forced out:

   — A man. Perhaps a knight. Nothing more definite…

   Tristan slowly narrowed his eyes, drawing out his words:

   — A knight… Too good for a coincidence. So, before me stands the living end of a long chain of difficult-to-explain events. And expectations have been surprisingly well met.

   — A chain?.. May I know the details?

   — Of course not. How else did your possession manifest, besides nightmares and memory oddities?

   — Alim already…

   — Of course. And yet.

   — Changes in habits. In behavior.

   — You forgot to mention the spells.

   — Elven bastard… Yes. And oddities with magic.

   — I suspect all the peculiarities with spells are still in place. Without a mage skilled in dream-walking or a brute-force intrusion into the Fade, there is no way to detect and sever the manipulator’s threads reaching from beyond the Veil. And judging by the description of the work done, it’s something on the same scale as the entity in Wynne.

   Morrigan’s lips twisted into a grim smirk.

   — So, I’m evidence. A bloody knife.

   Her voice turned icy:

   — Except the knife might still be in the murderer’s hand.

   Tapping a finger on his knee, he considered her words, then nodded.

   — Not badly formulated. What were the earlier foreign memories about?

   Frowning, the mage concentrated, trying to gather the vague sensations, emotions, and smells into a clear answer.

   — Actually, often it’s just words, individual concepts. Frequently in other languages I didn’t know. Mostly Orlesian. Sometimes an imprint of a place and the emotions associated with it, scents. There’s little coherence. I suppose the last memory was the most complex… intricate… and prolonged I’ve experienced.

   — Granted.

   — What will happen to me?

   Tristan sighed heavily, gathering his thoughts before answering.

   — There are clear instructions for similar cases. If you represented only an ambiguous threat, the answer would be quite simple. Given your value—however vague—you should be sent to Aeonar. A prison for exceptionally dangerous subjects, and first and foremost—for mages. But circumstances are strangely aligning in your favor. Aeonar is currently… Unavailable. — He paused. — Moreover, I cannot remain on the island. Before sailing from Calenhad port, I received orders to deal with a crisis at Redcliffe Fort. As soon as the situation here is… stabilized. Grim news, indirectly pointing to the presence of a demon. Again.

   The Seeker measured Morrigan with a grim look and slowly nodded to his own thoughts before continuing.

   — You will come with me. Better to keep such a thing on a short leash and watch closely what happens next. Your phylactery will serve as an excellent leash. With my knowledge, it will prove a more effective tool than in the Circle’s dusty storeroom. We’ll take your companions too. Especially the bard—she’s been stirring the waters far too much here. Who would have thought.

   Her face expressed pure cynicism:

   — One leash isn’t enough for you?

   — I prefer to achieve the maximum with minimal effort.

   — So… You, me, and…

   — Of course, a couple of Templars as well. And a couple of Circle mages. Let’s see who volunteers to fly from this ruined nest despite the risks.

   The man rose smoothly, easily picking up the blade and the journal from the dresser. Both items looked as if they belonged in the Seeker’s hands, allowing one to imagine him both as a “bookworm” and in the thick of battle. Half-turning towards the exit, Tristan added:

   — The letters from the King and the Empress. Why?

   — It seemed to me… Mmm… Imagine this. You’re in an unknown forest. And suddenly you find a sharpened stick at hand. Why not take it with you?

   — Interesting… The ship departs tomorrow afternoon. Until that moment, consider yourself free. Both Templar Corps are fully aware of the situation. A few hours until sunset, the night, and the morning. Be wise in how you use this treasure.

   The door yielded easily. Tristan left without a farewell—he clearly had more important matters to attend to…

   * * *

   Morrigan left the building where she had spoken with the Seeker without difficulty. The outside world greeted the girl with a cool wind that crept under her clothes, reminding her that autumn had taken hold, and kept trying to tousle her black hair. The sun was sinking toward the horizon, breaking through the ragged clouds racing to meet it. The sky was still a piercing blue, but the day was already departing to the west, while in the east a night still barely perceptible was rising. Taking a deep breath of the scents of fallen leaves and hearth-smoke from nearby houses, the witch smirked faintly. The Templar standing by the exit kept his right hand near his blade and glanced sideways at the girl. But that was all.

   A quick glance was enough to feel the truth of the Seeker’s words. The space between the Tower and the outer wall was filled with Templars. Not all of them were in shining armor. Most, in mundane clothing, were busy setting up camp or hurrying on other business. Faded wool shades, bleached linen, and cheap leather. But the scabbards at their belts or nearby clearly stated—these were all warriors. And, of course, they all had coarse Fereldan features.

   She felt slightly dizzy, but Morrigan descended with all the dignity she could still muster. For some reason, the girl was burning with the need to show those around her how different she was. Her movements became a weapon—with every gesture, she threw down a challenge. Even if, in the end, her own gait felt unsteady… The confusion in the men’s eyes spoke louder than any words—her performance had succeeded. Could a mage, so recently a prisoner, carry herself with such arrogance through a Templar camp? The dubious victory was momentary, but it still brought the girl joy.

   At the Tower entrance, her gaze immediately picked out Leliana and Valinsi. The man was explaining something in a coaxing tone to three apprentices. But the mage didn’t seem particularly keen on it. It wasn’t hard to see he was merely killing time, unable to neglect his duties as “Senior Enchanter”. Leliana, wrapped in a woolen shawl, stood apart, leaning against the Tower’s ancient wall and thoughtfully watching the northern horizon. The girl immediately headed for the group of young men. The young men were the first to notice the mage’s approach, their faces changing. Surprise, a shadow of fear, embarrassment?.. After a quick exchange of glances, they sincerely thanked the Senior Enchanter and beat a retreat into the Tower. And Valinsi found the guest beside him.

   — They let you go?..

   — You told him everything?

   The exchange happened simultaneously, causing a pause of confusion from the man. But, quickly getting his bearings, he grunted and shook his head.

   — Of course. Did you expect me to sit there mute in the face of the Seeker’s questions? That would have looked foolish. And ultimately, it would have achieved nothing. He asked, I answered. Precisely as much as he wanted to hear, and nothing more. Mostly he asked about your... condition. Nothing unexpected. Ah, no... There was something I said on my own initiative. I tried to mention saving the Circle. He just brushed it off. Either the Seeker doesn’t care about the Circle’s fate. Or the others... Lida and Jeann, have already been interrogated. And also, the Seeker inquired about your behavior in recent days.

   — Hm... The “amusing ritual”?

   Valinsi rubbed his chin in mild irritation and drawled noncommittally:

   — Ah, that...

   Morrigan just shook her head, not pressing further. Casting a glance at the clouds turning scarlet, the girl cautiously murmured:

   — Wouldn’t mind some food. Finally.

   Her companion nodded readily, gesturing for her to follow him. The girl exchanged a look with Leliana, who hadn’t even attempted to approach. Leliana’s face showed relief, but a sly smirk hid in the corners of her lips. As if what she had just seen had already answered questions not yet asked. The witch mouthed a single word: “tomorrow,” and the red mane of hair gave a slight shake, confirming that Leliana had seen and understood.

   The first floor was crowded with young people. The second floor... Here it was clean. Fresh doors, washed floors. In the past few days, the Tower had been restored close to its original state.

   — Clean...

   Valinsi turned around in surprise, halting in the middle of the corridor, and nodded in agreement.

   — The Tranquil. Thanks to us saving so many, many things are easier. In organizing and performing work requiring patience and a lack of squeamishness, they have no equal.

   Morrigan shuddered—she knew all too well who these “Tranquil” had been before. But the mage had already turned away and didn’t see the girl’s emotions. And after one turn, the man opened the door to a common room for a dozen people, which now looked empty and abandoned. Morrigan remembered visiting Naire in a similar room. But back then, it was filled with darkness, shadows, and despair. Now, the evening light streamed freely from the narrow windows, creating a deceptive sense of peace. Valinsi easily added a couple of fresh, thick candles to the illumination. After seating the girl on a bed, the man soon spread a lace-trimmed kerchief beside her and laid out a couple of generous slices of slightly stale bread, two fresh apples smelling of departed summer, and a crock of flower honey with a wooden spoon.

   — Water?

   Morrigan nodded, biting into the flesh of the still-juicy fruit, and Valinsi left briefly, soon returning with a pitcher full of cool, clean water. Handing it to the girl, the mage sat down opposite her:

   — So, things went... all right with the Seeker? He followed you into the Tower so purposefully. And judging by Irving’s absence—who should have been the first to meet you—those two had something to talk about.

   After chewing her food thoroughly, the witch shrugged.

   — You’re right. The Circle’s fate is not the Seeker’s priority. But there’s no threat to the survivors. Although the second Templar Corps will remain here. And... a quarantine will be declared. For a decade.

   Valinsi’s face contorted for a moment, but he immediately composed himself and muttered quietly:

   — So that’s how it is... I wondered why the Templars brought so many supplies with them. So, no field practice for those who’ve just passed their Harrowings outside the islands. And no influx of new young mages. What about you?

   — A short leash. They’d get rid of me without a twinge of conscience. But it seems I’m a piece of some puzzle the Seeker is trying to solve. Is that good news? More yes than no... He also tested me, and I’m clean. That’s encouraging. True, right after, the Seeker convincingly demonstrated that what’s happening to me could be a subtle form of external manipulation. And that outcome rather spoils the good news. And my phylactery... did you create it?

   Valinsi grunted, running a hand through his hair and unconsciously rubbing the ring braided into the end of his plait.

   — No... When would I have learned? All I know that’s connected to that dark art is the method for inscribing a barrier against demons. By process of elimination, it seems Irving himself did it. Piecing together what I knew before all this and what the First Enchanter told me afterward, it turns out that the others in the Circle who had any connection to that blood magic... perished. So, I’ll have to learn, either from books hidden from prying eyes, or from the First Enchanter himself.

   — How practical... and cynical...

   The mage raised his eyebrows questioningly, and the girl, licking honey from the spoon, explained:

   — The First Enchanter possesses the blood magic spells necessary for the Circle. And yet, he still needs someone new for the dirty work.

   — You mean that...

   The man frowned and nodded slowly, and the girl continued:

   — As long as the phylactery exists, the most I can do is foolishly risk several lives in an attempt to break free. What the Seeker hopes to find might also be useful to me. But I won’t agree to live on a chain forever. One way or another, I will break free.

   — A bold statement.

   — Did you notice what the Seeker’s testing method suspiciously resembles?

   Looking out the window, where dusk was already gathering, Valinsi grimaced before formulating his own thoughts.

   — Something related to blood magic. Irving, judging by his expression, also saw something then he wasn’t mentally prepared for. But even if some signs are on the surface...

   The Senior Enchanter shook his head, denying it:

   — Still, to assume such a thing... is absurd. A mage, heading the Templars’ overseers?

   Morrigan finished the second apple, concluding her meal, and, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, objected:

   — Is there a clear definition of what the Seekers are? Or a requirement that blood magic works only in the hands of the gifted?

   — Dry logic suggests it’s extremely unlikely that a gifted individual would be among the overseers of those who guard mages. Beyond that, I’m not well-versed enough in the matter to debate freely. Ask your bard or the First Enchanter. As for blood magic... The little I know says the only difference is this: for blood magic spells, it’s not mana that’s required, but life force, drawn through fresh blood. Working on a different principle, it sometimes allows for unusual results. For instance, creating a phylactery cannot be replicated using mana. However, in both cases, the primary step remains the formation of the spell from runes. One could memorize the runes and their combinations. But to become skilled at mentally constructing spell formulae without having mana to check the result for errors... that’s hard to imagine. This is my personal opinion, but what does a hill know of mountains?

   Morrigan smiled readily in response to his attempt at a jest and gave the mage a measured look. Valinsi looked slightly weary, but not physically. It was more the result of relentless psychological pressure and inner doubts that were wearing him down. Watching his eyes slowly drift from the candles to the window and back again, he seemed at times lost in his own thoughts, barely holding onto the thread of their conversation. And the fact that his gaze inevitably returned to the girl’s figure spoke of something else. The mage was free to be anywhere at that moment, occupied with a dozen other tasks. Yet instead, without any compelling reason, he was entertaining the witch with conversation and a modest meal. Suddenly resolving something within herself and catching her companion off guard, Morrigan rose and took a step toward Valinsi, sinking her slender fingers into his hair.

   — Suppose what stands before me is a mirage… Convince me I am mistaken, taking truth for fiction. Desire, interest, resentment, anger, disappointment, and emptiness. All are tangled within you. But like any other fool, duty holds you in a firm grip. And with the best of intentions, you build your own cages.

   Leaning close to the man’s lips, from which emanated the faintest scent of soap, ink, and smoke, the girl added more softly:

   — Here and now, what do you want? Revenge? Warmth? Power over me? Mere flesh? Or is your mind driven by a thick, fiery mixture of all the above?

   — Don’t play games…

   — Decisions and consequences. I am not naive, and I know what I am playing with. I am not the one on the edge. A step forward? Or back?

   For five heartbeats, silence enveloped them like a shroud. His gaze locked onto her eyes—dark gold, reflecting the candle’s flame. From the way his fists clenched and his back tensed, it was obvious he was resisting desperately. Doubt warred in his grey eyes—until desire burned it all to ashes.

   Rising, Valinsi pulled the girl to him. The kiss was greedy, like that of a dying man finding water at last. Gasping for air, they began undressing each other simultaneously. Tearing their mouths apart only when necessary, the Circle robes were cast aside in turn. Valinsi’s gaze, like a setting sun, inevitably dropped to the girl’s bare breasts, proudly rising to meet him with each breath. His fingers dug into her soft flesh until it turned white. In response came an angry hiss. Like an infuriated cat, she did not pause for a single heartbeat in her attempts to unlace the mage’s trousers. Rolling her hardened nipples between his fingers, Valinsi found her scarlet lips again, pressing the witch forcefully against the nearest wall. In a series of abrupt movements more akin to a struggle than caresses, the two mages were stripped of their trousers, shoes, and smallclothes. Ignoring the cold stone floor and the frigid air, two bodies pressed together, crushing burning flesh between them.

   Taking advantage of the weakness still lingering in the witch and his own superiority in brute strength, Valinsi abruptly hooked his hands under the girl’s shapely thighs and lifted her into the air all at once. Morrigan willingly wrapped her legs around his torso. The pressure on his ribs forced a surprised exhale from him. A moment later, it was the girl’s breath that hitched as his scorching manhood slid along her slick heat, seeking its desired goal with one sharp thrust. Showing no smugness at the failed attempt, Morrigan braced her back against the wall and arched to the right, reaching with her hand to find her partner’s rigid shaft. With a self-satisfied smile, she made a couple of measured, gliding motions along his flesh, guiding it true.

   This time he did not hurry, lowering her slowly, savoring the contrast between her softness and the fierce golden fire of her piercing eyes. In the end, both lost their silent duel. But she broke the silence first—a moan torn from between clenched teeth. A low, masculine growl followed, a symbol of his defeat before the strength of the witch’s inner muscles. Buried to the hilt, Valinsi thrust his hips sharply. Then again, and again, listening to her equally sharp exhalations. Pinning the witch against the wall once more, the mage quickened the pace of his wet thrusts. With a mix of surprise and delight, Morrigan found the last vestiges of the composed man yielding to animal passion. But what followed still took her by surprise. The mage bent to gently kiss the pale skin of the witch’s slender neck, gleaming in the candlelight. Then he roughly seized her by the throat, his eyes searching for Morrigan’s, wide open to their limit. There was no caress or playfulness in this motion. The accompanying rhythmic thrusts became sharp, aggressive. This shift caused a fleeting confusion in her, quickly drowned by a wave of sensation. Even when his fingers tightened on her throat, cutting off her air, she felt no fear—only sank deeper into the sensations. The mage, breathless from the pace and mind-rending emotions, rasped:

   — They… all died because of you…

   Morrigan did not react to the unexpected surge of fury, riding her own wave of heightened sensation and losing, drop by drop, the ability to hold onto even a single coherent thought.

   — And… at the same time… Void! You’re a demon! Bright, sharp, clever… of all I’ve ever experienced!!!

   With a low, guttural roar, he convulsively withdrew from the girl’s scorching core, spilling his seed against the wall behind her. But Morrigan didn’t even notice, her thighs clenched to the point of pain, her nails drawing blood from her partner’s flesh as she was overcome by a flash of ecstasy that blotted out the world. Throwing her head back, she made a sound—hoarse, primal, far removed from anything human. Only on the far side of the peak, slowly relaxing, did she go limp in the tender masculine embrace that still held her aloft.

   Desperately trying to regain their ragged breath, both lingered under the moment’s influence in a strange state. Neither could deny they had experienced something new and indelible. Pleasure receded, leaving behind only weariness, cold, and… surprise. At herself. At him. At everything…

   Sinking softly onto the bed, Valinsi lowered Morrigan onto his lap. Despite the strange mix of emotions, the man’s gaze remained fixed on the girl, admiring the elegant line of her brows, her half-lidded eyes of that memorable hue, her scarlet lips, all framed by disheveled black hair. She studied him in return, her whole aspect posing a silent question. Morrigan wanted to better understand what had happened between them. But, at the same time, the witch honestly admitted she was enjoying the masculine attention focused solely on her. For the first time in her life, she felt such power—intoxicating, all-consuming. And now she wasn’t sure if she could ever do without it again. Running her fingers through the mage’s hair, the witch said hoarsely:

   — It’s chilly. Shall we share the bed?

   — Of course.

   The girl gave a throaty chuckle and added:

   — That was… intense.

   — I…

   Clearly, Valinsi had returned to his old self, beginning to feel inexorable guilt for his outburst of aggression, and was about to explain himself. Tapping his forehead with her knuckle, the girl said:

   — Enough fretting. You’re not dealing with someone who’ll lie out of politeness.

   He gave an embarrassed snort, shaking his head—too late for regrets. Touching his fingertips to the girl’s cheek and tracing a line to her cheekbone and then to her earlobe, the man carefully moved her onto the bed beside him. Rising and not in the least ashamed of his nudity under her probing gaze, the sole occupant of the vast bedroom began to straighten the bedding. Watching the mage’s broad back, the witch crossed her legs and quietly voiced some thoughts:

   — There is another matter. Concerning what lies ahead. The Seeker departs tomorrow. Which means I go with him.

   Valinsi froze for an instant, then continued methodically folding the coverlet. Unable to see his face, it was hard to tell what was on his mind. But Morrigan continued:

   — The Seeker is taking a few Templars with him. A modest troop. My companions as well. According to him, Leliana has no place in the Circle. And Bethany… In this case, I don’t fully understand his motives yet. Furthermore, the Seeker will take several volunteers from the Circle.

   Having finished with the bed, Valinsi turned, solicitously scooping the girl into his arms. Not hiding his gaze as it openly roamed the witch’s curves, the man carried her to the prepared couch and sat down beside her.

   — You understand, surely…

   — I know. I know what you truly want. It’s not hard to guess what you’re choosing between, either. But the choice is yours alone.

   — It is…

   Lying down beside her and embracing the girl, the mage repeated, barely audible:

   — And it isn’t…

   * * *

   The first thing that occurred to Morrigan was that she didn’t remember her dream. That in itself meant nothing significant. Lately, this had been happening more often. Still, oblivion was better than nightmares. Especially when it came to one particular nightmare. Despite the Seeker’s categorical verdict, Morrigan still clung to the hope that the horrific dreams were in the past.

   Leaving the man’s steady breathing behind, the witch slipped from the cozy bed and studied the sky through the windows. Heavy, moisture-laden clouds hung over the Hold, but glimpses of blue sky and sun still flashed in the gaps. Still feeling the foreign warmth on her skin, the witch wrapped her arms around herself, trying to fully grasp the unusual mix of emotions. Valinsi wasn’t the first man. But she had never before lingered in a partner’s bed until morning, much less allowed herself to fall asleep beside him. This had it all: the unfamiliar closeness, the danger, and something else—intangible yet burning, like the echo of a forgotten spell. Shaking her head, Morrigan stretched and flowed from a simple bend into a series of complex exercises, like water flowing from one form into another. Just at that moment, a voice came from behind:

   — There’s something... unreal about this.

   — About what?

   — Seeing you like this... bathed in the dawn light, defenseless and... incredibly alive.

   Morrigan snorted, throwing a sharp glance over her shoulder with a flicker of curiosity, and began to put on her clothes. As she did, she remarked:

   — Will you clean up this mess?

   Casting a glance at the rumpled sheet, the scattered clothes, and the stains on the wall—mute witnesses to last night’s passion—she deftly gathered her hair into a tight bun, as if trying to bring order not only to it but to her own thoughts as well.

   — Probably...

   Valinsi’s uncertain answer made Morrigan raise her eyebrows questioningly. Seeing her silent query, the mage looked around the room and explained:

   — Usually, the Tranquil handled cleaning for the senior mages.

   Pursing her lips, the witch let out a remark with more venom than was necessary:

   — How practical.

   — Perhaps. But they have plenty of work as it is.

   Nodding in reply, Morrigan walked to the door, pausing only for a moment to say without turning around:

   — Don’t delay your decision.

   Quietly closing the door behind her, the witch noticed Leliana standing a few steps to the left, leaning against the wall. Gazing into the distance, the “sister” smiled with just the corners of her lips and nodded in greeting. But Morrigan was the first to speak:

   — Long?

   — Non. Not really. Is this serious?

   After a glance at the door behind her, the girl strode decisively towards the staircase down. Only after moving six or seven steps away did she voice her answer:

   — Time will tell.

   The redheaded companion walking behind her shook her head skeptically and tossed into the air, as if thinking aloud:

   — There is something of the bard in you.

   — Is that a compliment?

   — Non. Just an observation.

   Morrigan made a faint gesture, brushing aside her companion’s concern, and asked:

   — Bethany?

   — Downstairs.

   — Good...

   Leliana seized her wrist, forcing her to freeze in place. Her fingers dug into Morrigan’s skin like the claws of a bird of prey unwilling to release its quarry:

   — Do you understand what is happening now? I am not one to drift with the current like a fallen leaf. I wish to have my bearings. But... that is sentiment. After the “possession check,” the Circle shattered into a thousand fragments, like a fragile vase dropped on the floor. Mages have always been divided into several ideologically disparate movements, besides smaller cliques and “special interests,” and under poor leadership, they coexist within the Circles like spiders in a jar. But there are too few survivors left for these “games.” By acting with some finesse, I managed to unite most of the adolescents around simple ideas, making the “Saviour of the Circle” and Naire key figures. Wynne also remained a focal point for the children. And the few adult mages rallied under Irving’s hand. With rare exceptions... But now... Though Wynne tries to carry on as before, everything has changed—and returning to how things were is impossible. Everyone knows the truth. The woman is almost completely isolated and has accepted it stoically, without scenes or displays of emotion. As if she knew about her own condition. Many sensed this no worse than I, which added to the gossip. The Seeker needed to take immediate action, but he removed himself. Last evening, he and the First Enchanter had a conversation. Reading the Seeker is as difficult as discerning the features of a face hidden behind a thick mask by touch. Afterwards, Irving preferred not to appear in public at all. What awaits us? What awaits you?

   Morrigan winced and freed her hand—slowly, deliberately, as if distancing herself not only from the touch but from the intrusive concern. Meeting the gaze of the green eyes firmly, she replied:

   — First of all, the Seeker appreciated your work.

   The “sister” smiled sadly.

   — My skills are not what they once were. We are two sides of the same coin, called “the Game.” A bard and a Seeker—nothing could be more opposite. Little wonder he understood.

   — Hm... He departs today. Someone else might be pulling his leash. I find it hard to grasp this hierarchy all at once. What’s important is that the Seeker knows something about me... something that perhaps even I do not know. Or he wields your skills masterfully, juggling truth and half-truths deftly. And there’s no way to catch the Seeker red-handed. But my leash is in his fist. For now. So we depart with him. Bethany... the Seeker is taking her too.

   — That is for the best.

   — For the best?

   Morrigan knit her brows in puzzlement, and Leliana hurried to explain:

   — For Bethany... She would prefer to be near familiar faces, and more than anyone, near you. What we spoke of on the ship. I suppose I...

   — You broke her. And now what could have become trust looks more like a painful dependency. She only feels safe when she’s near me?

   — Oui. A very accurate formulation. Ruthlessly accurate. I am surprised. Besides Naire, she hasn’t grown close to anyone here.

   Morrigan nodded, and the “sister” hastened to clarify:

   — And we are heading to...

   — Redcliffe Fort.

   — House Guerrin...

   Biting her lip, Leliana nodded, clearly trying to recall everything she had ever heard or read about that noble house.

   At the Tower exit, the original trio of travelers was reunited. Bethany sat on the edge of a chair, as if afraid to take up too much space. Her gaze was fixed on the cracked toes of her boots—as if they held the answers to all her questions. The young mage seemed both lonely and lost in thought—though the latter at least somewhat alleviated the former. Hearing the approaching footsteps, she reflexively looked up and smiled openly. Morrigan returned the smile, though hers was far less sincere and warm. But the witch immediately corrected the misstep:

   — A simple human warmth, but also an art, one in which I have much to learn from you. Why are you sitting here alone, idling?

   — I’m not... I... Morrigan?

   Leliana interjected, seeing Bethany was struggling and couldn’t quickly find a worthy response.

   — Pay no attention. Our golden-eyed witch is practicing her barbs, trying to snap you out of your pensiveness in the most radical way.

   Bethany relaxed and shot her mentor a look of mild reproach. Morrigan merely shrugged and continued:

   — Nevertheless. That look is familiar to me from personal experience. Don’t give free rein to those thoughts that love to run in circles. Endless circular contemplation is a waste of time. Books at least provide knowledge. That’s why I sent you to the local library, after all.

   The three of them leisurely left the building, emerging into the fresh autumn air, which held the dampness of approaching rain. But the wind was weak, and in the distance, there was not the slightest sign of thunder or a grey shroud connecting the clouds to the horizon. Bethany took a deep breath, as if gathering courage, and cautiously objected:

   — All books are not the same. Sometimes it’s worth thinking. About different things...

   — Thinking... Foolishness. One should contemplate what is essential. Set a goal, then seek the means to achieve it. Of course, doubts can be overwhelming too. But they are not an end in themselves. As for books... That’s a misconception. Even my mother, though she advocated for the value of personal experience, held books in high esteem as a valuable tool. A pity there were fewer of them in our home than you could count on one hand.

   — Alright. But how will a tome on theology, or half-forgotten practices and outdated spells, help me, for instance, become stronger? You became stronger without that.

   Morrigan threw a wry glance at Leliana, who averted her eyes, and snorted.

   — Power... Our friend here can tell you more about that than I. As she has seen more of it. It seems you are confused about what you desire. The difference between a battlemage and a Magister of magic is substantial. The former is like a blade in hand. Only sharpness matters, and how many times the arm can swing. In that case, it’s more about the “well.” Or rather, about mana. What matters is only how quickly and how many times you can repeat the most lethal or effective spell. The latter... is a master whose abilities are applicable everywhere. Whatever the situation, he has an answer. Even with little mana, the breadth of his repertoire of spells is what counts. Not everyone can memorize dozens of complex formulae. And for that, one must train not only cleverness and imagination but also memory. Reading is one way to work toward that goal.

   Bethany blinked in surprise, trying to process what had been said.

   — That’s... interesting. I’ll think about it.

   Leliana suppressed a chuckle, addressing Morrigan more than Bethany:

   — It seems your pupil needs not only to read but to think—and that is far more difficult.

   Ignoring the hidden jab, Bethany produced a new question:

   — I was thinking... This is perhaps just a personal misconception... You demonstrate a mastery of magic far deeper and more substantive than anything I knew or know about it. And I discovered, to my surprise, that on many subjects, the mages in the Circle are inferior to you by nearly the same degree. I don’t understand what that says more about. But... You fight as if every movement has been honed for years. And you know so much, as if you’ve read every book in the world. I thought in the south they only learned to fight—but you... you are different.

   Morrigan closed her eyes briefly before giving her pupil an appraising look and replying:

   — In short... I do not teach you to win. I teach you to survive—and that is far more difficult. And to survive, you need to know more. Be capable of more. For instance, brute strength is useless against cold, hunger, or sickness. And those kill more often than a sharp blade or magic.

   Chastened but thoughtfully absorbing the meaning of the words, Bethany nodded. And then the girl unexpectedly and openly asked:

   — What now, when you, at least, are not locked in a cell?

   Covering her face with her hand as if from a headache, Morrigan hid a flash of irritation:

   — The details are with Leliana. We await the Seeker…

   * * *

   The Seeker emerged from the Templar quarters only an hour later, but he appeared composed and ready to set out immediately. Morrigan suspected this impression was not far from the truth. No doubt the ship at the docks had been prepared to sail since the first rays of sun in the east. His demeanor—taut as a drawn bowstring—made them straighten up involuntarily. None of them possessed such discipline—either in deeds or in thoughts.

   Tristan was followed by three Templars. The warriors wore no heavy plate, only practical attire, chainmail, and, over it, warm cloaks. The symbol of the Order adorned their clothing—impossible to mistake them for mercenaries. The trio were not much different in age and, as the witch’s intuition suggested, each belonged to the corps the Seeker had brought with him from Denerim.

   With a nod in their direction, Tristan made it clear they were to follow. This elicited a wry smile from Leliana. Morrigan only snorted almost imperceptibly and noted to herself how a single gesture could be more effective than a dozen words. Then began the endless climb up the stairs—it soon became clear where the Seeker was leading them. As if sensing the movement of a dangerous predator, the Tower’s sparse inhabitants vanished from sight. Only the occasional Tranquil remained on the path, and they seemed utterly indifferent to any presence, diligently performing their own duties. Morrigan felt a measure of relief that the children were absent. There was no need for them to experience anxieties that would teach them nothing. Besides, the current proceedings no longer concerned them directly.

   Throughout the journey, the three men ignored the women as if they were thin air. And on the fifth floor, the small contingent of adult mages of the Circle awaited them—dozens of eyes, cold or curious. Irving stood in the center, the others crowding around him like shadows. Morrigan immediately noted that Wynne stood apart from everyone. It would be foolish to assume the adult humans and elves had deliberately retreated a couple of steps from her. So, the senior enchantress was maintaining distance on her own initiative. Her face expressed stoic resignation—if it was a mask, it was flawless. And even with a rough idea of what lay hidden inside, Morrigan didn’t understand the desire to stay as far from the healer as possible. It stemmed not from fear, but rather from a complex mixture of rejection and a sense of latent threat.

   The others simply waited for whatever this was to be over so they could disperse. Almost all... As her gaze swept the room, her dark-gold eyes met Alim’s steady gaze. The elf maintained a neutral expression, but his eyes betrayed him. They held too many emotions to decipher without Leliana’s help. Gathering her will, Morrigan forced herself to turn her head and move to the next face. Naire’s warm smile drew an answering smile from the frozen witch so naturally that she didn’t even realize how it happened. Among the rest, Valinsi and Irving stood out, their shoulders tense, their gazes cautious, as if expecting a stab in the back at any moment. However much the witch tried to catch the broad-shouldered mage’s eye, his attention remained fixed solely on the Seeker’s figure. And only then did Morrigan realize that the three Templars who had arrived with them were the only representatives of the Order in the spacious chamber.

   As if long weary of theatrics, Tristan took a couple of simple steps forward and addressed the audience in a clear, resonant voice that echoed off the walls of the vast space:

   — The Circle of Kinloch Hold is clean.

   At these words, dozens of pairs of eyes turned to Wynne, but not a single objection followed, and the Seeker continued:

   — But this does not mean things will return to how they were. By the authority of the Chantry, a quarantine of ten years’ duration is declared effective today on the islands belonging to the Hold. Two Corps of Templars will ensure this decree is strictly enforced. According to the Nevarran Accord, the Circle answers first to the Cumberland Council, the decisions of the reigning Grand Enchanter, and the will of the Chantry, conveyed through the Templar Order, of which I am currently the agent. Only then do regional laws hold sway. No mage shall leave the islands before the quarantine’s end without a special dispensation from the Order, under penalty of a death sentence. No one, without the Order’s knowledge, will be permitted to dock at the islands. Outgoing correspondence is forbidden. Carrier birds will be killed. Incoming correspondence will be inspected by the Order, without exception. However, the Circle retains the right to appeal the Chantry’s decision by sending a petition to the Grand Enchanter, Fiona of Cumberland. In light of impending trials and considering the state of the Circle, this measure is deemed necessary. The current candidacy for First Enchanter of the Circle of Kinloch Hold is not subject to discussion. The Circle’s internal affairs will continue to be managed according to standard procedure. For the duration of the quarantine, Knight-Commander Gregor will command both Corps stationed here. My work here is concluded. However...

   A pause hung in the air as everyone unaware of the proceedings digested what they had heard. The few who were informed tensed, snagging on the Seeker’s last word. Tristan, meanwhile, directed his gaze to the azure vault overhead and looked as if he were counting seconds in his head before continuing:

   — To fulfill a new assignment for the Chantry, I have been granted the right to recruit a limited number of volunteers from the Circle. We depart the Hold today. Let me be clear: no one will be able to return to this Circle until the quarantine is lifted. Accompanying a Seeker is a dangerous undertaking. Do not expect amusement or idle pastimes. The selection is simple. The first three who step forward. There is no time to weigh, ponder, or confer. The decision must be made here and now.

   Immediately after the Seeker’s words, Wynne stepped forward. Many gazes converged again on the woman’s stern figure, in whose eyes a hint of sorrow appeared for the first time. Tristan’s lip twitched in mild irritation, but he nodded in assent and closed his eyes, awaiting the next candidates. Morrigan, against her will, tensed, realizing who or what she would have to share the road with. But now, after Wynne, only two spots remained—and the time to decide was rapidly dwindling. Involuntarily, her dark-gold eyes returned to Valinsi, his fists clenched white, his gaze fixed on the stone floor tiles. Out of the corner of her eye, the witch saw Irving lean on his staff, for the first time so openly displaying signs of physical weakness. But the man’s face showed no pain, only a strange mix of relief and... shame.

   Suddenly, the murmurs and heated whispers merging into a hum were torn apart by a familiar, clear voice that soared to the very vaults:

   — I will go!

   Naire stepped forward from the crowd. The girl was flushed, having just put a stop to a heated argument with Alim. The young witch stared rigidly ahead, focusing on nothing but standing straight. Behind her, the pale elf gasped for air, immediately shooting a look at Morrigan. This time, the emotion reigning in him was crystal clear. Fury. There was no doubt whom the mage blamed for this. The blow struck true—Alim, always so confident, now stood as if stunned. Duty to his sister versus duty to the Circle—this internal conflict of Alim’s would have amused Morrigan, were it not for the consequences. Irving openly tensed, trying to assess what was happening right under his nose. But most importantly, Valinsi finally raised his head to meet Morrigan’s gaze, allowing her to see the full depth of his uncertainty. The mage was taking an unforgivably long time to decide. Her eyes, usually golden, now resembled molten metal—dark red, like blood at sunset. Clenching his jaw, the man took a slow step forward, causing a look of shocked realization on the First Enchanter’s face. And at the same moment, the heel of another boot clicked on the stone floor. The two mages sharply turned towards each other, as if crossing blades, and the Seeker’s quiet voice, his eyes still closed, announced:

   — The mage named Alim was first. So be it. Wynne, Naire, and Alim.

   Morrigan exhaled sharply, as if a knife had been plunged into her chest. Her eyelids closed of their own accord, and then—an unexpected warmth: Bethany cautiously touched her shoulder, as if afraid of being burned. By contrast, the girl realized how frozen she had become. And she did not see Valinsi pale, realizing immediately that through his own fault, by hesitating for a moment, he had made two grave mistakes. He had betrayed the fragile trust of the one he wished to be with but now could not. And he had betrayed the trust of the one he did not wish to stay with, but with whom he must now coexist. Irving’s gaze shifted from shock to grim realization, pain, and anger. Yet another man in this hall was silently, unequivocally blaming a certain witch. Another victory, bitter as ashes.

   A whisper from Leliana reached Morrigan’s ear, barely audible, as if addressed to a shadow on the wall:

   — A bard’s curse, to cause suffering and suffer oneself.

   For the witch, the casual barb struck home.

   Tristan did not wait. His gesture—sharp as a dagger’s thrust—made the Templars close ranks around the three. Wynne walked first, head held high. Naire, pale but unflinching, cast a glance at her brother. Alim looked at no one but Morrigan. His eyes spoke more clearly than words.

   — We depart within the hour. The ship is ready. These gentlemen will ensure you do not delay and that you are not hindered.

   * * *

   Morrigan stood at the ship’s prow, staring at the grey shroud of rain spread out to the south until her eyes ached. Like a symbol of the impending unknown, the shroud merged the leaden sky and the lake’s black waters into one, erasing the boundaries between them. The wind tore at her loose hair—black as pitch—as if trying to lay bare the face frozen in stony calm.

   The last hour had been filled with bitterness, silent reproaches, and farewells that sounded like verdicts. Naire shone like a torch in the darkness, hastily gathering her belongings and sweeping Bethany along with her—like a hurricane catching up a fallen leaf. Alim hovered on the periphery, rapidly coming to terms with the new reality. The mage had confirmed it once more: Naire remained the one thing that truly mattered to him. Irving was painfully struggling with the betrayal of two individuals on whom he had planned to rebuild the “edifice” of the Circle. But outwardly, the mage played the official role of the one seeing them off flawlessly. And only once, finding himself near Morrigan, did he, with cold, distilled vindictiveness, wish that she might never again visit the islands of Kinloch. Valinsi... He did not avoid the girl, apologizing sincerely. As if that could change anything. Later, she mentally chastised herself: a clean break—even a painful one—is better than endless ambiguity. If only because it leaves a chance to heal. His embrace had been stiff, like the farewell itself. Then—only a fleeting warmth, an unfamiliar bitterness of regret, and a book she should not have been holding. She noted the paradox with bitter irony: he could not take the one necessary step, but had transgressed a dozen other prohibitions without hesitation.

   Another mistake... Her fingers dug into the wooden gunwale, whitening from the strain. Her thoughts, like the waves under the keel, fell into clear order: only the goal, only calculation. She must not relinquish control. Maintain vigilance. Not lose her humanity. And prepare to sever the Seeker’s invisible leash. To break this noose, she needed to study Tristan: his motives, the limits of his capabilities... and surpass them.

Chapter Text

   In the hold, steeped in the smell of tar and dampness, with the monotonous creak of wooden frames and the splash of waves against the hull, the women of the Seeker’s party had settled. The corner by the galley was the warmest: heat from the stove mingled with the acrid smoke of the sailors’ pipes, but at least there were no icy drafts here. In the farthest corner sat Naire and Bethany, less accustomed to such conditions. Leliana and Morrigan, indifferent to the sailors’ presence, had placed themselves between the girls and the rest of the crew as a living shield. Under unspoken pressure, Alim had been forced to take a place at some distance from the others, as much as the cramped quarters allowed. Yet the elf stubbornly remained on deck, despite the biting wind and the rain lashing his face. Every gust of wind reminded him they were sailing south, where winter had already taken hold. Wynne had found a corner of her own. And the Seeker himself, of course, had been given one of the ship’s two private cabins, right next to the captain’s.

   From snatches of the sailors’ conversations it became clear that, with the maneuvering around the Kinloch Islands, the weak crosswind and the rain on top of it, the schooner was crawling along at a pitiful five knots, barely half her potential speed. Given the distance, and assuming the weather sprang no new caprices, that promised a full twenty-four-hour journey. But the crew were quietly anxious about the journey’s end—and not at all because of the rumors about what was happening near Redcliffe Fort. The sailors were afraid of running into new ice near the southern shores of the lake. Still, in Morrigan’s opinion, these men held themselves far better than the sailors of the merchant vessel the witch had commandeered in the past. More disciplined? The ship itself looked much more like a warship and, perhaps, even belonged to Bann Calenhad of the port city on the north shore of the lake that bore his name. That would explain why the sailors, gritting their teeth, followed the Seeker’s orders, while a silent reproach remained in their eyes.

   Naire and Bethany, huddled together, sat on the rough planks of the floor, warming themselves by the heated bulkhead. The smell of rancid oil and salt water hung in the air, and every roll of the ship made the wood creak, as if warning of the unreliability of their refuge. The girls were quietly discussing the puzzle the dark-haired mage had tossed their way. Morrigan, back straight and legs crossed, swayed rhythmically in a hammock in time with the ship, trying to decipher something in a volume bound in black leather. Leliana, meanwhile, appeared to be dozing nearby.

   Naire looked up from what she was doing, narrowed her eyes, and asked Morrigan:

   — What’s so interesting in there?

   The mage gave a noncommittal shake of her head and, without looking up from the text, replied:

   — Nothing of consequence. Merely trying to find a way not to die in the coming days. The Seeker mentioned the reason for our journey in passing, though the questions outnumber the answers. I shall have to discuss it with him in more detail, if he deigns to speak. But even so... it is not a cheerful prospect. And I find the right books to be the best allies. They selflessly grant knowledge and wisdom to a sharp mind.

   Bethany frowned and, watching her mentor’s elegant fingers carefully, asked:

   — What is the threat?

   Morrigan raised her gaze to the girl, and her lips twisted in a grimace of displeasure.

   — Ah... it seems Tristan is not overly fond of elaborating on important matters. Though that speaks volumes about his intentions. The threat is... complex. Once again, it concerns creatures from beyond the Veil. But there is a twist. The problem lies less with the “familiar” possessed, and more with the “walking dead”. Something directs shadow creatures straight into the bodies of the deceased. And they, maddened and tormented, rise up against the living.

   With a shudder of sharp disgust, Bethany drew back, and Naire, turning pale, asked:

   — Well... that can’t be as bad as possessed mages, can it?

   The dark-haired mage tossed back a strand of hair that had fallen over her eyes and nodded. Returning her attention to the book, she remarked:

   — Correct. But to underestimate them is to make the last mistake of your life.

   Without opening her eyes, Leliana said:

   — Numbers?

   — Yes. And most of us will be practically useless.

   Bethany raised her eyebrows in surprise, attempting to object:

   — But the dead are quite fragile. A sword or a spell can easily take any one of them down. And they can’t do much on their own.

   — So it seems... and yet, no. The dead of this sort sometimes have particular abilities. But the main point is, there seem to be many of them. A great many. And what is our little party capable of? In open terrain, when the enemy attacks from all sides, Naire and her talents are of little use. You? Certainly, you could set the forest on fire in the enemy’s path. But snow has likely already fallen around Redcliffe Fort. Dozens of dead cannot be stopped by a couple of burning corpses. Our archer here is quite out of her element. Amusing to admit, but Alim will likely prove the most useful of all.

   Naire, with a thoughtful expression, smoothed the fabric of her warm robe over her legs and tried to find a counter-argument:

   — But the Seeker knows the scale of the problem. Surely he knows what to do.

   Morrigan snorted, and a shadow passed over her face. Barely audibly, she murmured:

   — Perhaps.

   Though her eyes read: “We are all going to die.” Listening to the soothing creak of the planks, she continued:

   — Either Tristan has already devised a plan, in which case we shall gratefully play our assigned roles. Or things are far worse and far more banal. Judging by my conversation with the Seeker, he needs me for personal reasons. For now. But you two? You are not necessary. Though I try to see things through Bethany’s eyes, it is far safer here to consider the situation through the lens of Leliana’s “experience”. Tristan may treat you as expendable. Throw you into battle, and afterwards—erase you from his memory. And it will not end well in the days to come. I am not one to surrender without a fight. And so we come back to the point: I am seeking a solution to keep you safe.

   Leliana snorted:

   — How touching. So you are our “shield”?

   The bard cracked open one eye, and a venomous playfulness entered her voice:

   — Or are you simply afraid it will be harder to wriggle out of trouble without us?

   The mage grimaced again and retorted disdainfully:

   — Word games are pointless. You of all people should understand that.

   Opening her eyes, the redheaded bard cast a searching look at the witch trying to wrest some use from the book.

   — Oh, I understand you only too well... But the girls believe you’ve suddenly developed maternal feelings for them. Sweet, isn’t it?

   The two girls exchanged glances, looked questioningly at Leliana, then turned their gaze to Morrigan. Before answering, Morrigan sighed, letting only a fraction of her irritation show.

   — Sometimes the motive matters less than the result. What is calculation for one is care for another. Especially for those of simpler minds. I have learned that these are two sides of the same coin. But if you insist... of course, my intentions are not dictated by altruism. Bethany’s perspective on things and events is necessary, and seeking a replacement for her is a risky and impractical endeavor. And one should value one’s own labour. My acquaintance with Naire has only just begun. It would be foolish to discard her before properly beginning.

   — And me?

   — You have your uses as well.

   — Oh, such compliments warm the soul.

   — That is the intention.

   Naire smiled uncertainly, watching the exchange of barbs, and as soon as there was a pause, she ventured into the conversation:

   — I think Morrigan is right. Even if she is inventing justifications for her attempts to protect those she, for some reason, cares about, it doesn’t change the outcome in the end. It might not sound very convincing, but if we can help with your preparations... We haven’t been together long enough to call ourselves friends just yet. But there is no discord between us, and together we definitely have a better chance of overcoming the danger.

   The dark-haired mage looked up from her book again, fixing the elf with a piercing gaze from her dark-gold eyes.

   — No discord...

   Before Naire could answer, Bethany nodded eagerly in response. The girl’s smile held a barely perceptible hint of sadness, but it was sincere.

   — Of course. No dark secrets, no arguments or disagreements...

   Morrigan’s lips slowly stretched into a smile that came out as a wicked double of the expression on her apprentice’s face.

   — Ignorance is truly a gift.

   Leliana tensed, throwing a warning look at the older mage, but Morrigan had no intention of stopping.

   — Since that is the case, let us talk. Better now than having it turn into a sudden knife in the back later. Leliana once mentioned gossip. Like sharp spices, they burn the tongue, making life feel more vivid—until they are rubbed into a wound. Naire, so that there are no more secrets between us: I have shared a bed with Valinsi.

   Bethany lowered her eyes, biting her lower lip. The news threw her back into her own dark thoughts, making her miss what the spoken words meant for her friend. And this fleeting shadow of fear and disgust did not escape the dark-haired mage’s notice. Leliana, too, twisted her lips for a moment, openly showing her opinion of the rules of this “game”. But Naire... only blinked in surprise, slowly digesting the fact thrown in her face.

   — That’s... unexpected... But...

   The girl’s face scrunched up, but however she tried, it became clear to everyone—the phrase had hit its mark, and the news mattered to her far more than she wished to show.

   — All right. I don’t even know what I should ask...

   Leliana sighed and gently prompted:

   — With Morrigan, just ask whatever comes to mind. It’s more practical. She herself proposed the rules, under which everything is brutally simple.

   — Then... what even attracted you to him?

   Running her index finger over her lips, Morrigan smiled more softly and answered the question with a question:

   — You won’t deny that Valinsi is quite attractive as a man?

   — No... I mean yes, if you set his character aside, perhaps. But that’s not what I asked.

   — Of course. An interesting question, by the way...

   Leliana suddenly snapped her fingers, cutting in:

   — You’re doing it on purpose.

   Morrigan shrugged, not denying it, and continued:

   — Valinsi showed me a certain sympathy. Why? Perhaps his danger attracted me. Or the illusion of control. But the essence is different—I overestimated his attachment. I am honest with myself. With this body and face, luring a man who isn’t prejudiced into bed isn’t difficult. Besides: tenderness, care, kindness. All that strikes a chord, as it would in any woman, and I haven’t experienced much of that myself. However, there was something else. Inside a mage, emotions and desires are hidden which, without control, are dangerous. On one hand, much in recent days had eroded Valinsi’s will. On the other, what happened had also stoked his rage and desire. He became... unstable. That stoked my curiosity—what could I extract from that? Pull it out from under the façade of rigid control. I won’t say the mage himself was uninteresting. But this instability... it was exciting. I already told Leliana this before: this connection would do me no good. For Bethany, for instance, flirting with dependency or power over emotions, with violence and control, would hardly seem enchanting. However, I admit, I was mistaken.

   While Bethany listened as if enchanted, Naire looked more sullen, as if clouds foretelling rain had covered the sun. The elf averted her eyes, but ultimately yielded to curiosity:

   — Mistaken?

   Morrigan slowly ran her tongue over her lips, as if tasting her own lie.

   — Yes. I thought he was... stronger.

   The witch nodded to her own thought, adding:

   — I overestimated the attachment. And I was deceived.

   Leliana leaned back in her hammock, directing her gaze at the ceiling, and coolly stated:

   — Say it as it is. Une erreur?... You wanted him to stay. Otherwise, your little “game” was quite successful. You left the mage worse off than he was before you. Gave him the gift of acute loss and guilt. His position in the Tower is now as bad as it could be. It would be time for him to transfer to another Circle, but even that is denied. And you dealt Irving a slap in the face, robbing him of his support all at once. The old man is left literally alone with the ruins. You are quite adept at biting.

   — I will not admit to weaving intrigues. But otherwise, you are probably right.

   Morrigan suddenly returned her gaze to Bethany, snapping her out of her thoughts.

   — This conversation, of course, isn’t merely for pleasure. Nor just to tease Leliana. You and Naire must understand, there are no perfectly clear skies in relationships. I don’t aim to corrupt you prematurely. But it is useful to be rid of illusions. Everyone has secrets. Even between us. Much can cause confusion. Even more can cause pain. It is foolish to leave shadows unattended. It is dangerous to be entirely unaware of them. Whether it’s worth being afraid... well, I haven’t decided yet...

   Suddenly snapping the book shut, the witch added:

   — Though, this is idle talk.

   Leliana shifted uncomfortably in her hammock, as if touched by the icy air freely roaming outside in the sails. The girl added, quieter than before:

   — You’ve changed. Again.

   As if shaking off the cold, the bard ran a hand over her shoulder. Echoing the movement, the wind outside suddenly howled like a hungry beast.

   — As if deeper and... there’s something captivating and frightening in it.

   Morrigan nodded, lowering her gaze to the featureless book cover and letting her locks fall, hiding her face.

   — I know. It frightens me, as it does you. If we are to believe the Seeker, nothing ended with that ritual. And it won’t end just like that. It’s a good thing the creature isn’t under my skin. Although... close enough to remind me of its presence. By the way, no nightmares so far since then. But it’s probably too early to draw conclusions. And since we’re speaking of the Seeker...

   The girl turned thoughtfully towards the ladder to the deck. Morrigan seemed to ponder how to phrase what was on the tip of her tongue. Among the sailors’ hammocks, only a few were occupied now. And the sailors didn’t concern the witch.

   Bethany followed her mentor’s gaze and asked:

   — You did want to talk to him...

   Morrigan brought her wandering attention back to her apprentice and shook her head.

   — No. I mean yes, but this is different.

   The witch sharply shook her head, as if driving away superfluous thoughts.

   — Naire, I will need your help.

   The elf, immersed in gloomy thoughts, started and cautiously nodded, prompting the dark-haired mage to continue.

   — The only thing that comes to mind for fighting the dead, loath as I am to admit it, requires Alim’s knowledge of magic. One must admit, when the question is survival above all, personal squabbles should be set aside.

   — Oh... that... Getting him to talk on that subject will be difficult. But what exactly is needed? What should I ask for?

   — His signature spell. I need part of the runic pattern, the one responsible for the external mana node, which controls the direction and area of effect. It’s a clever trick and a brilliant solution. Despite the higher mana cost, it renders a huge number of runes in the original spell unnecessary. And it’s perfect for my problem.

   With eyes shining with curiosity, Bethany formed a silent “Oh” with her mouth, and Naire hastened to clarify:

   — But... how will this sequence help? Can you devise a new spell based on it?

   Morrigan laughed openly, even squeezing her eyes shut for a moment in mild disbelief at such a bold assumption.

   — Of course not. At best, we have a couple of days. And even if I don’t sleep at all, you credit me with almost impossible abilities. Mother knew how to create new magic. Not I. And even that took her years, decades of trial and error. What I can do is try to combine two known parts. And even that is a bold idea. If... if I manage to realize my plan, then it’s a chance for us. The ironic thing is, I’m still relying on the foundation Flemeth laid. As if she had placed the necessary pieces in the basket beforehand, knowing something in advance.

   — I’ll try to talk to Alim.

   — That’s all I ask. But be persuasive. As for the Seeker... those who wish to take part, get dressed. It truly is time to ask some questions. Before it gets dark.

   * * *

   The atmosphere on the deck was foul—a clinging damp had soaked into everything, from the planks underfoot to the very air. Though the wind was not particularly strong and the rain was more of a drizzle, the drop in temperature made the conditions hard to bear. Anyone would have wanted to return immediately to the warmth and the protection of the shelter of even flimsy walls. And even the crew, accustomed to far worse, moved sluggishly, showing the first signs of fatigue.

   The dull drumming of drops on the canvas merged with the squelch of footsteps, as if the ship were sighing under the weight of the bad weather. Morrigan lifted her face to the sky, closed her eyes, and for a moment shut out everything but the frigid moisture settling on her cheeks, eyelashes, and lips.

   — Soon enough, the rain will give way to snow...

   The phrase wasn’t meant for anyone in particular. Then the girl opened her eyes and found Tristan with her gaze. The man, as befits the one dragging everyone in his wake, stood at the ship’s bow. He stood stern, bundled in a warm captain’s cloak. Steeped in something sharp—perhaps fish oil or tar—it repelled water but gave off a pungent smell that stung the nostrils. Amusingly, Tristan preferred a tight-knit woollen cap to the waterproof hood, leaving only a hint of his straw-coloured hair visible. By the foremast, pressed against the wet wood, stood Alim and Wynne—a strange pair, united, it seemed, only by shared discomfort. To Morrigan, it was a most peculiar sight. By rights, for Alim, Wynne was no different from Morrigan herself. Unless he hypocritically drew some line between one possessed and the other based on personal history or other qualities of each. No less strange was the fact that a woman of her years was even out on deck in such weather. She needed to shake off such superfluous thoughts. Morrigan pulled her cloak tighter—the fur trim was already heavy with moisture. Her steps were firm as she headed towards the Seeker.

   — Answer me.

   Tristan, standing in profile, barely turned his head, glancing sideways and raising a questioning eyebrow. The man had no intention of opening his mouth, waiting for her to continue. Morrigan’s voice cut through the damp air:

   — Why are we really rushing to Redcliffe Fort?

   The Seeker nodded, returning his gaze to the absent horizon. After a short pause, the man replied:

   — Ah... There are more reasons for that than it seems. There’s the official one, and then there’s the real one.

   — No. If that’s the case, another thing first. Why are you even answering me?

   Tristan smirked, casting a glance at the black water swelling against the side. But soon the smile faded, and the man’s face took on a cold expression.

   — Certainly not because you’re an interesting conversationalist. To some extent, the audience is to blame. And I don’t mean those gathered on deck. But what hides behind your eyes. It can hear. I am quite confident in this creature’s ability to sense and perceive its surroundings. But as for why I should let it in on my motives... Let’s just say, your puppeteer is a wild card I am forced to tolerate due to certain personal considerations. Using your own metaphor about the sharp stick: when it’s dark all around, and every step could end in an abyss or the maw of an unknown beast, starting to toss pebbles to either side, listening for the sound of their fall, isn’t such a stupid strategy. Or put another way... Stimulus and response. No better method has been devised for understanding an alien mind.

   — I wouldn’t behave like this in a bear’s den...

   — A caustic remark. But we don’t know where we are. Perhaps in a dusty, forgotten closet, or perhaps in a dragon’s cave. There aren’t many ways to interact with what hides beyond the Veil. Of course, I could test your value to the puppeteer directly. But I don’t think you are unique enough for the creature to sacrifice its anonymity and safety. Let’s set aside abstractions and metaphors. Some time ago, an incident occurred in Ferelden that directly concerned the interests of our Order. Until recently, I was the one handling it. My experience and timely arrival in Ferelden on personal matters played a role. I was searching for traces of a long-lost friend. And it so happened that events which, on the surface, are entirely unrelated, widely separated by time and distance, are, in my personal view, indirectly connected. At a minimum. Lacking solid facts, I must rely on intuition. And as long as authority remains in my hands, I will try to find proof.

   Morrigan’s lips twitched—whether from cold or from fury. To be called a “puppet”... She swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing herself not to react.

   — So... I am your... experiment?

   The witch curled her lips nonetheless.

   — Fine. And what next?

   — Yes. Redcliffe Fort. The official reason first?

   The mage nodded silently, and the Seeker, catching the movement in his peripheral vision, continued:

   — An incident occurred, involving a manifestation of demons. As I mentioned, there is no shortage of reports from Chantry spies and even some Mothers from the settlements around Redcliffe Fort. The dead are rising from their graves and rampaging through cemeteries in anger. “Walking dead.”

   — And besides that, no rumors of mass possession?

   — None. So far. I have no fresh news since we sailed from Calenhad to Kinloch Hold. Much could have changed in these days.

   — Some will is pushing lesser ones through the Veil, binding them to the dead...

   — Precisely. If you put the reports together, it appears this is happening in the vicinity of the Arl’s castle. Which is troubling. The Teyrn received the same information. And, I must say, Milord Mac Tir expressed moderate satisfaction upon learning that this problem would become someone else’s headache and would not require him to take any action. In summary, we need to get to the root of the problem. Eliminate it. And ensure that the Arl, his family, and the heir are safe.

   Tristan paused, and his eyes darted towards Wynne for a moment—long enough for Morrigan to feel a stab of curiosity mixed with anxiety. The Senior Enchanter still stood near Alim. And it was Leliana who spoke for the first time, politely clarifying:

   — You imply that the Teyrn learned of the events “officially” only from representatives of the Chantry?

   — Yes.

   Morrigan shook her head, feeling not a shred of enthusiasm for such “games” played by the powers that be, where some pretend to know and others pretend not to know.

   — But why is the Chantry so concerned with the Arl’s safety? Especially now.

   — The country is not in the best state. The threat of the Blight. Two instances of open demonic influence on current events. And both strikes were delivered to vital places. Almost simultaneously. But you are right, the Circle is the Chantry’s direct responsibility. Redcliffe Fort, however, is not. Let’s set aside the matter of the flock, which hopes for Templar protection in the face of supernatural threats. There are more substantial reasons for intervention. Redcliffe Fort is strategically important. And more so for the Chantry than for Milord Loghain Mac Tir, who is concentrating his own military power in Denerim and Amaranthine. If the Guerrin family and their stronghold fall together, the southwest of the country will be exposed, giving an enemy direct access to Ferelden’s main fertile valley. And, furthermore...

   Morrigan sharply tossed the wet hair from her face. The rivulets of water on her cheeks could have passed for tears—if anyone dared suppose Morrigan capable of such a thing. The mage snorted:

   — I already know about this region’s economic significance and population density. And Leliana could tell you even more. The Blight could exploit the breach, and even the Avvar tribes could take advantage. And if one considers the Hasind tribes, who retreated to the Frostback Mountains... But that’s just the point, this should be Loghain’s problem. Not the Chantry’s. Why...

   Morrigan cut herself off mid-sentence and turned to her redheaded friend, who returned an equally fiery gaze. Something seemed to pass between the girls and, literally continuing the unfinished thought, Leliana murmured under her breath:

   — Et oui... The Imperial Highway, encircling the great lake. More precisely, the part that runs like a ribbon between the frigid waters and the foothills of the Frostback Mountains. The only road in the region that reliably remains passable in the winter months. A direct route from Orzammar to Redcliffe Fort and onwards... to Lothering. And the only trade thread that, even after so many winters, is only formally under Ferelden’s jurisdiction.

   The witch turned back, catching Bethany’s frightened look—the girl was staring at her like a rabbit at a python. Snapping her fingers, the mage returned attention to the frowning Seeker’s profile.

   — If Redcliffe Fort falls for some reason, it will drag the surrounding lands down with it, cleanly cutting off Ferelden from the passes and one of the two serviceable roads connecting the country to Orlais. I’ll wager the ports on the Waking Sea are already under the Teyrn’s control, and the one coastal road in the far north is easy to secure. Is Loghain more afraid of Empress Celene’s invasion than the Blight?

   — The Teyrn is endowed with a sharp mind and incredible instinct. Yet, at the same time, he is deeply prejudiced against Orlais. So much so that neither logic nor facts can persuade him otherwise. This causes Milord to view certain events from a single angle. And to measure others by his own standard. Intervention and revenge. Precisely now, when the country is weakened. And it would be logical, were it not for the Blight and for the personality of the current Empress. Therefore, for the Teyrn, this series of incidents on the western borders is like a sudden boon, for which sacrificing a wounded pawn is justified to preserve the King and Queen. I believe that correspondence between their royal persons has added fuel to his suspicions.

   — Is a mere boon the only thing to blame for this?

   — Who knows. Did the Teyrn play the key card that brought the whole house of cards down? Did another guide his hand in the right direction? Or did something else entirely simply take advantage of a convenient moment?

   With the last question, the Seeker turned towards Wynne, but without completing the movement, returned his gaze to the oncoming waves and finished his sentence:

   — One can only guess where exactly the chain of events began.

   Leliana sighed eloquently behind him, murmuring:

   — Eh bien... I would love to read those letters...

   Without turning to the “sister”, but smiling grimly, Tristan snapped:

   — Poking your nose into certain affairs is dangerous to your health, bard.

   Morrigan, in contrast, turned around, but only to see the unexpectedly sour expression on Leliana’s face. Furthermore, the mage noticed Wynne’s gaze, darting from the redheaded girl to meet her own golden eyes. For the first time, a certain interest was readable on the woman’s face, instead of dreary detachment. Slowly turning back, Morrigan returned to the conversation:

   — Are the Teyrn’s fears truly so groundless?

   The Seeker twisted his lips, sighing quietly.

   — Such is politics... Of course not. There are always schemes. Long-term stratagems. The Chantry had similar plans.

   One didn’t need to see Leliana to guess her emotions when she spat out:

   — Et ça alors... You tried to discredit the southern and southwestern aristocracy among the people, so that in the future they would look more favourably upon the Chantry than their lawful rulers. All that filth, to ease... the King’s alliance negotiations. Even without his knowledge. A path strewn with roses and drenched in blood.

   Tristan shrugged.

   — I don’t know, Mistress Bard. Perhaps. It concerns me little, so there is no “we” in it for me. What matters is that a Blight is brewing in Ferelden and there are no Grey Wardens to fight it. Milord Loghain Mac Tir will accept neither military aid, nor volunteers, nor least of all Grey Wardens from Orlais. Therefore, simultaneously with Kinloch Hold, we also need Redcliffe Fort, which the Teyrn has already written off. Primarily, to transport warriors there quietly who have specialised in fighting the Blight since ancient times.

   Morrigan opened her mouth, but was pre-empted by Wynne’s question, her low, firm voice breaking into the conversation unexpectedly:

   — There seem to be no contradictions here. But why did you emphasise wanting to ensure the safety of the Arl and the heir? Why do you need the Guerrin family?

   — Because in the eyes of many, Milord Mac Tir is little more than a usurper. And in the absence of an heir of the royal bloodline, unrest is inevitable. Only the old families, whose roots go back to the founding of Ferelden, can unite the conservative royalists around themselves. Blood... is highly valued in this southern country. By a “stroke of circumstance”, the Cousland line has already been removed from the board. So the choice is small. Yes... The existence of an opposition will predictably lead to a full-scale civil war. But without it, Ferelden in the Teyrn’s hands will lose political flexibility, and moreover will lose too many aristocrats, frightened off by the new power and left alone against the enemy.

   The mage standing near the Seeker murmured under her breath:

   — Another reason for the Teyrn to push the southwest towards its fall...

   Leliana supplemented Tristan’s thought:

   — Hein, non? I think it also plays no small part that Milord Eamon’s wife is of Orlesian origin. Which means the heir of the Guerrin line is of mixed blood. A bridge between two worlds.

   The man neither denied nor confirmed the bard’s words. Meanwhile, Naire suddenly spoke up:

   — So what’s the plan? How do you intend to deal with the hordes of dead? You do have a plan, don’t you?

   — First, we will deal with the source of the problem. I don’t think we’ll be lucky enough for it to be outside the fortress walls. But we still need to reach Redcliffe Fort.

   In Wynne’s voice that followed, there was frank agitation:

   — I understand... It’s important for you to ensure the safety of at least someone from the Guerrin family. But that doesn’t change the fact that there are dozens of settlements and small villages around Redcliffe Fort. If everyone is suffering from the invasion of “walking dead”, then Milord Eamon’s knights are far from sufficient to restore order. It follows that the smaller settlements have perhaps already been ravaged, and the people either killed or joined the stream of refugees. The larger hamlets are effectively under siege and isolated. The cold and hundreds of wounded who need help. This very minute. Even if you resolve the problem at Redcliffe Fort with lightning speed, it won’t affect the plight of the local people. We are obliged to help.

   Alim spoke up next, taking the same side:

   — I cannot disagree. Mass death in the villages, however you look at it, will not serve you well. What use is a fortress if the lands around it become depopulated long before the Blight even arrives. Or is this your... stratagem?

   Tristan furrowed his brow—a thin line of irritation appeared on his forehead—and quietly commented on the remarks:

   — So many advisers... So many sages...

   Turning to Wynne, he smiled politely.

   — Very well. You, Lady Wynne, Alim, and Naire—will head to those settlements near Redcliffe Fort that, in your judgment, need assistance. Help the inhabitants to the best of your abilities. And the rest will head straight for the fortress. This is the best division of forces I can propose.

   Wynne inclined her head in agreement, but Alim turned sharply to Naire—his eyes widened as if he already saw her dead. Morrigan stepped closer to Tristan, her wet cloak slapping against the deck like a raven’s wing.

   — Am I correct in assuming...? You know exactly what to do with the dead, and how to deal with the higher power that caused this chaos?

   The man gave the mage a brief glance and quietly let fall:

   — Who knows. Only fools and the dead are certain in such matters.

   To Morrigan, the answer reeked of falsehood, like rotten fish. In an icy voice, she added:

   — You’d already planned to divide the party exactly this way, hadn’t you?

   The corner of Tristan’s mouth twitched—as if he were tasting his own lie and finding it bitter. Though it could also have been a smile.

   — Believe me, I did not waste my time in the Circle, studying Irving’s notes on every surviving mage. The reactions of both Lady Wynne and Alim were predictable. And so is the foolishness of trying to separate the elf from his childhood friend.

   Shaking her head, Morrigan turned around, steadying herself with a hand on the ship’s rail. Throwing a meaningful look at Naire, who immediately nodded in response, the girl headed back towards the hold...

   * * *

   Night replaced day, and with the wind dying down, the cold drops falling from the grey skies gave way to wet snow. Settling quietly on the deck and rigging, the snowflakes, in the swaying light of the lanterns, created an illusion of magic and called to mind death’s gentle touch. The ropes, caked in white, grew too heavy, and the boards polished by countless feet too slippery, robbing the sailors of their due sleep and threatening death at every moment.

   Unlike the other girls, Morrigan still sat in her hammock, eyes wide open, staring into space and mentally reviewing the sequences of runes in the spells she knew. Shadows of irritation flitted across her face, each leaving a deeper trace of weariness. The witch was haunted by the knowledge that she was utterly unprepared for a confrontation with numerous foes. The daughter of Flemeth was strong in duels—even when her opponent outmatched her. Less often it was a skirmish with a pack of wolves, where there was always an alpha to end the bloodshed with a single blow. But dozens upon dozens of enemies left her helpless, jaw clenched. All her weapons boiled down to frightening and fleeing. And the slim hope for a brave soul who would stand against the enemy’s pursuit. In the case of the “walking dead”, all of the above was useless—much like how futile her attempts to wriggle out of tight spots had been before. The most reliable answer to such a threat was to learn a new spell. But all Morrigan had at hand was the “black grimoire”, and nine out of ten of its few spells were written in the flat manner traditional to the Circles, meaning complex incantations consisted of a hundred runes or more. Her memory had always been sharper than a blade—until foreign memories began to overflow it. So she knew it would take weeks to cram something so cumbersome into her own head. And then just as long again to hone her understanding and application of the new spells for real combat. By her estimate, it would take just as long to rework the spells for the multilayered execution Flemeth had trained her daughter in from her very first magic lessons.

   This did not mean Morrigan was without ideas. She had more than enough of them. Traditionally, fire was considered the most reliable means against “walking dead”. But even if she had ample flame at her disposal, the weather outside left no chance for success. And so the most reliable means against the possessed remained a strike at their most vulnerable point. Corpses were filled with lesser demons. Like their elder “brethren”, they craved mana above all else. And if one could tear out those scant grains the demons had scraped together in their graves, languishing with blunted senses and a thirst for more, then the shadow-creatures would scarcely hold themselves together on this side of the Veil, even inside their hosts. At least, that was Morrigan’s best-case calculation. The girl did not expect this to actually banish the creatures. But to make them laughably vulnerable for a short time—that was quite possible. The new spell the witch had recently practised: “Adolebitcui congesta ut terra”, “Mana Burn”, was simple enough in concept and execution. So, it was suitable in that regard. But it only affected one target at a time, consuming a revolting amount of mana for a protracted fight... For the past day, the witch had deliberately gone over its structure again and again, from beginning to end, until she was sure enough of the sequence’s flexibility to add something else to it without greatly altering its mana cost. That “something else” was precisely what Morrigan lacked...

   The outcome of the brother and sister’s conversation was, to general surprise, that Alim did not reject the idea of helping the southern witch. He even promised to discuss the details with the sorceress... Before turning in, only a tired-looking Leliana pointed out that he’d never said when one might expect this promise to be fulfilled. This led Morrigan to the gloomy thought of the immutable gap between her own social skills and the bard’s. But in the end, it turned out that for this conversation, the elf had patiently waited until the darkest hour. The idea of confidentiality didn’t hold up, as three-quarters of the crew was awake, fighting to keep the ship safe.

   Quietly approaching Morrigan’s hammock from behind, the mage froze, obviously searching for the right words, so the witch spoke first:

   — Are we speaking again?

   A prolonged male sigh reached her, after which Alim tried to steer the conversation onto purely practical matters:

   — What needs discussing?

   — Much.

   — If this is only for the chance to—

   — Alim. This is clumsy even for you. To think that on a night like this, I’d approach you through your sister just to trade petty barbs.

   His answer was a tense silence, which at least seemed wiser than a new attempt to seize the initiative or parry the jab. After a minute’s pause, the elf said quietly:

   — Well... I suppose I should at least thank you, despite everything, for not revealing the blood tie to anyone.

   Morrigan’s lips twisted in a soundless laugh—venomous as a snake’s bite. She replied softly, keeping her voice and emotions in check:

   — Suppose? Hm... A cheap secret, then. Naire meant no harm. Why would I treat her so foully? But even from the perspective of a cold-hearted bitch, what’s the gain? Alim, to reciprocate your “gratitude”, I didn’t need to meet anyone’s expectations. Now you are outside the Circle again, stripped of half the meaning that constituted your very essence. And you may never return. Stuck in the hold of a ship racing to meet winter, expecting to meet fresh ice any minute. And no matter what you do, in the worst case, you are fated to drown in cold waters, helplessly watching your sister perish beside you. And even if not, a Seeker is dragging you towards new enemies. And not because I am some spider queen, as if I seduced Naire with dark promises. Your sister has long wanted to escape the Circle’s prison, even if those were foolish dreams. I was merely the pretext. And a way to get back at you, for making a decision on her behalf without asking, just as you once did. What should you be grateful for, you son of a bitch? For the fact that your sister’s calm breathing is still there. It wasn’t Alim who pulled her from the nightmare, but Morrigan. But don’t think I’m angry. I’m satisfied with your current predicament. So we’re even. Now, let’s assume we’ve exchanged all the poison that accumulated between us. Ahead lies a foe against which you, the Seeker, and perhaps this Wynne might be of some use. If we account for your... “peculiarities”. But we both know your well isn’t deep. And the battle will be protracted. And as Naire said, I need help to improve our chances of survival. That is all.

   Alim stood motionless—only his fingers clenched on the edge of the hammock betrayed his tension. He did not once try to interject, made no sound, like a statue. This fact spoke, if not of silent agreement, then at least of a certain acceptance of what had been said. Letting out another sigh, the elf slowly began to reply:

   — I never underestimated the sharpness of your wit. Or your tongue. It’s useless to complain now, of course. I simply accept the circumstances as they are. And I try to move forward. But my opinion of you...

   The witch threw up her hands, hissing quietly:

   — Spare me the hypocrisy. One possessed woman is bad, the other slightly better. I don’t even want to know how you rationalise that in your head. Your bloodline has had no evil from me, so try to rationalise that in your spare time. Especially now, when all you have left to defend is your sister.

   — Let it be so. Let’s set aside the “maybes” and “most likely”s. Let’s focus on what’s inevitable. From Naire’s words, I gathered you need the runic part of the “Repulsion Field” that is responsible for creating a mana knot. It’s the impact on that which ultimately generates the impulse. That is, without exaggeration, three-quarters of the spell.

   — Repulsio. Yes. Almost.

   — Is that... a Tevene name?

   — I suppose... Don’t dwell on it. I need the part that specifically dictates the area of effect.

   — May I ask why you need it?

   — Is that a threat or the beginning of our cooperation? Fine... I believe I can augment a spell I already know. And thus force it to affect an area. Anticipating your question, I do have an area-effect spell in my repertoire. But its components are too intertwined. Whereas you have an example in your head where a spell creates a surrogate, inside which the author has built a simpler, more intuitive definition of area and direction. The idea is that this part of the runes in the spell isn’t difficult to isolate.

   Alim rubbed his forehead, trying to process what had been said, and shook his head incredulously.

   — In that, you are probably right... Listen, it’s not that it sounds unrealistic. But when do you plan to finish this?

   — If we start immediately, then much sooner than if we continue discussing it.

   — No, that’s not what I mean...

   — That is exactly what I mean. We could simply not start. That guarantees no result.

   Licking her lips and subduing her emotions, Morrigan added:

   — If things go well, we’ll have something by tomorrow. If not... what difference does it make?

   — It’s hard to believe. Naire told me about the ritual, though I only half-listened, but still...

   The elf rubbed his temples.

   — Alright...

   Alim sank onto the slippery planks beneath the witch’s hammock; his knees cracked—he had spent too many hours on deck. Crossing his legs, the mage summed up:

   — There’s no place here, nor anything to write down the rune sequence with. I can’t give you just the needed part and nothing extra off the top of my head. But I’ll try. I’ll list the runes in order, one after another. Memorise them. Allowing for mistakes, it will take about two hours.

   The girl nodded, closed her eyes, and concentrated on her interlocutor’s voice.

   * * *

   As was dawn’s duty, it brought hope. With the first morning hours, the snow ceased, giving the sailors a welcome respite. Even the clouds no longer seemed so ominous, no longer seeming to scrape against the mainmast. Three hours after sunrise, a warning cry was heard, and soon the weary crew was bustling again, lowering sails and reducing speed. A shoreline appeared about seven kilometres to the south, signaling the imminent end of the journey, though the bay of Redcliffe Fort lay a little farther west. But two kilometres from the ship, the surface of the lake was transforming. In the weak wind, the waves were mere ripples on the water’s surface, and in the distance lay an invisible boundary beyond which no waves showed at all. Had it not been for the intense snowfall, even a sharp eye would have struggled to discern the thin, transparent ice growing from the shore to meet the ship. Here and there, the mirror-like surface was marred by a white coating. The shore seemed so close, yet as distant as if it were on the other side of the world. The first ice is fragile and weak, but it can be treacherous. However, the far greater threat was getting stuck in an icy grip in the bay for weeks or months. And at the same time, the cold-bound surface was still too tender to attempt a landing. For no reason short of death would the captain risk sailing forward. And the threat of death would be answered by the threat of mutiny from the sailors.

   After brief negotiations, Tristan managed to convince the captain to set a course east. Firstly, the schooner could still make headway even with a crosswind, and fortunately, the wind had shifted overnight from easterly to northerly. Secondly, to the east, the shoreline curved to meet the ship, jutting sharply northward for a good ten kilometres. With some luck, this would allow them to find a place to disembark the passengers in waters not yet touched by the first ice.

   Morrigan’s companions were whispering amongst themselves—their voices a mix of curiosity and anxiety. For Naire, everything was still novel, so restrained curiosity and a lifted mood prevailed over apprehension. It was clear that Bethany was trying to maintain cheerfulness, but the sudden series of journeys that had come upon the girl and the surrounding cold were wearing down her limited strength. Leliana seemed more pensive, once more slipping into the familiar routine of observing the common sailors and other members of the “Seeker’s party.” Wynne... In a strange way, the woman had endeared herself to the tired and embittered crew, freely sharing advice of obvious practical use, like a mother waiting even for the toughest sailor in a distant port. And Alim—was asleep. The witch herself paid little attention to the news. In the end, the Seeker made the decisions, and only his will determined whether they would soon be jumping into the frigid water to swim to Redcliffe Fort or waiting for other options. As long as survival wasn’t at stake, her mind remained immersed in her own tasks, and the sleepless night further dulled her emotions, rendering her surroundings colourless and grim.

   It took an hour and a half for the shoreline to become directly visible from the deck, not just the mast. A narrow strip of sand, no more than ten paces wide, sometimes interspersed with large grey stones with smooth contours. Beyond that began a steep, rocky slope, sharply rising upwards and bristling with sparse, crooked pines from which the wet snow that had fallen overnight was visibly shedding. Fortunately, the icy shell covered only a narrow strip by the shore, a mere couple of dozen paces. So, urged on by the Seeker’s stern gaze, the humans and elves bundled up in warm clothes, grabbing leather satchels with a modest supply of dry provisions and the bare essentials. Three hundred oar-strokes in a light longboat, dragged with a dull crunch through the ice crust onto the shore by a pair of Templars who had jumped into the water. And the greyish sand crunched under the party’s boots.

   Tristan didn’t even wait for the longboat to return to the ship, pointing at the slope and giving the order:

   — We don’t have much daylight left. The Imperial Highway is five, at worst eight kilometres away. According to Erik’s description.

   The Seeker gestured towards the grim, dark-haired Templar who looked like he’d seen no more than forty winters and had, moments ago, been hauling the longboat onto the beach.

   — He lived in this area. Further south, past Redcliffe Fort, to be precise, but he travelled with traders to Lothering as a child. Just beyond this slope are gentle hills and open woodland. In fresh snow, it’s a matter of hours. And to Redcliffe Fort itself via the Highway will be... thirty, thirty-five kilometres. With regular stops, another two or three days’ travel. The provisions on our backs, however, are not plentiful. And even if that seems insignificant, keep this in mind as we walk—ordinary people are dying there. Move out.

   The party swallowed these icy truths without objection—each had enough ghosts at their back already to fear new threats. The Templars obeyed the Seeker unquestioningly, giving him leverage over the mages, who had their own considerations but equally suspected Tristan of possessing the phylacteries of each person present. Except Morrigan. Firstly, she knew for certain. Secondly, the girl couldn’t care less about the Seeker’s motives or the value of abstract residents, unlike the ones here and now.

   When the dangerous ascent was behind them and the stones stopped trying to throw them back down, the party found themselves at the top. Breathing heavily and leaning against a pine tree with roots bulging under her boots, Naire grinned widely at Morrigan standing nearby.

   — What... icy beauty.

   Turning back, the golden-eyed witch cast a careful gaze over the horizon. Leaden clouds hung over the lake, merging on the horizon with the black water into a single lifeless desert. On the surface of the lake, ripples shifted continuously as if alive, the tangible embodiment of ephemeral winds holding revels in the open expanse. To the east stretched a monotonous shore, though the view of the sand strip was soon blocked by a rocky headland jutting into the lake. To the west, the shore curved southward, so it seemed that the lake filled all the space there.

   The witch agreed with the elf, briefly remarking:

   — Yes... But let us hurry. It is a severe beauty. It tolerates neither weakness nor foolishness. Nor slowness.

   Naire nodded readily and, following her friend, asked:

   — Alim... did he help?

   Morrigan bit her tongue.

   — Surprisingly, yes. Of course, he tried to have his say. But that’s trivial.

   Adjusting her hood, the short girl nodded with satisfaction, focusing entirely on walking through the pine grove. The trees stood ten or even fifteen paces apart, interspersed occasionally with waist-high shrubs now leafless and boulders of various sizes. The snow lay in patches, and on the slopes it immediately turned into treacherous sheets ready to trip them up. To the right and left came wet slapping sounds as flexible branches shed winter’s first gift. Occasionally something clicked somewhere, but otherwise, apart from the travellers’ own footsteps, silence reigned. The fresh air smelled of dampness with a slight hint of pine.

   The land here breathed with smooth, almost gentle curves, as if someone had smoothed out the irregularities, forgetting only to clear away the “crumbs” of boulders, which grew larger the further the travellers got from the shore. After an hour of almost comfortable walking, when clouds of breath already plumed from every mouth, the scattered, disorderly stones began to rival the young pines in height, lending the landscape, sparse in variety, its own unique character. These “silent inhabitants of the forest” shared similar features despite differences in shape and size. Like the landscape, the form of the monoliths seemed smoothed to an almost complete absence of chips and sharp angles. Their surfaces were covered with parallel grooves, running down to the ground at different angles, as if some mythical creatures had all sharpened their claws here together. The wet sides of the stones darkened, as if sweating, while the dry areas remained pale as old bone. And on the smoothest parts, an unusual needle-like pattern was clearly visible.

   Stopping beside a random silent “guardian,” Morrigan thoughtfully ran her hand over the cool, rough surface. Erik, bringing up the rear of the group, caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, drawing the golden-eyed witch’s gaze. Exhaling into his calloused palms, the man said distantly:

   — The old folk call them “abandoned wayfarers.” Or sometimes giants who sat down to rest and turned to stone. They really do seem out of place. The stones in the ground here are completely different in colour and hardness. But there are countless such statues in these parts. They say Redcliffe Fort itself is built from them, which is why boulders are much rarer around the fort, and even then, only the largest ones. And they also say the bones of the Frostback Mountains far to the west are made of the same rock.

   Morrigan nodded in thanks, her fingers lingering on the stone for another second. Feeling the cold seep into her hand, the girl whispered:

   — Older than the first kings...

   An hour later, the stone ribbon of the Highway appeared among the trees ahead. Morrigan noted to herself that here it was lower than near Ostagar, thus hiding better among the pine crowns. And of course, no one in the past had anticipated that random travellers might climb onto the imperial road at an arbitrary point. On this stretch, the ancient structure was assembled from the same rock as the “abandoned wayfarers,” further demonstrating the practicality and determination of the imperial builders. Though, it wasn’t evident that the surrounding boulders had been used for this purpose; they stood untouched literally thirty paces from the Highway. The result—the construction was superbly preserved, steadfastly resisting winters, dampness, and scorching sun and wind. Only the moss at the base was plentiful. They had to use ropes tied together, branches broken off nearby, and a measure of skill. But the first to go up were not the strongest, but those whose weight wouldn’t snap the rope. Naire and Leliana. This did not please Alim, who was nervously chewing his lower lip, but he had no grounds to object to Tristan’s reasoned arguments.

   Wrapping her hands in cloth and, as the Seeker showed, looping the rope twice around her waist, Naire slowly climbed up. Towards the end, the girl puffed strenuously, sometimes exerting unnecessary effort due to lack of experience and practice, but, most importantly, she stood at the top. Leliana moved more confidently, until the toe of her boot “found” a patch of moss perched on a slightly protruding block in the wall. Her foot slipped out from under her—and Leliana fell with a dull thud of her cheekbone against the masonry, her fingers digging into the stone until her knuckles whitened. The archer had the strength to find a foothold and complete the ascent. Leliana wiped the blood from her face with one motion and threw Naire an encouraging look. Then she showed her how to secure the rope for the others. Soon the men climbed up and began helping the remaining ladies below.

   The Imperial Highway seemed unnaturally perfect—too straight, too level, as if drawn with the ruler of the gods. Out of the corner of her eye, Morrigan noticed Leliana scooping up wet snow and pressing it to her reddened cheekbone and nose. Tristan sharply gestured westward—a gesture that brooked no argument. And the familiar toil for their legs resumed, where each person was focused only on the next step, themselves, and the surrounding landscape.

   * * *

   Even before nightfall, most of the party had come to hate the cold, though Morrigan considered it foolish to use such a strong word on merely dank weather. During the day, the temperature hovered around freezing, and only at night did a weak frost set in. Though there was no one here from across the sea, Naire and Alim had preferred to spend the better part of the winter months inside the Hold’s chambers, bundled in warm clothes and close to an open fire. To Morrigan, this was to be expected from inhabitants of distant, warm lands where there was no winter. The Templars, however, ignored the wet snow flying into their faces with enviable stoicism. Wynne shivered at times, but that, at least, was explained by her age. Bethany and Leliana were simply tired. The short, ten-minute breaks every two hours of travel were not enough for the girls to recover.

   For setting up camp, Tristan made everyone repeat the arduous descent down the Highway’s vertical wall to settle in one of the elongated alcoves that recurred again and again along the route, forming decorative archways from the road’s front, like a bridge stretching endlessly. Here, their backs received protection from the wind and, with some luck, shelter from the leaky skies. While Tristan, on equal footing with the Templars, chopped down nearby bushes to gather firewood, Morrigan asked Bethany to help with the kindling and strode into the forest. The girl felt numerous gazes on her back, full of bewilderment and suspicion. But the one leading the party didn’t even acknowledge the witch’s departure, absorbed in his task.

   As the snow fell, the girl’s figure slipped silently among the shrubs, pines, and firs that had begun appearing in the area about an hour back. Plump white flakes swirled, clinging to her shoulders only to melt immediately. In the thickening dusk, the snowflakes reminded her eerily of nightmares. But a deep breath of the scent of pine needles and frozen earth—and the phantasm retreated. When at least three hundred paces lay between the camp and the witch, she tossed her fur-trimmed cloak onto the nearest shaggy branch. The Circle mage’s robe followed, leaving the girl bare from the waist up. After clumsily gathering her black locks into a bun and tying it with a cloth, Morrigan closed her eyes, becoming pure hearing. The frost embraced her bare body with the cruelty of a spurned lover, as if branding her. But the goosebumps, the ghostly plume of her breath, and her hardened nipples revealed the truth. The witch’s mind was wholly occupied by the image of the runic sequence. Without a single doubt, mana filled the spell with power. Her elegant hands rose and, through the snowy lace, grasped at something invisible to the eye. When she opened her eyes, their golden gleam in the half-light immediately picked out a nearby pine, and at the command of her trembling fingers, a step to the right and two paces farther on, the snowflakes obediently altered their steady descent.

   Exhaling and realizing she had held her breath from start to finish, Morrigan winced and threw up her hands, releasing the tension.

   Three attempts later, having lost feeling in her reddened skin along with a significant portion of her mana reserve, the witch shook her head dejectedly. For having no prior practice, the complex sequence worked passably, even moderately accurately. But that was all. The girl was dissatisfied with the imperfection of her own understanding of the runes needed to precisely describe the spell’s area of effect. Some detail was eluding her, leaving the spell’s author helpless, with no idea what it was.

   Once dressed again, Morrigan found it was fully dark, and the snow still swirled, slowly settling on the ground and branches. Rubbing her forearms, the witch sniffed and headed back towards the campsite in search of warmth.

   The entire party was squeezed between a decent campfire, built from sods of earth cut with blades, and the wall of the Highway. The fire’s warmth had immobilized their tired bodies—almost everyone was already asleep on beds of spruce boughs. Tristan, standing apart, merely gave a short nod in her direction, his gaze never leaving the darkness. The only one still awake by the fire was Wynne. The woman was staring with her blind gaze into the dancing tongues of the crackling flames, lost in her own anxieties and thoughts.

   Sitting down nearby, Morrigan raised her eyes, their dancing reflections fixed on the woman, and asked quietly:

   — Tell me... When did you realize it was inside you?

   Wynne’s face turned to stone—only her eyebrows twitched upwards. In response, without turning her head, came a question:

   — Is courtesy truly so unknown to you? Or did you deem it useless?

   — What has that long life brought you, besides a false sense of respect or safety?

   Bowing her head, Wynne conceded the truth in her interlocutor’s words, and yet continued:

   — Of course, many rituals and flourishes are empty or meant only to conceal poison and hatred. But etiquette was not invented without reason. Not just for elegant verbal dances in high society. Your friend, the bard, could tell you much about the role of that art in various spheres of life. But to simplify, common courtesy allows one to easily avoid situations that could end in bloodshed.

   Biting her lower lip in irritation, Morrigan focused and let the rising anger subside. Drawing a barely audible, full breath, she said:

   — My apologies. There is wisdom in your words. If something allows a goal to be reached, cutting dangerous corners, one should use it.

   This time Wynne turned, meeting the piercing gleam of gold opposite her. Raising the corners of her lips slightly in a hint of a smile, she replied:

   — It is surprising to see this in you. Flexibility. The ability to curb your temper.

   Morrigan twisted her lips, her fingers involuntarily digging into her own knees.

   — That was not always the case. It is easier to call me wilful than compliant. The changes... I often miss how and when they befall me.

   Her interlocutor shrugged and continued, studying the girl’s face.

   — Or perhaps you are simply growing up, child? There is no precise age when we become adults. Sometimes a pivotal moment pushes us, but more often it simply overtakes us, and only later, looking back, do we realize the fullness of the changes. Some are more conscious than their peers, others, even with grey hairs, are like small children.

   — I doubt it... But back to my question. What was it like, there, in the clearing?

   Wynne frowned, gathering her thoughts, and just by the woman’s look, one could tell the memories were not pleasant.

   — What was it like... In short? Terrifying. Probably the second event in my life that frightened me so deeply. As if you are being pushed aside. Not literally, no. But words fail to convey it otherwise. Something alien rises within you—something you don’t expect to find in yourself. Not even that... You realize with surprise that you had forgotten “it” was inside you. Yes, that’s more accurate. And then... The worst part isn’t the “presence.” It was that single moment when I lost the sensation of my body, the ability to breathe, sight, hearing. Everything, completely and without trace. One moment of absolute, indescribable isolation, before I opened my eyes again, finding myself after the fact. There is nothing to compare it to. It is no less terrifying to continue living with the thought: for it will surely happen again at some unknown moment. And why did I forget about its presence the first time? And can “it” make me forget again?

   — I see...

   The woman shook her head, murmuring softly:

   — Hm... I don’t know which is worse. The chance that you do understand. Or that you only said that for appearances.

   — Does it communicate with you?

   — No. Not once. I suppose when “it”... awakens? There is no place left for me. Or it spares me from losing my mind.

   — And dreams?

   — Dreams... Nothing of the sort. As before. Though I cannot be entirely sure that “as before” is truly how it was for me earlier. I’ve seen how such thoughts eat away at the mind like worms in wood. So I don’t let myself think about such things. And are your dreams troubled?

   Morrigan blinked sharply, as if trying to erase unbidden images, and answered honestly:

   — I don’t know.

   — Please, let us end it here. This is too much truth for one conversation, especially as we openly avoid each other. And I ask nothing of you because... I have enough problems of my own. I want to know nothing of yours. This is unusual for me, believe me, but...

   — You feel an aversion towards me, which subtly influences your judgment, but you cannot logically justify it?

   Wynne’s lips froze in silent surprise, before she said, not hiding it:

   — You... have noted that with astonishing accuracy. And, forgive me, but... I do not yet know what to do with that. Nor with the thought that you, too, are possessed. All of this...

   Wynne winced and finished the phrase much more quietly:

   — It is too much at once.

   — So your proposal to split the party wasn’t entirely... altruistic? But it is not for me to judge you.

   The woman exhaled heavily but offered no comment on that remark. After a pause, Morrigan concluded:

   — Well, this sentiment is somewhat mutual. But, to understand something, one must first start talking. Thank you, for it would have been easier to fob me off with superficial answers.

   Considering the conversation over, the girl moved closer to the fire. Curling up, she pressed her knees to her chest and closed her eyes, to...

   * * *

   The awakening came early and dreamless. Rising was difficult, weighed down by a paralyzing fatigue. And once again, the road—endless and monotonous. This time, the surrounding landscape was hidden by a white veil of slowly falling snow, limiting visibility to seven or eight hundred paces. Everything beyond that merged into a monochrome backdrop. White flakes, like down, clung to cloaks and bags, turning them into ghostly outlines, but as soon as the snow touched skin, it immediately melted, leaving icy droplets.

   After five hours of walking, during another short break, everyone silently gnawed on hard ship’s biscuits, as if trying to distract themselves from the cold. According to Tristan, they were edible even without soaking, unlike the hardtack common on ships. Suddenly, the snow began to thin, and within minutes the sky cleared as if with the wave of a hand, revealing a hilly horizon. And with it, a descent from the Highway, and from it began the familiar dirt road leading southwest. The descent itself, in its quality, materials used, and signs of repair, differed from the Highway, being a much later construction.

   The Seeker pointed to the fork and said:

   — The Highway runs to Redcliffe Fort, passing south of the port village and the bay. I suspect the view of the Fort will open up beyond that ridge of hills. And this is the very road Erik once traveled with the merchants to Lothering. It leads into the heart of the Redcliffe Arling, to the numerous villages scattered among the hills all the way to Lake Luthias and the village of Honnleath on the border.

   The man turned and added:

   — If your intentions still hold, we must part ways here. You, together with Erik, will make a wide arc around Redcliffe Fort, bypassing the villages, until you meet the Highway again much closer to the foothills of the Frostback Mountains in the west. Then return to the Fort. By that time, we will either be rid of the source of the problem, or we will be gone.

   Tristan met Wynne’s gaze, as if addressing her exclusively, and added:

   — Be cautious. The suffering of others is not your burden to bear, no matter what your conscience whispers. I know the Circle’s healers rarely visit this area. Soon enough, they will call you emissaries of the Maker or Andraste herself. And then they will not ask for help, but demand it. The capabilities of any mage are not limitless, and miracles in the mind of a commoner are only vaguely divided into simple, great, and impossible. In the end, it is you who will be blamed for the deaths of their loved ones. And do not get lost in the procession of days behind you. Winter is upon us, and I fear the Blight is too.

   Wynne pressed her lips together, her voice like a blade wrapped in silk:

   — Ser Tristan. I kept my distance out of respect, not fear.

   The Seeker cut the woman off, without much ceremony:

   — Lady Wynne. I will not presume to judge whether respect played a part. But it was not respect that made you cower in a corner and behave like a mouse, but a feeling of fear and uncertainty. And it’s not just about selfishness. You are the sort of person who might fear more for others than for yourself. That is a compliment. Our situation is unusual, perhaps... even unique. And so, the choice to mutually avoid each other’s company was wise. Do not ruin it now with suddenly awakened bravado mixed with pride. Of course, you are older. Certainly, you do not bear your title for a laugh. And I presume you have a couple of hundred patients to your name. But it is unlikely you have often or for long left the Circle, and even less likely that you have traveled much through the provinces. Your perspective differs from mine, which is considerably marred by blood, death, hypocrisy, cynicism, and lies. So, heed the advice, accept it with the dignity that befits you, and go in peace to do what your tender conscience obliges you to do.

   Clenching her jaw until the muscles bulged, the mage nodded and, maintaining a stern posture, moved towards the descent. Alim nodded to Tristan—the man returned the gesture, but his gaze was strained and polite, as if he were already saying goodbye in his mind. And Naire rushed first to Morrigan, then to Bethany and Leliana. Finishing with strong hugs, she forced a smile and murmured:

   — Until we meet. I promise.

   Morrigan merely snorted in response, giving a nod, but the others—Bethany, Leliana—hugged the fragile elf again, each whispering something encouraging in her ear. And then the modest party of two humans and two elves began to move away, causing a tight ache in the golden-eyed witch’s chest—as if something important was slipping away, though she did not wish to admit it.

   * * *

   The view of Redcliffe Fort from the hills was impressive. A picturesque bay, covered in ice and blanketed with white snow, against which a rocky island, rich in jasper, stood out vividly. A castle rose on the island. In Morrigan’s opinion, it was not a patch on Ostagar or Kinloch Hold. But even she admitted that its location and skillfully organized fortifications made the place nearly impregnable. Nearly... And yet, the fortress had fallen three times: to the ancient Empire, during the founding of Ferelden, and under the onslaught of Orlais. This piqued the witch’s interest. Though the buildings had surely been rebuilt many times, the stronghold had stood here long before the Highway appeared.

   Inside the bay, the village itself, bearing the same name as the fortress, stretched along the shore. Flags fluttered above the fortifications, and smoke curled from the chimneys, showing that life still flickered within the fortress and the village.

   However, Morrigan only registered this briefly. Already while climbing the hills, Leliana had begun showing clear signs of exhaustion, uncharacteristic of her, even accounting for the fatigue accumulated over the past days. When, during the final rest before leaving the Highway and descending down to the bay, the witch touched the forehead of her friend, who was hunched over by the roadside, it felt blazing hot. Sharply pulling back the hood from the fiery locks, Morrigan saw a glazed look and a bruise on her cheekbone, already yellowing at the edges.

   — You are burning like a coal in a furnace.

   — I am? It’s fine... I can manage...

   Leliana’s voice trembled, as if she were fighting not only the illness but also shame for her weakness. The witch turned sharply to Tristan, who was already staring intently at the bard. A muffled, frightened gasp came from Bethany nearby, and an equally quiet curse from the younger Templar, immediately hushed by his older partner. For a moment, the Seeker worked his jaw, weighing options. Approaching closer, the man asked:

   — Feel any numbness where the bruise is?

   — Yes... A little.

   — Does it hurt to move your jaw?

   — A li... A little. A break?

   — I think not. I would not call myself a healer. But I have seen much. Let us hope it is only a crack. But your strength is failing you. Perhaps an infection has set in. Why did you not speak? Two hours ago, Wynne, the best healer of the Kinloch Circle, could have helped you. But now...

   Breathing heavily, Leliana squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them to look at Morrigan. Then, gathering her strength, the girl replied:

   — I thought... it was a fever from the cold. Got soaked on the first day. And the cheek... just hurts. It’s been... a long time since I traveled like this. And... I do not trust the possessed.

   Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Tristan muttered quietly:

   — Typical. An intelligent woman, yet she acts like a stubborn child...

   While the confused Morrigan glowered down at her friend, who was also trying to maintain eye contact, the Seeker turned back to the Templars:

   — Tralin, since you cannot hold your tongue, you will carry the girl down. Sling her over your back and tie her hands for safety. Let us hope there is some healer alive down below.

   Bethany immediately rushed closer:

   — I will help...

   With Leliana, her eyes closed in exhaustion, on the Templar’s shoulders, the party began a brisk descent down the sodden road, which someone had once attempted to pave, probably not later than the current Arl’s grandfather. The mud squelched under their boots, and from the sky, instead of snow, a cold drizzle began to fall.

   After an hour’s walk, much slower than on the impeccable, if wet-snow-dusted, Highway, the travelers crossed into the silent village. It seemed to have grown without any order, and the possibility of having to defend it had never even been considered. Why would it, with the best fortress in this part of the world right next door? The outer houses stood empty, with windows boarded up—not hastily, but firmly, as if preparing for a siege. The doors were reinforced too, and not just anyhow or in haste. Further down the street, sharpened stakes, bundled together, were visible. Not a soul—no men, no children, not even stray dogs. Only the wind wandered the empty streets, and somewhere in the distance a sign creaked—the only sound in this dead place. But the smoke visible further on, rising from the chimneys, hinted that life persisted.

   Suddenly, from the direction of the chantry, rising above the roofs on the far side of the village, came the resonant toll of a bell...

Chapter Text

   Tristan summed it up dryly:

   — The bell tolls for us. They must have seen us descending to the cove. Troubling.

   Just beyond the fence-line—broken in many places and only nominally marking the settlement's boundary—began three meandering alleys, running more or less straight between similar houses, sheds, and backyards filled with modest gardens. Leafless branches, black against the grey sky, jutted like bones washed from a forgotten grave by the rains. The alleys twisted their way down to the cove, merging into a wide crossroads with the main street. That street curved around the shore in a semicircle, disappearing behind buildings. Aside from a few modest dead-ends and the descending alleys, this single street served as the settlement's axis, upon which, like beads on a string, lay the bridge to the fortress island, the mill, the dock, and the chantry.

   Staring into the dead silence of the houses, Morrigan mechanically asked a question while her thoughts frantically sought shelter for Leliana:

   — Why should that trouble us?

   The Witch narrowed her eyes, watching the man's reaction.

   — How to put it... I expected the port to be overrun with the dead by now. And since they cannot breach the fortress, the possessed would have scattered in search of new victims. Watchful eyes and a bell toll mean there are still people in the village holding out. Yet, no patrols in sight. Is it too dangerous on the outskirts? Are they not needed? The windows weren't boarded up hastily. It was done with thought. Whatever is happening here, they have the luxury of predictable respites. And yet, the houses on the outskirts are abandoned, meaning the threat hasn't passed. Does that sound like the behavior of a horde of walking dead?

   The older Templar grunted grimly and replied curtly:

   — Not at all.

   — Meaning, someone not only 'creates' the 'walkers', but also holds the reins of control. By the way, even from here you can see the drawbridge to the fortress is raised. What are they afraid of in there, if the village holds?

   Bethany ran her tongue over her cracked lips—the cold instantly bit into the fresh moisture, but her fear was stronger than any pain.

   — What are we waiting for?

   The young mage's voice trembled:

   — These empty houses... they're more frightening than any wilderness. And if you say it's on the edge of the village...

   The Seeker raised a hand, suggesting the girl be silent, and voiced his own thoughts:

   — I don't think we have anything to... fear right now.

   The man stumbled on the last word, as if tripping over his own thoughts, and sharply turned towards the slopes surrounding the cove. Throwing a sidelong glance at Morrigan, he said thoughtfully:

   — Easy to hide on those slopes.

   The girl also looked back, then met his steel-grey gaze with her pair of golden eyes.

   — Of course. Plenty of trees and stones. Even if this side of the hills is mostly birch and aspen that have already shed their leaves. But fresh snow is a fine sentry. Local eyes would easily spot movement on the white, or a fox's recent track.

   — And if the snow lies on top of you?

   — Then...

   The mage turned her eyes to the slopes again, then flicked them toward the friend slung over the Templar's shoulder. Tristan cursed quietly in Orlesian, quietly enough that only Morrigan heard him, and even she didn't catch the meaning.

   — By the Chantry census two years ago, about eight hundred souls lived here. And in thirty or forty years, everyone ends up in the ground. In Ferelden, burning the dead isn't customary. Roughly twenty corpses a year. It's cold most of the year, meaning flesh falls from the bones in about five years. I've never heard of lesser demons being able to make a collapsed skeleton move properly. At least, not without Mortalitasi nearby. So it seems... a curse upon our heads...

   Morrigan clenched her fists and slowly clarified, without taking her eyes off the snow-covered slopes where the only thing moving was a faint breeze:

   — Is this leading to the conclusion that up to a hundred possessed corpses are hiding in the snow?

   — Perhaps more, if the recent years have been harsh.

   The Seeker deftly drew a narrow, familiar stiletto from his clothes and pricked the center of his left palm with it. Clenching his fist, the man closed his eyes and waited for a ruby drop to fall. As before, in those moments while the blood steadily dripped towards the snow mixed with dirt underfoot, Morrigan thought she saw something barely perceptible twitch and slip between the trees in the distance, at the very edge of her vision. But as soon as she moved her head, it became clear—the harsh landscape remained motionless. The scarlet drop spread across the snow like a harbinger of doom.

   Tristan exhaled:

   — The Void... They're everywhere.

   Bethany reacted first:

   — Where?!

   The girl's voice dropped to a whisper:

   — I don't see anything...

   Suddenly, from the roof of a building a little further off, an unfamiliar male voice, blending fear and resolve, rang out:

   — Are there mages among you?

   Morrigan, Tristan, and Bethany spun around sharply, while the Templars continued to scrutinize the slopes, leaving the mages to deal with the new danger. On the opposite slope of the roof, barely keeping from sliding, stood an archer—a shadow with a drawn bow. A middle-aged man, with short-cropped black hair and a beard gathered into a tuft at his chin. A dirty, warm woolen caftan and an arrow nocked, but for now pointed down. Her gaze slipped to the quivers on his back—one held only four arrows, which spoke volumes. From his belt hung a forged tinderbox, a flint tied on a cord, and a length of frayed hempen rope. The man's gaze nervously darted from the band of strangers to the surrounding slopes and back.

   First—a barely noticeable stirring of the snow. Then—another. And now dozens of previously invisible silhouettes were rising from the white shroud. Tristan's voice cut through the frosty air like a blade:

   — To the chantry! Run!

   An arrow thudded into the earth right by the leader's boot. Already nocking a second arrow and drawing the string halfway, the archer snapped sharply, as if chopping off his words:

   — Not a step! The creatures only seek those with the talent. If you don't interfere, they don't care about the rest. If they've stirred—there's a mage among you. Go further—you'll lead the horde to the innocent. Sorry... You'll have to stay here…

   — Tua vita mea est!

   The cry came the instant the archer finished his sentence, and the mage was already moving. A barely visible ribbon of refracted air shot forward and upward, missing the incoming arrow by a hair. Not attempting to dodge, the girl threw up her right hand, her splayed palm shielding her heart, her forearm her eyes. The broadhead passed through her palm like wet parchment, tore through the fabric, and left a bloody line on her chest. Hissing with pain and fury, the mage spun sharply, dissipating the shot's force and snapping the shaft on the move. Tearing the arrow from her flesh and throwing it aside, the girl in a leap grabbed the low eave of the roof. With a heave, she pulled up her bent legs, and with the next movement used her hands to thrust her body upward, flipping entirely onto the top.

   Surprised cursing erupted above the mage, and behind her came the sound of feet slapping in the wet snow. Rolling once more and gathering herself, crouching, she lunged forward like a beast, crushing tiles under her soles. A third arrow, loosed at point-blank range, passed through the mage's ear as she barely managed to tilt her head and drop onto her left hand. Next, the girl's shoulder slammed into the now-pale archer. Morrigan didn't strike—just surged forward, putting all her fury into the rush. And they both tumbled down. New bruises, shard-edges digging into their sides, and the crunch of breaking arrows. After a short fall, both landed in the shallow snow with a dull thud.

   Morrigan was the first to roll aside, immediately turning on all fours to face the enemy. The man, clearly not in the best shape, was floundering in the cold mud, vainly trying just to get up. Tristan was the first to run into the alley from around the building's corner. Skidding on the turn and sending up a wave of white spray, he drew his shortsword on the move. Without slowing, the Seeker drove the toe of his boot into the opponent's stomach. The rest of the party appeared right after.

   Gasping hoarsely for air, Tristan spat out a terse question:

   — The dead only hunt those with the talent?

   Gasping, the archer only convulsively nodded, which could be taken as agreement.

   — A trap. Snares set for anyone coming for the bait.

   Making sure the wound on her palm had closed, Morrigan ended the spell. Stealing a glance at her terrified apprentice, the girl considered the death of the skillfully hidden lookout a pointless cruelty. But she understood perfectly: this man's life meant nothing to her. And to the Seeker's conclusion, she irritably muttered, clenching her bloodied palm:

   — Your guesses don't help us.

   The senior Templar clarified in turn:

   — Orders?

   Bethany shot a frightened look at Morrigan, as the first sounds of the approaching dead carried from the slopes. Initially appearing as dark spots on the white among the black trees, they could now be made out. Their bodies, twisted by decay and unnatural force, seemed to step from the pages of the darkest legends. The slowest had almost lost their flesh; others were fresher. But, regardless of the degree of decomposition, all the corpses looked desiccated, thoroughly darkened, and matted with fallen leaves. The dead moved in silence, but their movement—monotonous, unstoppable—chilled the soul. Starting with slow steps, they accelerated, gradually shifting into a monotonous run.

   The Seeker furrowed his brow and snapped a new question at the prisoner:

   — Who leads the survivors?

   The man coughed and, throwing a frightened glance towards the slopes, hurried to answer:

   — Milord Teagan. The Arl's brother.

   — Splendid... The master archer and I are going to negotiate with Milord. I have extremely persuasive arguments to draw him and the rest of the people out to meet the horde. I'll learn about the fortress while I'm at it.

   Morrigan clenched her fists. Her voice grew quieter, but only more dangerous for it:

   — Just... you?

   — Just us. Along with Tralin, carrying your friend. And for this to work, you will have to serve as bait.

   Bethany moved forward to intervene, but Morrigan stopped her with a gesture. The older of the mages measured her boiling rage with an effort of will, and with feigned calm, uttered:

   — How convenient.

   A hint of sarcasm still cut through her next remark:

   — Your Templars really do resemble trained hounds. But I am not blind. Both in the Circle and here, your abilities are nothing but blood magic. Which means you, too, are not lacking in the 'talent'.

   Tristan winced, casting a glance at the approaching monsters. The nearest were no more than a hundred and fifty paces away.

   — Not the time for lectures. — The Seeker turned sharply towards the slope. — Blood magic? You don't even understand what you're talking about. Do as—

   — And if I refuse?

   The man replied instantly, and his words struck like a whip:

   — Two mages—good bait. And such a demonstration will strengthen the locals' belief in the attainability of victory. In the presence of a chance. But you're concerned about your own skin, hm? My skin is also on the line, so here are the dry facts. Killing a mage through their phylactery is no problem for me. Distance is no barrier. And then your 'apprentice' is just ballast. Try to survive. Or die.

   The man didn't even wait for an answer, hauling the barely-standing archer to his feet with a jerk and shoving him in the right direction. Tralin, with Leliana on his shoulder, rushed after him, barely keeping pace. The warrior's face clearly showed relief at leaving. Morrigan turned to Bethany. Her lips twisted into a smirk, but her eyes held only icy fury:

   — Choice and consequences...

   The Witch fixed her gaze on the girl—and immediately tasted iron in her mouth. That's what fear smells like, she realized. Someone else's panic. Grabbing her apprentice by the shoulder, Morrigan shook her girl ruthlessly.

   — Look at me!

   The mage hissed, digging her fingers into Bethany's shoulder:

   — Fret later. Now—stay close, conserve your mana, strike true. And keep your eyes open.

   The dark gold of her eyes jumped to the older Templar who had remained nearby, his blade now bare. The man narrowed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and nodded. He radiated a cold fatalism, as if he had already realized and accepted his own fate. And this readiness to step towards death without hesitation or doubt frightened Morrigan more than the host of approaching dead. Such a mindset seemed alien to the girl, almost repulsive. Simultaneously, the first two creatures slipped through the pitiful remains of the fence-line into the alley.

   Despite limbs swollen with decay, the dead slid forward with unnatural speed, as if pulled by invisible threads straight towards the dark-haired mage, blindly singling out only the possessor of the deepest 'well'. The Templar lunged forward, his sword swinging up—seemingly too early. But at the last moment, he pivoted on his heels, and the blade, describing an arc, crashed onto the dead thing's collarbone with such force that the bone cracked like a dry branch. Though the fragile vessel was reinforced by a lesser demon's will, it could not withstand either the force of the blow or the abilities reinforcing it.

   Spinning on the spot, he wrenched the sword from the falling corpse to meet with a horizontal slash a creature trying to slip past. The blade sliced through arms thrown up at the last moment—and in the next instant, a head rolled through the snow. A couple of breaths passed, and the first two enemies, turning into black voids in the space of one heartbeat, collapsed into the soft snow, filling the cool air with the stench of death.

   Morrigan gave a respectful nod, straining to pull the only available weapon from a nearby bundle of sharpened stakes.

   — The power of the lesser ones is modest. Damage the vessel sufficiently, and they won't have enough strength to maintain it. And without a shell, minor entities cannot even manifest themselves.

   Tossing a stake to Bethany, the girl added in a rapid-fire mutter:

   — 'Flaming Weapons'. Ignite it. Strike like with a spear. Point towards the enemy. Let it impale itself on the stake as it attacks.

   Pulling a weapon for herself, the mage scanned the alley with a glance. It was undistinguished, save for the leaning fences, the broken fence-line, and the houses with boarded-up windows. Except that near both of the nearest huts, a step away from the barricaded doors, stood a sealed barrel with a coiled rope on top. It looked out of place. From Bethany's direction came a quiet hiss as the remnants of snow clinging to the 'weapon' rapidly heated up; a swiftly warming palm brushed it away. Meanwhile, Morrigan stepped towards the man:

   — No debt, no secret goals.

   The girl tossed out, touching his sword:

   — Just survival.

   The blade, coated in black sludge, instantly turned white. Frost crept over the metal like a spiderweb, leaving patterns of rime in its wake, from hilt to point.

   By the outermost house, a new walking corpse of a once moderately plump old woman emerged quietly, as if from the ground itself. Inevitably catching sight of the bloated, emotionless features of the dead woman, Morrigan couldn't help but marvel at the conflicting sensations. On one hand, a strange sadness filled the girl. Behind the mask of rotten flesh stood a history sunk into oblivion, and now the body's remains had been reduced to a vile shell for the embodiment of primitive ideas like hunger and hatred. On the other hand, the mage caught herself in a repulsive realization: in the whole world, likely not even a dozen living souls would remember this old woman. And the value of her life was measured so modestly that it was barely noticeable even within the Arling. And yet... Could one apply such a measure to someone who was, perhaps, a mother? Beyond the fence-line, the girl's attentive gaze discerned new figures approaching in a bestial manner, on all fours, their heads twisted at an unnatural angle. From the right and left came the crunch of partially intact fences.

   Leaving the fence-line to the Templar, Morrigan beckoned to Bethany, who was breathing in ragged gasps from excitement, and began retreating towards the second line of buildings.

   The warrior skillfully dodged the straightforward blow from the creature that had taken the old woman's form. But he failed to finish it with one strike. The monster clumsily and uselessly blocked the sword with its arm. However, while removing a considerable chunk of dark flesh along the bone, the blade failed to sever it this time. This gave the other possessed the precious moments needed to surround the man drawn into combat. Three burst into the alley from the front, immediately rushing the man swinging his weapon. Two paused briefly on the hut roofs, blindly swaying their sunken faces from side to side as if unable to choose a victim, but ultimately threw themselves at the swordsman. Had it been less threatening, the straightforward movement of the possessed, clambering over the chimney stack instead of simply going around it, might have seemed comical...

   Complete encirclement forced the Templar to shift from lethal blows to a continuous dance of parries and preemptive swings. Snow, mixed with black corpse-sludge and wet mud, squelched under his boots, clinging to the soles and making every new step risky. The dead felt no pain. They pressed forward even when the sword lopped off fingers, or even entire hands—which fell into the snow like dry twigs. Anyone seeing it would understand: the Templar fought not to win, but to manage to die on his feet.

   A sharp cry from Bethany stabbed into her back like a knife. Morrigan, almost instinctively, without even fully processing the warning, slid to the right, thrusting the sharpened pole backward. A half-rotted body that had slid down the nearest roof slope slammed onto it as onto a stake. The rotting flesh on the bones crackled, ready to fall apart at the slightest impact. Deftly adjusting her grip on the 'weapon' so the falling possessed wouldn't break her wrist, the girl yanked the improvised spear from it and, with a turn, hurled it at a creature that had rolled out from behind the nearest corner. The pole easily pierced the center mass of the male corpse, sending it tumbling in the snow. But this was only a reprieve. While Bethany, clutching her superheated spear, methodically finished off the downed dead thing, Morrigan spun sharply towards her 'ally'.

   A dozen creatures had now surrounded the Templar—twisted shadows of people, circling like a pack of hungry hounds. Many threw themselves forward, almost impaling themselves on the blade, so that the others might get a chance to sink crooked fingers and remnants of teeth into yielding flesh. The fragile balance held only until his first mistake—or their luck. Hesitating for a moment, Morrigan threw a glance at her apprentice. The girl had dealt with the first possessed, and judging by the cheerfully blazing pile of flesh, had managed to burn the dead thing previously struck by the spear. In that same instant, Bethany drove the superheated weapon into the chest of a dead thing that had jumped from the roof—the corpse crackled like a burning splint. Morrigan suppressed both surprise and the currently misplaced pride, returning her attention to the warrior. Throwing her hands forward, she spat out an incantation filled with power:

   — Edé te!

   Curling her fingers as if squeezing something invisible of the most bizarre shape, she immediately felt the loss of a significant portion of her mana.

   Fifteen corpse-like figures—some with sagging skin, others with bare bones—closed the ring around the Templar... only to jerk in unison, jaws gaping, and collapse into the snow like puppets with severed strings. A moment before everything froze, they filled with a deep blackness, as if losing all volume, and then turned into ordinary corpses. But the warrior was in no state to continue drawing attention to himself. Two fingers were missing from his left hand—bitten or torn off, judging by the ragged edges. Sweat mixed with blood, streaming down his face, lacerated with scratches. And his wheezing breath spoke of overexertion.

   The mage drew in a stench-filled breath and snapped:

   — Fifteen, more...

   She didn't get to finish, as a dead thing that appeared from nowhere on the left, accompanied by Bethany's full-throated cry of anger, slammed into Morrigan, immediately landing a crushing blow from a sodden fist into her stomach. Already floundering in the snow, the possessed thing tried to claw out the girl's eyes. But a bright wave of flame washed over the corpse, causing it to flare up like a candle. Blinded by the flame, Morrigan instinctively drew up her legs and kicked the burning dead thing—it flew back, scattering sparks like a blazing torch. This was followed by a fit of wet coughing, alternating with attempts to keep the meager contents of her stomach and bile inside. A momentary disorientation was broken by Bethany plopping down into the snow beside her. A skeleton that had attacked from behind, wrapped in pathetic scraps of flesh holding the decrepit remains together, had been so silent that it took both mages by surprise. And now the creature was desperately pressing down on the girl's spear, trying either to strangle its victim or to gnaw through the smoking stick with its well-preserved teeth.

   Grunting as she flipped onto her knees, Morrigan forced out the words, pointing forward:

   — Fríos. Tenací...

   The creature slowed briefly, coated in a layer of rime, clearly visible from the side. The spell was not powerful enough to stop the corpse completely. Or to inflict any real harm. It wasn't the scant flesh, but the fact that the corpse moved solely due to the will of a creature from the Fade. The girl, pinned to the ground, immediately released the weapon and clasped the dead thing's skull with her bare hands, blazing with heat. A hiss sounded—and the skull crumbled in her scorching fingers like dry clay. Shoving the disintegrating skeleton aside, Bethany let out an involuntary, low sob full of disgust. Scooping up snow, Morrigan rubbed her face, completely ignoring the cold and fresh scratches. Gritting her teeth, the Witch cast aside her doubts—Bethany had just proven her worth.

   From the fence-line, where the blade had just been cleaving the air, came a wet, squelching groan. Both girls turned to see the Templar on his knees in the mud. His blade rested deep in the chest cavity of a creature lying a step away, one that had possessed the body of an impressively built dead man. Before falling, the lesser demon had gripped the sword with its hands, wrenching it from the warrior's weakening grasp as it fell. On the Templar's back, like a giant leech, sat a nearly faceless old woman corpse. The possessed dead thing had just torn a substantial chunk of flesh from the warrior's throat, and the man's life was pouring from the ghastly wound in crimson pulses. In time with the last beats of his heart, blood bubbled on his lips, while behind him, a new pair of dead things with incomplete sets of limbs were predatorily closing in. In his eyes—wide, glazed—Morrigan saw what she knew better than any spell: even faith cannot stifle the horror of eternal darkness. Like a prisoner breaking the bars in the final moment before death. And then, a reflection of alien resolve flashed in her own dark gold eyes, and the girl flung herself towards Bethany. Grabbing the just-rising girl by the shoulders, the mage dragged her down the alley, towards the cove. Three or four wide steps later, something seemed to touch the older mage's hair, and simultaneously, everything fell silent behind them. For the next ten steps, all that could be heard was the slap of feet on wet snow, heavy breathing, and the soft crackle of the crumbling, ember-filled weapon Bethany soon tossed aside.

   Rushing up to one of the houses with unbarred doors and windows, Morrigan slammed her elbow into a small window, divided into smaller panes of glass. Pulling down her right sleeve and wrapping it around her fist, the girl began decisively knocking out and tearing out the remains of the window. At the same time, a fleeting wave of heat washed over them from behind...

   Spinning on her heels, Morrigan saw the flailing limbs of another clearly female dead thing, engulfed in smoldering flame. Two steps away, Bethany was growling in frustration, having fallen face-first into the snow this time. Steam rose from the mage's hands, plunged into the cold slush. And above the girl, swaying like a leaf in the wind, was the skeleton of a half-rotten old man. A faint creak of tiles overhead hinted that several dead things were also closing in on Morrigan herself.

   A sobering thought flashed through the mage's mind: if she kept merely reacting to the situation, both mages would very soon end their own journey exactly as the Templar had just done. Dropping to one knee and throwing her hands upward, the girl viciously spat through clenched teeth:

   — Edé te!

   As three bodies, in varying states of decay, slumped lifelessly from the roof as dead things should, the mage lunged forward. By her reckoning, she had mana left for a couple more clashes. And the stream of dead things itself wouldn't run dry anytime soon. But now she needed to think not only of survival—she needed to understand the essence of what was happening.

   Slamming her shoulder into the chest of a creature that was about to grab Bethany by the hair to sink rotten teeth into her neck—so hard that the crunch of rotten ribs echoed in her own bones—Morrigan knocked it off its feet.

   The dead things attacked like scavengers on prey—blind, insatiable, devoid of even a shadow of reason. But within this chaos lay its own pattern: all roads led to the mages. The mage did not believe it was possible to train such creatures, or to compel them to anything by will alone. In the Tower, the weak obeyed the strong because they received comfortable conditions in exchange on this side of the Veil, and the 'master' could instantly strip the disobedient of all advantages. The lesser ones, placed inside the dead, were already existing in the worst possible conditions. Literally nothing could make their situation more repulsive. In such a scenario, no threats could force such a horde to submit. Creatures capable of only the simplest reasoning should be scattering from the dominant force into the surrounding forests, becoming a constant threat to the locals and smaller game. Just as the Seeker had supposed. But magic... magic could force the creatures of the 'Fade' to obey, by putting each one on a 'leash'.

   Hauling her apprentice out of the snow, the mage pointed wordlessly at the rising dead thing. Trying to blink away her disorientation, Bethany nearly blindly doused the enemy with a Flaming Flash, while Morrigan herself darted to the nearest fence and wrenched from it a new, thicker 'weapon'. Turning away from another corpse turned 'torch' and shaking the snow from her hair, the younger mage exhaled heavily:

   — Mana... — Bethany swallowed. — Three spells. No more...

   Nodding, the older of the two adjusted her grip on the pole and said curtly:

   — And nowhere to run.

   Strength was slipping through her fingers like sand, but Morrigan clung to a single thought... Magic is imperfect. Regardless of the current circumstances, this concept had been maturing within the mage for some time. It seemed to require an incredible volume of effort to conjure even the most trivial thing from nothing. But upon closer consideration, it began to seem the opposite was true. Yet, no matter how hard one tried, the result could never be cleansed of inaccuracies and minor flaws. If the dead obeyed a spell—then the spell had weak points. Like any enchantment. And the girl had seen proof of this with her own eyes. If the archer's words were to be believed, the possessed, targeting those with mana, should ignore all others. But as soon as anyone began destroying the vessels of the Fade creatures, the dead immediately attacked the new threat. Therefore, the very concept of 'threat' carried significant weight, influencing their behavior. In the mage's opinion, the possessed defined 'threat' simply: anyone who, in sight of others, destroyed a vessel, or was fighting near previously destroyed vessels. This seemed a way to bind the enemy's attention to Morrigan alone.

   Driving the pole with all her strength into the lipless grimace of a dead thing, she felt it plunge through decayed flesh. Jerking it sideways, the mage threw the creature into the snow. Having lost its last teeth, the dead thing tumbled in the snow, immediately trying to rise, arching its skinny arms at an angle impossible for a human body. Morrigan noted that a large portion of the undead corpses preferred to remain out of direct line of sight until the last moment, attacking from around corners and from roofs. Moreover, they avoided the alley where, near the fence-line, a pile of shattered vessels lay around the Templar's body. Without turning to Bethany, Morrigan muttered:

   — Keep up! Keep your eyes open... and conserve your strength. We'll create a boundary of bodies to buy time. Then we retreat.

   While her mana had been sufficient, the thought of the transformation spell had barely troubled the mage's mind. But the closer her mana dipped to a dangerous threshold, the more the thought became an unbearable itch. Yet the girl did not want to resort to that magic. Not in front of Bethany. Not in daylight. Not with the risk of being caught by the Seeker or other chance witnesses from the common folk. And so Morrigan recalled everything she knew about wielding a staff as a weapon, spinning on the spot, using sharp strikes of the pole to knock back yet three more dead things. The pole, ripped from the fence, emitted a sickly crunch with each blow. But for now, only the skulls of the dead were being damaged, with no serious consequences for the latter. Lacking suitable magic, proper weapons, or a Templar's strength, Morrigan was only delaying the inevitable, unable to shatter the vessels.

   Feeling the weapon giving way, Morrigan, fluid as water, altered her pattern of movement, shifting from wide sweeps and spins to barely perceptible, stinging lunges that robbed the dead of their balance. From the sound of footsteps behind her, Bethany sensed something was wrong. But the older mage immediately snapped back:

   — No! Let them focus their attention only on me!

   The enemy knew nothing of fear in the conventional sense, so the dead could only be stopped literally. A minute, two, three... There were five possessed now, and Morrigan felt it: her sweat-soaked clothes were freezing, sticking to her skin; her heavy breathing stole the ease and speed from her movements; her muscles were stiffening and aching from the strain and pace.

   Forcing the last of the air and saliva through her clenched teeth in a sharp exhale, Morrigan spun the improvised staff like lightning, hurling it at the nearest creature. Drawing a short breath, the mage performed a backward wheel, ignoring her dangerously trembling hands. Landing back on her feet, the girl snarled a shout, thrusting both hands towards the dead things pushing their way after her:

   — Edé te!

   The spell's pulse struck directly in front of the girl, instantly returning all the possessed bodies to a truly dead state. But a quick glance at the roofs and into the depths of the courtyards showed the next dead things were already drawing closer. Turning to Bethany, the mage gestured towards the five bodies in the snow:

   — Run! — And added on an exhale, grabbing her apprentice's hand. — This won't hold them for long!

   Forcing her legs to move, Morrigan tried not to show that the frenzied, prolonged fight had drained her to the dregs in many ways at once. Bethany's ragged breathing, her deliberately slowed steps—it all seethed inside Morrigan with acrid anger.

   Unexpectedly, the house walls fell away, spilling them out into an open crossroads. Here, as with the others, it met the main street running along the cove. A sweeping glance immediately caught on new boarded-up houses, just like at the fence-line. A good reason for thought, since the huts in the middle of the alley stared at a chance traveler with the dark voids of completely unshuttered windows. However, the sounds of cracking and sliding tiles perfectly distracted from unnecessary thoughts, forcing them to search the roofs for approaching creatures. At that same moment, Bethany suddenly tugged her older companion by the shoulder, blurting out a jumbled guess in a rapid-fire mutter:

   — The barrels... Fire! — Shaking her head, the young girl gathered her thoughts. — The dead things were hiding under the snow in damp leaves, but any of them flare up like dry kindling.

   — They purge the influence of moisture to preserve the vessels from rot.

   — Exactly! The archer had a second quiver, and a tinderbox and flint on his belt. And the barrels! By every boarded-up house—an oak keg, like for moonshine!

   The barrels indeed waited silently near the houses facing the crossroads from the alleys. Licking her parched lips, Morrigan uttered:

   — Set them alight.

   Not wasting precious seconds, Bethany rushed with all her might to the far-left barrel, grabbing the rope on its lid with her still-superheated hands. It immediately burst into bright, pale flame, nearly singeing the careless mage's eyelashes. Startled, she raised her palms, coated in the burning remnants of the greasy substance used to treat the ropes, and rushed on. Morrigan's gaze feverishly scanned the roofs, straining to catch the first signs of movement, while her mind wrestled with the puzzle—how exactly the locals had planned to use the kegs. The mage's knowledge of flame was limited to lighting campfires and what could burn in a forest. As the first silhouettes appeared on the tiled slopes, standing on all fours, the girl had to exert effort to maintain a cold, logically coherent train of thought. Five of the six barrels were now burning, but how could this help against the dead? Especially for the archer... Morrigan's eyes widened:

   — What if... these barrels weren't for the archer at all?..

   Seven possessed froze on the roof ridge, staring with the eyeless remnants of their faces at the sources of open flame, and Morrigan felt the breath of revelation. Running to the nearest barrel, its upper part blazing brightly with palpable heat, the girl pushed it with all her might, toppling it against the door of a boarded-up hut. Under the pressure of its contents, the lid easily flew off, scattering sputtering, burning splashes across the snow. A murky liquid smelling of burnt grain and alcohol hissed out, its surface immediately racing with pale blue flame. At first it seemed weak, but it surged up at once, fiercely licking the log wall of the hut, the roof slope, and even the mage herself, who instinctively rolled back through the snow. Ignoring the nauseating smell of singed hair, Morrigan shouted to Bethany:

   — Tip them over!

   Soon, every alley was cut off by a wall of fire—the tongues of flame practically joining. The fire roared like a beast, consuming the wood with insatiable fury. Breathing heavily and examining the singed sleeves of her clothes with their burnt holes, Bethany distastefully shook the greasy soot—left from the burning of the compound coating the ropes—from her cooled hands. She only succeeded in smearing it between her fingers. Sighing bitterly, Bethany muttered:

   — Some kind of grease, apparently... But they came up with a clever idea using the mash.

   — Mash?

   Morrigan repeated, frowning. The younger mage nodded.

   — Wheat-based. The main alcoholic drink in southern Ferelden. Carver knew more about this, but I... only a little. Probably, the oak barrels held the raw distillate, which is usually diluted to lower the proof and turn the fiery brew into something tolerable.

   Morrigan crouched down, her attentive gaze fixed on the catching house fires and the murky silhouettes of the dead things gathering on the far side of the veil of dancing flames and shimmering heat. Snorting, the mage uttered:

   — And once again, flame saves me. Ironic... If not for your guess, our bones would already be grating in dead things' jaws. And my skill... in the end, would have changed nothing.

   — That's not—

   — Your modesty doesn't give a damn about the bare facts. They must be accepted as they are. Don't indulge in illusions; your success wounds my pride quite seriously. But if you let the shroud of pride and emotions blind you, everything around becomes blurred and indistinct. And besides, I openly admit, it was partly pleasant for me to see your success. I'd just like to know the reason...

   A timid blush bloomed across Bethany’s pale cheeks—two rosy spots against the soot and fear—but, reining in her emotions, she nodded silently. Morrigan, meanwhile, surveyed their surroundings. The crossroads was spacious enough for a dozen tents or a festival ground, but now the fresh snow held the tracks of only the two mages. From here, they could retreat through the backyards onto the bay ice, or along the street in one of two directions. But for now, the girl saw no sense in the choice. After a moment's thought, Morrigan remarked:

   — Flame and death, an excellent place for a conversation, lest we lose our composure in the face of our foolish execution. Take you, for instance... You keep much of yourself locked away. And I wouldn't have noticed over half of it if Leliana, in her own manner, hadn't pointed it out. The last time I saw your emotions openly was your mother's death. Everyone chooses how to live for themselves. But there is a bond between us.

   The younger mage offered a bitter smile, her eyes fixed on the flames.

   — Leliana is right; your concern is like a tight embrace—it holds fast, but it hurts. And your words are so sharp, it's a wonder one doesn't get cut... And still, I don't believe my usefulness is the only thing that concerns you.

   — You don't believe it? Or you don't want to believe it? I know it for certain, yet I don't fully understand it. But right now, something else is important.

   — It must be... Truthfully, I just don't want to seem weak in your eyes. Because you—

   — The Void...

   Bethany flinched at the sharp expression and glanced at her older companion. The latter, massaging her eyes wearily with her hand, winced before replying:

   — You, and Leliana... You've stared into warped mirrors and decided to take your example from what you saw. So, you. You see before you a cold, determined mage, one who takes risks without a sign of fear. But the truth is, I often think too distantly. I perceive my own body and pain incorrectly. That's why I sometimes don't feel fear. And I weigh risks with bias. All those words about your purpose at my side had meaning and weight. On one hand, I struggle to understand the value of strangers' lives. On the other, logic dictates: a cold-blooded killer has few choices in society. So, I make every choice with a glance back at you. That's why seeing my own warped reflection is doubly useless.

   A brief silence fell, filled by the crackle of wood and the roof tiles beginning to split from the heat. Beyond the shimmering veil of flame, the silhouettes of the dead had dissolved. Either the haze and smoke hid them, or the possessed had left. When Bethany finally gathered her courage, she whispered:

   — I'm afraid that if I relax... I'll fall apart at the worst possible time. You know, sometimes I have nightmares. And thoughts... They lead to strange places, winding through recent events as if to punish me, pointing out my weakness, helplessness, and foolishness over and over. But not when you're nearby. And it's not about a deceptive feeling of safety. Or any other such fleeting folly... Sorry... It's about the unbearably attractive possibility of going with the flow, when I don't have to define the goal myself, make choices, face difficult decisions. Bear responsibility for every step... When things are bad, you get used to that in a snap, and the more trust there is, the faster it happens.

   Morrigan shook her head, openly showing surprise.

   — Such a thing never occurred to me. Thank you for the lesson. Speaking of which... The bell has fallen silent.

   Bethany nodded, sniffed, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of soot on her face.

   — The fire in the alleys is almost out. The wind from the lake... The fire will spread, but—

   The senior mage shook her head.

   — No. These possessed shun fire. I'll wager not a single one will even try to pass between the burning buildings. But this descent to the bay isn't the only one.

   Morrigan rose to her feet and pointed towards the steeper slope that served as the settlement's natural boundary on the right. There, from beneath the soil and snow, the stone bones of the surrounding hills protruded clearly, framed by moss and dry grass. The slope wasn't impassable; in warmer times, surely some had easily climbed up and down that path, winding between sparse trees and boulders. Peering closer, Bethany made out, with horror, dozens of dark silhouettes steadily descending towards the settlement.

   — The Void...

   Time stretched agonizingly slowly as Morrigan coldly assessed how long they had before the wave of dead would pour into the crossroads. Not long. And with that calculation grew a certainty: it was better to test the threat posed by the Seeker now than to try their luck with a couple of dozen possessed creatures. It was then that her eye, attentive to any movement, caught the first figures appearing from the direction of the chantry. Touching her apprentice's shoulder, the mage pointed there.

   A peculiar group was approaching from the chantry at a jog. Most were sturdy men, from greybeards to those with the first down on their cheeks. Each was armed with either a backyard woodshed axe or a heavier lumberjack's tool. For protection, rectangular window shutters with carved patterns were strapped to their left arms. Among the men stood several women gripping makeshift spears, plus the Seeker and a man following him, whose fresh stubble suggested that, unlike the common folk, he had been clean-shaven a week ago. Their faces were twisted with grim resolve, their gazes full of concealed malice. It all contrasted sharply with the image of dashing 'saviors.'

   In a matter of moments, the crowd formed a ring around the mages. Their attention was cautiously on the Seeker, but impatience and restrained anger showed in their sidelong glances at the fire and the two strangers clearly responsible for it. Tristan immediately approached Morrigan, commenting wearily on the situation:

   — So, reinforcements. Now I am twice surprised by your resilience and... the amount of collateral damage. This fire won't make my task any easier.

   The mage opened her mouth to hurl a dose of venom in the Seeker's face, but then slowly closed her lips. Giving herself a few seconds to think and weigh the alternatives, the girl decided: aiming barbs of empty rage and sarcasm at the man would only be demeaning. Keeping her eyes locked on the Seeker, Morrigan set a goal: for mutual insults and jibes, she would wait for a moment when her words were backed by the power to make her own threats a reality. Sensing a hint of hidden thoughts on his interlocutor's face, Tristan sighed and shook his head irritably. Meanwhile, the man who had come with him, distinguished from the others by his lack of even a scruffy beard, asked with unconcealed fury in his voice:

   — By your will, we are here. And what? Was this the plan? To burn Redcliffe Fort to the ground?

   — Bann... Be silent, Teagan. — Tristan clenched his teeth, and his voice cut like a sharp shard of ice. — The fire was your plan. Or have you forgotten? The fact that the mages thought of it too doesn't change that. And you are here only because you agreed with the arguments—

   — You know perfectly well what 'arguments' persuaded me. The fire was a backup option. The last one. Winter brings death as inexorably as these dead. But winter doesn't care if you're a mage or a fisherman. And the dead only thirst for the blood of these two destroyers. We will be left without homes and provisions if the fire spreads—

   Clearly mustering all her courage, Bethany interjected, timidly interrupting Teagan:

   — But... but the wind is blowing from the lake...

   More than one pair of stinging gazes fixed on the girl at once, silencing her. Morrigan's lips twisted into a contemptuous smirk, but before anyone else could intervene, Tristan cut in harshly:

   — Control yourself, Bann. I don't care about your anxieties. Or the anxieties of anyone here for utterly insignificant reasons: from seeking a scapegoat for your bitterness and rage, to pity for the junk burning in these flames. Redcliffe Fort was built as a refuge, to house the inhabitants of several nearby settlements if necessary and withstand a siege for at least a month. But the moment the gates slammed shut, you chose to ignore that possibility. You may not be a bad man, but you've gone soft from living within the framework laid down by Arl Eamon. So your worries about the simple natives of this place are at least half hypocrisy. Just two mages, thrown into the fight, managed to... What's the count, Morrigan?

   The mage grimaced at the open mention of her name among a crowd of strangers and answered dryly:

   — About three dozen.

   Her words stirred a wave of astonished whispering in the crowd, forcing the common folk to look at the two girls in a new light. Whether calculation or sincere fury lay behind the Seeker's rough mask, his methods had worked: the crowd's mood shifted from tension and discontent. Moreover, not without surprise, Morrigan noted: she found this new expression on the strangers' faces... agreeable. It wasn't superficial self-admiration or satisfaction from recognition, though she didn't rule that out. Morrigan felt it in her gut—a deep, primal satisfaction from being acknowledged. What was this feeling? Not pride—too simple. Not vanity—too petty. Rather... recognition. Yes, that was what gnawed at her—a craving for these people to remember her. And Morrigan readily admitted that this craving had likely been the silent companion of her actions for a long time, only now manifesting more brightly than usual. Returning to the present, the girl smiled faintly, for the spoken words had done little to move Bann Teagan. His lack of reaction suggested the man was familiar with mages' capabilities firsthand. But, furthermore, that first conversation between the Bann and Tristan now cast a deep shadow over all communication between the two men. That explanation seemed plausible to the mage. Meanwhile, after a meaningful pause, now slightly quieter and addressing only the mage, the Seeker clarified:

   — And?..

   — Dead.

   — Regrettable and expected... So. The main thing is to use what we have, not wait for a miracle. Predicting the intentions of miracles is a thankless task. In a minute or two, the defiled remains of your ancestors, acquaintances, and loved ones will spill out here. And we will cleanse them of their vile invaders. This is how it will be…

   Tristan's plan, briefly and clearly outlined, proved surprisingly coherent, evoking a dual sensation in Morrigan. Either the Seeker noted everything the environment provided, to then virtuosically juggle ideas and use the slightest detail to his advantage, or he knew far more in advance than he let on. In any case, the girl felt there was something to learn here. Each 'militiaman' had a clay flask hanging from his belt—the kind usually carried by lumberjacks, the neck wrapped in leather against impacts. Now they dangled from short cords as they were. Each contained the same raw mash as in the recent casks. Ensuring that Morrigan and Bethany were not on the verge of collapse from exhaustion, Tristan began issuing orders.

   The men formed up in two rows, the second staggered back half a body's length from the first. This approach seemed vaguely familiar to Morrigan. Anyone knocked out of the front row was immediately replaced by two others, capable of both fending off the enemy and dragging the wounded clear of the fight to the rear. The downside of this advantage was the high demand for coordinated action. The slightest hesitation, and chaos ensued.

   Next, the mages, the Seeker, and the grim Bann fell into line, the latter two with blades bared, ready for battle. Bethany was placed precisely at the center of the formation. On command, the girl was to be let forward. Tristan left the remaining older men and women behind, firmly stating that there could easily be dead who had bypassed the fire via the left slope. Or even worse, some that could patiently sneak into the rear through the yards facing the water. But the main threat was expected from the west, given the lower forms' inability to resist when prey was right under their noses. Just like at the fence-line, if there were no shelters nearby and the direct path was the shortest, they would attack head-on, without guile.

   Before the battle began, a lone cry cut through the leaden sky—a goshawk circled over the field of the coming fight. The bird of prey, it seemed, was astonished by the abundance of carrion, which could also attract its own dinner. The dead poured from the direction of the fort road in an uneven mass and at varying speeds. Three, then five, one, and many again. Less than an organized pack, but more dangerous than Tower beasts.

   On the other side, the men with axes didn't much resemble a militia. Simply sturdy laborers, grown in a harsh land, unaccustomed to yielding easily to personal fears. In the grim restraint of these 'reluctant warriors,' Morrigan sensed the breath of death, which had already clicked its rotten teeth in the faces of these men more than once. So, the throw of the flasks on the signal went off without hesitation, almost militarily. This was followed by the crack of pottery against the dead or under the creatures' feet. The Seeker barked:

   — Burn!

   The sturdy men turned sideways in unison, forming a passage. And Bethany, biting her lip until it bled and taking a wide step forward, let loose Flaming Flash from her hands. Sheets of flame immediately engulfed both the snow and the six most hasty possessed. The fire that sprang from nowhere forced the following stream of dead to split. Bypassing the flames at a respectful distance to the left and right, they ended up on the flanks of the battle formation. Another shout rang out:

   — Flanks! Back!

   The young mage was unceremoniously and immediately shoved back into her previous place. And the five men at each flank, shoving somewhat unorganizedly, fell back four steps. The straight line curved, becoming an arc. And the next moment, the first possessed slammed into it, immediately met with swings of axes. While there were no more walking dead on the flanks than fingers on one hand, each faced at least two men, deftly hacking at rotten flesh and bone. But before the enemy bodies hit the snow, a good dozen corpses of varying freshness surged at the men. Without delay, Tristan rushed to aid his own flank, demonstrating a rapid flow of graceful and lethal movements. Evading the straightforward lunges of the dead—who were ready to hamstring their victim even at the cost of taking a blade in the body—with seeming ease, the Seeker severed limbs and heads as if they were boneless. Morrigan immediately recalled how the fallen Templar at the beginning had demonstrated a similar style and ability, though in comparison it seemed only a pale shadow. While the mage was distracted, the first man near her flank fell into the snow, staining it scarlet with blood from his neck, torn by the crooked but unusually strong hands of a dead man. It had ducked sharply under an overly wide swing. The loss of one fighter weighed heavily on the formation, threatening to immediately double the casualties. So the mage cut short all thought, thrust her hands forward sharply, and snarled:

   — Edé te!

   All the dead on the right flank collapsed into the snow, the now-familiar impenetrable blackness swallowing them for a heartbeat. Suddenly deprived of enemies, about a dozen men froze in silent amazement, which immediately turned into a ragged cry of victory. Smirking, Morrigan swayed slightly, struggling to blink away the spots dancing before her eyes.

   Triumph was sharply replaced by a new wave of bodies forcibly raised from their graves. And simultaneously, a shout warning of readiness came from behind. Just as Tristan had predicted, about a dozen possessed had slipped into the rear... Several of the dead were impaled on spears, but while the weapons were being wrested free, the others closed in on the formation. Women's screams, piercing with unbearable pain—someone lost their eyes, someone had fingers torn off—wrenched the Seeker from his position. Sensing the threat with some animal instinct, Morrigan grabbed Bethany by the arm, yanking the girl towards her and to the side. But Tristan's furious strike, devoid of the forewarning hints typical of ordinary Templars, caught not only the dead but also the younger mage, who had drifted closer to them. With a glazed look, Bethany went limp in Morrigan's arms, and simultaneously, all the enemies in the rear collapsed into the cold mud.

   Though Bann Teagan had rushed to the left flank in the Seeker's place, he couldn't possibly replace the man alone. So the price for the leader's maneuver to the rear was soon another fighter. The wounded fell one after another, turning the snow into a bloody slush. Within a minute or two, the two-line formation thinned to one, desperately trying to beat back the fallen whom they hadn't managed to drag behind their backs. And only Tristan's risky charge into the mass of dead, with a repeat use of that same ability, broke the possessed's onslaught, sending a good dozen creatures back beyond the Veil at once. After that, the battle evened out, allowing the common folk to chop down a few of the undead themselves. And as always happens in the heat of a fight for life, it all ended abruptly.

   Some sank onto the bloodied snow, others rushed to the fallen—checking pulses, bandaging wounds. One man's hands shook as he tried to cover a comrade's torn throat with his palm. There were those who stood straighter, not moving from their spots and staring into emptiness. Heavy, rasping breaths, suppressed moans, and the crack of a roof collapsing in the distance. The smell of freshly opened graves, the copper tang of blood on the tongue, the taste of burnt flesh, acrid smoke—all mingled into one suffocating mess. Such was the reward for victory—pain, death, and stench. Carefully supporting the senseless Bethany against her shoulder and around her waist, Morrigan watched Tristan closely. The man was no superhuman and also showed signs of fatigue. But the mage's gaze was seeking something else. What made people obey this stranger almost unquestioningly? In the ensuing lull, the girl's thoughts again raced. Obviously, the Chantry standing behind him and his rumor-shrouded title of Seeker gave him a great advantage over the vast majority. But his bearing, his habit of making decisions rather than waiting for others to do so, his willingness to take risks—all played a part. Was this matched by a commensurate readiness to bear responsibility? For now, Morrigan could only guess. The way Tristan spoke to those around him, carried himself before them—left no doubt about who was in charge. Yet the man seemed to consciously avoid opportunities to stand out 'on the cheap,' preferring to let his mind, knowledge, and blade speak for him. In the glances furtively cast at the Seeker's tense figure as he surveyed the houses untouched by the fire, one could read not only respect—there was fear there too, and a kind of dark hope. And the Bann clearly saw it as well. Teagan's gaze, gloomy as a storm cloud, also slid assessingly over the surviving vassals. Was there a trace of grief or irritation at the losses incurred? Here Morrigan was blind, and she readily admitted it, regretting Leliana's absence. A slight surprise caught her when, in a couple of sidelong glances directed her way, she glimpsed a glimmer of similar emotions. Instead of simple, concise conclusions, what she saw sent the mage's thoughts on a long, roundabout path...

   After waiting about ten minutes, allowing time to bandage all who were worth saving in the absence of a healing mage, and to send off the rest on their final journey, Tristan turned to the Bann, who was quietly conversing with one of the men.

   — Let's move.

   The Seeker wiped his blade hastily and continued:

   — We'll burn the dead. Cruel? Yes. But they deserve no less.

   Teagan nodded, reluctantly lending the veiled order greater legitimacy. And while those still whole shouldered the wounded and gathered the fallen, Tristan, to Morrigan's surprise, offered a shoulder for Bethany. Ignoring the searing gaze of those dark-golden eyes, the Seeker said quietly:

   — If you want us to see the dawn alive… — The man's voice sounded weary, but held a steely resolve. — ...then in the coming hours, I will need your unusual mind to be clear.

   * * *

   Of course, "returning to the chantry" sounded simple only in words. The wounded needed to be settled somewhere warm, a place found for the dead, decisions made about who would burn the bodies and how, news delivered to relatives—some of whom had to be calmed, others comforted. Furthermore, "concern" about the fire had arisen, threatening to escalate into panic... The moment one focused on a single task, new problems materialized out of thin air behind one's back, settling as a heavy burden on anyone willing to shoulder the weight of leadership. Upon returning, Tristan had withdrawn from command, only occasionally permitting brief but pertinent comments. So the role fell back into Teagan's hands. But along with the heap of problems, the Bann, on crutches, was greeted by a man not yet grey, who introduced himself as the Steward, a man named Murdock. Working as a pair—with the Bann projecting authority and keeping his word before the people, and the Steward behind him offering practical solutions—they managed to deal with each new situation as it arose with moderate success.

   Observing the survivors, Morrigan estimated that no more than half the residents remained, with a preponderance of women. They were all crowded into the street before the chantry, inside the chantry building itself, and in the nearby houses. Alleys, courtyards, and other bolt-holes were blocked by barricades of wagons, stones, and other junk hastily nailed together. Hunters hid behind chimney stacks on the roofs, men whose eyes could watch for prey for long periods, keenly reacting to every movement in the almost monochrome landscape.

   While the bustle around the wounded peaked, Morrigan slipped away unnoticed—and found Leliana. Several "sisters of light" skilled in healing without magic had already seen to her. Spreading her fiery locks over the head of a bench, the girl slept peacefully near the hearth, her face smeared with a healing salve. The women, tired from the number of wounded and lack of sleep, explained that the problem was not so much the fracture as the resulting inflammation. Therefore, they hadn't set her jaw with a splint. Having located Bethany against a wall nearby, Morrigan soon found herself sharing a meal with Tristan, Bann Teagan, and a couple of other leading figures in the settlement: Ser Pert, a knight of the Arl who had lost his right hand, and Mother Hannah, who led the local Chantry parish. The former had once been a broad-shouldered handsome man with well-groomed moustache that drooped down instead of the typical local beard, but now his shoulders were slumped, his moustache looked dishevelled, and his eyes were sunken deep. The Revered Mother held herself more briskly, but the wrinkles around her eyes and the grey in her hair betrayed her age, and the events around her were taking their toll.

   Instead of getting straight to business, the Bann pointedly ignored the Seeker at the table for quite some time, devoting himself to conversation with a well-built, copper-haired maiden approaching her thirtieth winter, who was in charge of the only kitchen currently working for all the survivors. Then, despite Teagan's initial reluctance, a serious conversation began. Surprising no one, Tristan was the first to speak:

   — So, what is known about the events at the Arl's fortress?

   The Bann threw a gloomy look at Ser Pert, who, sighing, began to answer:

   — It's more a collection of facts than a full understanding. I'll start a little further back. With why we're in such a pitiful state. The Arl's illness...

   — The Chantry is aware of the Arl's situation in broad strokes. A strange illness resulting in unconsciousness. The helplessness of healers, including a mage from the Circle. It's clear where you're going. To the absence here of the overwhelming majority of Redcliffe Fort's knights, dispatched across the land in search of a miracle cure for an unknown ailment and...

   Tristan snapped his fingers slightly theatrically, as if remembering, and the Revered Mother, gently inclining her head, came to his aid:

   — The Urn of Sacred Ashes.

   Morrigan saw through this game—Tristan knew perfectly well about the Urn but was feigning ignorance. She chose to hide a contemptuous smirk in her mug of heavily diluted moonshine, a hint that the alcohol supplies had been depleted due to recent events.

   — Yes. Thank you, Revered Mother. But none of that is important. My question is this: what happened at the fortress? Why was the bridge raised and the gates closed? What foreshadowed such an outcome?

   Ser Pert winced at this treatment, while the Bann, showing faint satisfaction at having, with outside help, "wiped his boots" on his older brother's knight, readily began answering the questions:

   — The events at the fortress and here are interconnected. The bridge was raised without any warning about twenty days ago. As the Arl's younger brother, I took on some duties, as Lady Isolde spent all her time either at her husband's bedside or with their son. And on that ill-fated day, I was at the port. A lull lasted for three days. Notably, not even guards were visible on the walls in those days. Then everyone returned to their posts, but... as if deaf and blind. Before the water froze, we sent a couple of boats over. To the small sea dock in the cliffs, right under the walls. We shouted, waved a flag. To no avail. Then we repeated the trick with a couple of mages. The healer from the Circle also had the misfortune of being outside the walls while searching the area for medicinal plants. We created a bright flash over the guards' heads. And that's when the... nightmare began. The local cemetery is located west of the settlement, on the crest of a hill, among bare rock. So that beasts couldn't easily get to it and water would drain quickly. A sensible distance from the living. And closer to the sky and the winds. The very next night, about two weeks ago, the dead began rising from their graves. But they didn't rush at us immediately; they waited until their numbers grew. In the end, at least sixty of the creatures attacked the people at once. Surprisingly few died at first. But then the initial horror subsided, people took up arms, and that's when the fallen became countless. The mages identified the threat as possessed, though they couldn't explain how such a thing could happen. And although the monsters' strange behavior was evident from the start, due to some disagreements, the knights decided to organize a counterattack. And... Well, that's in the past. As are our mages. Most were simply torn from our ranks by force; no one even suspected others of having such talents. And a third group... A third group was thrown to the wolves. To my great fortune, few were willing to go that far. So determining the fate of such people in these difficult days wasn't so hard. Even if there were twice as many... But, here we are. With your... assistance, and I admit, at a fairly cheap price, we've rid ourselves of the external threat. What next, Seeker?

   Morrigan noted to herself that Teagan had been fairly sincere overall. Well, as far as the girl could discern behind the man's mask. However, some remarks had been made with clear intent. Tristan blinked wearily, like a man with a slight headache, and replied:

   — Thank you for the details. You have probably been as honest with a subject of Orlais as you could be. And now you need to cross that line and fill in the gaps between the facts I already know.

   Both Teagan and Pert involuntarily turned to Mother Hannah, but she maintained a detached air, betraying no emotion. It wasn't hard to detect a silent accusation in it, but outwardly, these stares didn't affect Tristan. He waited, tired and patient, like a predator in ambush. The Bann grimaced, clenched his fists until the knuckles were white, and said with obvious discomfort:

   — There are things... better left unsaid.

   The Seeker shook his head.

   — Naturally. A question of circumstances. If it were a matter of life and death, you’d be singing a very different tune. Recall our first conversation without witnesses. With considerable help from Morrigan and Bethany, the immediate threat no longer stands on your doorstep. For now. And so you have remembered your duty and traditions once more. My blunt words are not meant to insult you. Intentionally. But everyone present is perfectly aware that you have spent, at most... seven seasons of the past twenty-plus in the Bannorn of Rainesfir entrusted to your management, right from the moment you came into your rights in the ninth year of the Dragon Age. And most often, you departed Ferelden for the north, to warm Ansburg, during the long winter months, the most difficult and hard to endure for these lands wedged between the Frostback Mountains and the great lake. So let's leave bravado and false patriotism behind. First, the real problem hasn't gone anywhere. And it can easily lead to further misfortunes. Second, you have been somewhat isolated here, which partly excuses you. However, you are not the only ones suffering from 'walking dead'; the entire Arling is. Consider that fact and try again.

   While Morrigan appreciated how the better-informed Tristan juggled facts without ever mentioning the Chantry's personal interest in the events, a tension seemed to thicken over the table. Tristan's words had struck Teagan like a knife—he couldn't answer without losing face. The others sat frozen, as if they'd seen a ghost—death was already stalking the Arling, and winter was just beginning. After a brief pause, Teagan gave in. Perhaps it was the veiled threats, or a sense of guilt. But the mage also allowed that a sense of responsibility might be at work, awakened in the man under the pressure of circumstance. After all, the girl had seen him diligently tackle even unpleasant tasks, like speaking with an inconsolable widow who, in the throes of grief, cared nothing for pompous matters, politics, or "big" problems. Suddenly, fitting into place like a missing puzzle piece, came Bethany's recent confession. The phrase, "the unbearably attractive possibility of going with the flow..." could have played its own role here too.

   — As you wish. There were... strange incidents. Well then... First of all, I should mention a suspicious elf. Name... Berwick. Actually, you don’t see many elves in our parts. The climate is harsh, the people are suspicious and often... intolerant. And it's dangerous to roam these lands freely. They say the Avvar in the southwest have never welcomed the pointy-ears. And if you run into the Hasind in the southeast, it's even worse. It all started at the tavern—that's where the elf gave himself away, on the second day after the fortress bridge was raised. Berwick suddenly packed up and decided to leave the settlement in a hurry. The tavern keeper had a few questions for the strange guest. Rather caustic and insulting ones, according to witnesses. By the same accounts, Lloyd was always too blunt, arrogant, rude, and never had any warm feelings for elves. "Was," because the outcome of the ensuing scuffle was that the previously unremarkable elf cold-bloodedly slit the man's throat and tried to flee. A couple of arrows from quick-thinking hunters put an end to that matter. As it later turned out, Berwick had arrived here a month and a half ago—supposedly a hunter of fur-bearing game. And he just stayed on as a lodger at the tavern. He was quiet, modest, tight-fisted. But over that time, the amount spent on lodging was, frankly, quite substantial for a free hunter. And as you might notice, the elf's arrival coincides rather well with the time my elder brother took ill with his strange malady.

   Tristan tapped his knuckles on the oak table and nodded. And Morrigan immediately calculated when these events must have occurred. It came out to about ten to fifteen days before the battle at Ostagar. However, Ferelden's internal politics and the balance of power in the country were an untrodden thicket for the mage. She would have to wait for Leliana to wake up or for explanatory remarks from the Seeker. The Bann, meanwhile, continued:

   — The other point concerns the Templars. Yes, precisely so. Although by my elder brother's decree, the role of the Maker's warriors falls mainly to the knights, the formal Captain of the absent Corps, Harritt, was stationed at the chantry. Two days before the fortress bridge was raised, the Templar became overly agitated... I take it the Captain said nothing to anyone?..

   The phrase was half a question, testing the depth of the Seeker's and Mother Hannah's knowledge, but their complete lack of reaction prompted Teagan to go on:

   — Hmm... Well, people reported seeing the Captain here and there. The Templar became fidgety, wandered the area like a lost soul, tracking something he never told anyone about. In the end, on that very day, the Captain ended up inside the fortress. And no one has seen him since.

   Another pause fell, and finally, Tristan asked:

   — Is that all?

   The question held a veiled disappointment. Yet, nothing on the Seeker's face indicated whether he knew something that hadn't yet been spoken by the Bann. Teagan exchanged a look with Ser Pert and shook his head despondently before continuing.

   — No... But before we broach the delicate subject... You must... I would be extremely grateful, on my elder brother's behalf, if what you hear, for a change, remained between us and did not spread to the four corners of the world.

   Tristan let out a weary sigh, momentarily meeting the Revered Mother's gaze, and coolly clarified:

   — You do understand I am bound by duty and cannot give personal oaths? Any such oath would be broken if more serious obligations compelled me to do so.

   — You Chantry folk... For you, a word is just a tool. A nobleman's word is his greatest treasure.

   For the first time during the conversation, Morrigan laughed openly and remarked quietly:

   — "Word" is a luxury of the rich and free. But it seems to me extremely difficult to gain wealth without compromising one's freedom. If one pokes you with a stick, it becomes clear that even your "word" does not fully belong to you.

   Scowling, Teagan shook his head, refusing to acknowledge the mage's words.

   — Be that as it may. At least promise me you will not speak of this unless your duty compels you to.

   Tristan gave a restrained nod of confirmation.

   — I promise.

   — Good. After the bridge was raised. After the dead appeared. Just before the... knights' counterattack. We were visited by Lady Isolde...

   — Stop. How?

   The Bann sighed heavily, mumbling under his breath with a slight tremor:

   — Eamon will have my hide for this... — Then, louder, the man continued: — From the old mill on the west side of the bay, near the drawbridge, a tunnel leads to the fortress. It's dug deep enough to pass through the bedrock under the bay floor all the way to the island. According to my brother, it's been here since the fortress's founding. Lady Isolde met with Ser Pert and me to... My good-sister was extremely agitated at the time. After telling us about the "dark evil" that had settled in the fortress, intent on taking the lives of my brother and Connor, the Arl's only son, Lady Isolde demanded that I return with her to the fortress. In order to...

   — In order to?

   — To confront the evil together with Connor.

   — And?

   — This madness frightened me. The incoherent babbling, bordering on hysteria, from a woman who once overcame the open hostility of her surroundings and ill repute to be where she wanted and with the one who held her heart. Given the circumstances, it seemed threatening. When Lady Isolde sensed I wasn't inclined to take her at her word... I'd never heard such cursing from my good-sister before. And such maledictions... I admit, I wanted to restrain her from returning to the fortress by force. But...

   The Bann's grim glance slid toward Ser Pert, instantly clarifying all the accumulated animosity between them. On the knight's face, anger, shame, and something else—something he was carefully hiding—warred. Pert twitched his jaw and retorted dryly:

   — I swore oaths, Lord Teagan.

   Crossing her arms under her chest, Morrigan quietly commented on this justification:

   — So, an oath of fealty and true loyalty are not the same thing... Paradoxical. It seems far more difficult for one bound to many to determine who is worthy of trust.

   Leaning towards the mage, Tristan, also in a half-whisper, murmured:

   — "Paradoxical"?

   He leaned a little closer and continued:

   — Far more interesting is how your "savage" mask keeps cracking at the seams.

   Returning his attention to the audience, the Seeker continued:

   — So, we have a passage into the fortress. Excellent. You can open it from this side, I assume?

   Teagan nodded slowly, and, straightening up, Tristan concluded:

   — We head for the mill tonight, under cover of darkness. And now—rest.

Chapter Text

   The world outside seemed gray in the muted, diffused light barely spilling from the clouds. Somewhere, one could probably enjoy the rich palette of a pre-dawn sky. But here, the sun was not destined to appear even at midday. There were no shadows in the world around them, and objects felt flat. The silence was broken only by the rustle of falling snow. Breath turned to fleeting mist, and the frost nipped at the skin, making one squint. Because of the bay’s humidity, the light chill felt mean—like a vengeful thief stealing what little warmth lay beneath thick clothing. The flakes, fluffy and heavy, slowly shrouded the earth.

   Leaning her shoulder against the wall of a building by the barricade that blocked the main street, Morrigan addressed Tristan, who was warming his hands with his breath.

   — So, what about “blood magic”?

   The man smiled, hiding his face behind his palms, and replied softly:

   — A curiosity worthy of a Seeker. Insatiable, tenacious, forever hungry. All who seek truth are doomed to this affliction. And many perish, unable to reconcile this beast with caution and prudence.

   — But isn’t that why you exist?

   — Yes… Fireflies, dispelling the darkness of the unknown by the will of the Divine, even at the cost of their own lives. The Pact means… In certain circles, there’s an interesting saying: “Blood magic stirs the blood.” When the mind isn’t burdened by immediate cares and anxieties, wordplay with many layers of meaning can provide considerable pleasure. Do you think it wise to hope for an answer?

   — Now that you ask… Yes, in my position it is foolish and presumptuous to hope for one. And yet.

   — Interesting. And your reasoning?

   — You are shrouded in mysteries from head to toe, and you are clearly keeping me nearby for several purposes at once. Let’s postpone the talk about the puppeteer standing behind my back. In the as yet undetermined future, you will need answers. And it’s not even about willingness or how susceptible I am to threats. My intuition whispers that the answers you need will require you to articulate them clearly. The more you know, the more you understand. Returning to the puppeteer, he is not initiated into the subtleties of… “pacts,” do you think? If you’re not lying.

   Tristan exhaled slowly and shook his head uncertainly.

   — I expected bargaining and offers of exchange. But your reasoning isn’t bad. This knowledge likely won’t help you in any way. Although… Sometimes, explaining one thing requires talking about another—something that precedes the concept sought and is necessary as a foundation. So, a “pact”… Of course, it is not a regular phenomenon, like, say, magic. A “pact” implies a deal with a being from beyond the Veil. But there are many “buts” here. It is not a folkloric notion, like a bargain where you sacrifice a firstborn in exchange for some power or a wish granted. A “pact,” as we now know, is not merely a deal. It is a state that can be imposed from without, like a door flung open into your soul without permission. And you cannot close it again. Beyond the threshold, there will be no one and nothing wishing to rush in, threaten, or tempt you to take the first step. It is only a possibility, which will henceforth always be in the “room.” Sometimes circumstances force one to take such a step. As for the price… You learn that only beyond the threshold. And if opening such “doors” doesn’t cost too much, however that cost is measured, then it is both wise and practical. Rather than coaxing one victim at a time, isn’t it better to open a hundred “doors” and wait for dozens to step across of their own accord? What matters is that this also requires a subtle understanding of elven or human nature. The itch of curiosity is inherent in everyone. Sooner or later…

   Tristan snapped his fingers, but in the cold it wasn’t very impressive. He grimaced and continued.

   — A “pact” is a gift of only a few beings. In all of history, we know of fewer than you can count on one hand. And each such being offers a “pact” with unique contents under its own terms. Ghaskang is the first among the known. No Seeker has found a path to this being’s “pact.” What is known of Ghaskang comes only from a handful of forbidden books and… let’s call them “interrogations.” Ghaskang’s “gifts” are somehow connected to the dead. There is a working hypothesis, well aligned with the facts. Not yet proven. As if the Mortalitasi, the dominant mage Order in Nevarra, grew from a “pact” with Ghaskang. Next: Imshel and the Formless One—we know nothing about them beyond the names. And also Zibenkek. According to the conjectures of the Seekers’ Order and external sources, this being is inextricably linked to blood magic and… Kirkwall. For a century now, our Order has been systematically trying to connect scattered evidence into a coherent body of knowledge. To unearth the truth about the nature and mechanisms of blood magic, likely guilty of the great sin of defiling the Maker’s throne. By fate and sheer chance, this being opened the “door” of a “pact” in me while I was wandering the depths of Kirkwall on other research. It so happened that I had to use the offered tool, and later I became quite skilled in wielding it. The rules are simple. You sacrifice blood, and with it, a small portion of health, which is far harder to restore than blood alone. And the desired work is performed. To the extent you can precisely envision the desired result. Obviously, it is extremely easy on this path to make a mistake that will result in the loss of both blood and health, to the last drop. Fortunately, a disciplined mind and will helped me, through trial and error, to limit myself to workable abilities, stripped down to concepts resembling mage spells. And, incidentally, to avoid being turned for months into a barely living invalid.

   Morrigan slowly raised an eyebrow and asked again:

   — So, in the end, you use something—by your own admission—indistinguishable from blood magic. Something that turns an ordinary mage into a maleficar in a snap. You perform “miracles” through a being of the Fade?

   Exhaling another pale cloud into his palms, Tristan only nodded in reply.

   — The role of glorious knights in white and spotless robes fell to the Templars. Our charter contains dozens of warnings and restrictions. But not on how to reach the truth… The end often justifies the means, rather than the opposite. My case and the subsequent report confirmed various conjectures and allowed the Order to strengthen its resolve to wrest the hidden truth from Kirkwall.

   — Splendid… What you’ve told me is extremely curious. But… So, you don’t have one, but two open doors?

   Tristan jerked his head around, his gaze sliding over the witch’s silhouette.

   — What?

   — I’m talking about what entered Wynne.

   The Seeker frowned, narrowed his eyes, and formulated his reply carefully.

   — A dangerous topic. First, such knowledge should not exist. Certainly not in your head. Second, keep your “interpretations” to yourself. Third, this has already been discussed, and…

   — I see.

   A pause followed, during which the man studied the profile of the pensive girl, deciding whether to press or not. But a moment later, the Seeker silently turned away, staring into the distance. And Morrigan froze, her teeth sinking into her lower lip until it hurt. Her thoughts raced like trapped animals. With mild skepticism, she weighed her personal prospects in the distant future. With such knowledge at her back, for the Seekers’ Order, the witch was both a hindrance and a threat. Yet she sensed that even this “poisoned fruit” was but a tiny fragment of a giant mosaic. Only after two minutes did the woman’s voice pose another question.

   — So, you just… envision the result?

   She traced a finger through the air as if drawing an invisible pattern.

   — Approximately so.

   — Doesn’t it disturb you that some entity, just to fulfill your wishes, breaches the Veil into reality? Anywhere. Anytime. Leaving no traces. And, to hear you tell it, this could happen with a dozen, or a hundred, simultaneously. From Korkari to the Free Marches or even the Anderfels. And let the “simpler” folk send themselves to an early grave with foolish desires. But there will also be those who want to fix some small thing.

   Tristan squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying to shake snow grit from his lashes, and slowly raised his gaze to the sky.

   — Perhaps that is the best question to ever leave your lips. But I will say this… There are questions whose answers will not help in solving any of the tasks before me. And moreover, attempts to find answers to them will surely lead me irrevocably astray from my goal. Not everyone, while walking through a swamp in search of a path, can plumb the depth of every pool and tell of it. Such a question pushes one… to think about things harmful to reason. And not only that. I won’t dissuade you. Benedict did not fear such things. But note, here I stand firmly on my feet. And where is my partner… Hmm. Speaking of which, the Anderfels? And where is that?

   His voice sounded too innocent. Too much. Catching the hint behind the ironic question, Morrigan twisted her lips slightly. She didn’t know why that word had slipped out along with the other two names. But logic suggested it was some remote region or realm. Perhaps another empire. In the end, ignoring the jab, she continued.

   — Cynical. But logical.

   Her voice was like a blade drawn over stone.

   — A knife cuts, and that is enough. But sometimes, someone like you should consider. Let’s say someone forged this blade. Let’s even set aside the “how” and the “from what.” But who was it that placed it in your hand? And why?

   — This is not the time for such talk. Especially when the sky is shedding snow, and at our backs are only cold walls.

   Glancing toward the nearest house, where the surviving part of the original group had taken what rest they could by the hearth, snatching a few dark hours for sleep, the man straightened, pushing off from the wall.

   — Here come the others. We move out.

   * * *

   The mill stood as a tower on the hillock by the bay, like some ancient sentinel. The structure appeared to date from the same bygone era as Redcliffe Fort, and was built of the same material. At one time, it had even served as a separate fortification. But now, on the truncated cone of the building, huge mill sails stood proud, and a circular wooden platform had been built at roughly head-height for operating the wheel, the turning shaft, and fixing the tail. The embodiment of fear of war, repurposed for useful work and for catching the ever-blowing free winds off the lake.

   According to Arl Teagan’s instructions, they were to descend into a small, round undercroft in the building’s massive foundation and, among the old, worn floor tiles, find a triangular one. Beneath it lay a narrow crawlspace, leading vertically down into darkness. Hand- and footholds had been carved directly into the shaft walls, so a climber could press their back and rest, whether climbing up or down. Morrigan immediately imagined what it must have been like here for some lady from the castle, in her proper gown. Tristan, however, simply lit the dim flame of a small oil lamp and moved downward first.

   Near the end of the descent, the air grew damp and musty. At the same time, the last steps required concentration, lest one slip carelessly down the shaft and hit the bottom. The passageway at the base maintained a triangular shape, widening at the bottom and forcing sideways movement, sometimes even a slight crouch. Descending on a gentle slope, it resembled a dark maw with rough but smooth edges.

   The tunnel oppressed not with fear, but with a suffocating fatigue. Quite soon, breathing grew difficult, and the walls seemed to decide, of their own accord, to begin closing in on the travelers lost in this stone sack. But a blink of the eye, and the illusion faded. Morrigan caught Bethany’s face in the half-light—a pale smudge haloed by the lamp’s dull glow. But Bethany offered only concentration and a fleeting half-smile in return. That expression struck the witch as strange, even incomprehensible.

   At the end of the path, the downward slope gave way to an upward one, eventually leading to a similar vertical shaft. However, after a dozen steps of ascent, a difference appeared. Much sooner than Morrigan had expected, the vertical shaft ended in a stone sack about three paces across, barely allowing one to stand, with roughly hewn walls. A step and a half away, and a circular shaft without any steps was revealed in the floor, while against the opposite wall, the continuation of the triangular tunnel led upward. Tristan paused, listening to the sound of drops falling somewhere in the dark, and whispered:

   — Clever. If it floods, the water won’t reach the fort right away. But we—will.

   At the end of the wearying journey, almost gently sliding aside a massive floor slab, the group of four found themselves in a cold crypt with a low ceiling formed by a series of intersecting, cross-vaulted arches. One after another along the right wall, stone sarcophagi stood in a row, their sides carved with texts and the figures of sleeping people meticulously chiseled onto the stone lids. In the absence of any other light, the eye could only take in the small circle of light wrested back from the darkness by the Seeker’s lamp. For a moment, Morrigan felt herself once more in the dead grip of the Tower’s darkness. But the fancy ebbed, leaving only a vague sense of danger. The lamp’s pool of light, and the darkness around it, behaved naturally. Yet it was not “empty” here…

   As if in unison with the witch’s feelings, Tristan slowly drew his own blade from its sheath, lowering the lamp to the floor half a step away from him.

   This time, Morrigan was not wearing the winter robes of a Circle mage, but practical garb scarcely distinguishable from Tristan’s. A simple padded gambeson, thick woolen trousers, a flat leather pouch on a wide belt at the back. Good, high boots of rough leather with double soles, lined with fur, and her hair, let down from its braid and gathered into a tight knot at the nape of her neck. With a low scabbard on her right thigh, at a glance and in the gloom the get-up made the girl indistinguishable from a warrior. A naked blade about an elbow’s length completed the picture. Peering into the gloom, the witch quietly remarked:

   — What moved you to trust me with a sharp object?

   Displaying no less wariness, the man slowly replied:

   — Thoughts about the number of lives at stake. And… a simple calculation. You being unarmed would lower, not increase, my own chances of survival.

   Without looking, she traced a small circle in the air with the tip of her blade and shook her head thoughtfully.

   — A compliment? From one who wields a sword so masterfully—unexpected.

   — Hardly. Your skill with a kitchen knife and a sharp stick is sufficient. Just swing your weapon somewhere else.

   Morrigan glanced over to where Tralin, his blade angled toward the floor, was peering into the darkness of the crypt’s opposite end. But the witch’s gaze continued its sweep and settled on Bethany, standing in the center of the group. She had not changed her clothes, remaining in the warm robes of the Circle, and thus stood out. Morrigan was troubled by her apprentice’s safety and by her own decision, for personal gain, to place the girl in such an obviously vulnerable position for an attack by an opponent who was not lacking in cunning. For some reason, this very worry felt disturbingly wrong, curdling into anger at herself. Like watching a stupid dog that, instead of obeying commands, endlessly chases its own tail. Logic coolly laid out the facts in their proper places, albeit one at a time. But the quiet stream of ungovernable emotions playfully shattered that order, easily making her feel two opposing states at once. Turning away, the witch tightened her grip on the hilt.

   The silence was split by a screech—as if a claw had scraped over stone. Everyone froze. An illusion? But weapons were immediately trained in that direction. The next instant, the darkness spewed forth six rather poorly preserved corpses, whose flesh, from prolonged residence in this mausoleum, had dried and tightened over their skeletal frames. Tristan’s blade flashed in the dark. A corpse’s head flew off; its body collapsed at Bethany’s feet, splattering her boots with black sludge. Another creature slipped past the Seeker, but half a step from Bethany, the Templar cleaved the monster to the spine and kicked it away. Morrigan lunged to intercept a third abomination, knocking it onto the flagstones with a blow from her shoulder. She drove her blade into the creature’s eye socket. Bone crunched; the blade went through. In that time, the Seeker’s swift sword lopped off two more heads, and Tralin flipped a creature that had leapt onto his back over his shoulder. Morrigan and the Templar brought the short skirmish to an end, simultaneously striking down the last foe.

   Tristan threw a sidelong glance at the blade in the witch’s hands and raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. And Bethany drew in a raspy breath. The girl’s fingers trembled in the aftermath of the sudden violence amid the silence of the tombs. Quickly scanning the area, the Seeker clicked his tongue, summing it up:

   — Canaries.

   Unconsciously wiping her blade on her gambeson, Morrigan clarified:

   — What?

   Clearly making an effort to pull herself together, Bethany answered the question in a voice only slightly trembling:

   — Pretty northern birds. From Antiva, from the Rialto Bay coast. My… mother told me.

   The Seeker shook his head, clarifying:

   — I’m talking about something else. For ordinary people, and in the dark, even such abominations are a mortal threat. But to expect anyone coming from the crypt side? That’s a dead end, where there can be no one but the dead. Yet Lady Isabella passed through here earlier without difficulty, which means the current master of the Fort also knows about the passage. Or knew in advance. Such a vulnerability should be properly guarded. Or destroyed outright. The third option is…

   Morrigan caught on, finishing for the man:

   — Now our presence is known.

   — Yes… Let’s go.

   Picking up the lamp, the party moved deeper into the crypt in search of an ascent. Soon, within the circle of light, sarcophagi appeared with their slabs cast aside, their number making it clear that slightly more abominations had left this place than had fallen in the recent skirmish. Morrigan noted that on one of the discarded slabs, the stone-carved sleeping figure held not a sword, but a mage’s staff. After the third opened grave, Tralin muttered quietly:

   — Only the knights who earned their eternal rest in the Guerrin family mausoleum have been desecrated.

   The Seeker paused for a moment, remarking:

   — A curious detail.

   It didn’t take long to find the old and, by all appearances, only door here in the left wall. It was situated precisely in the center of the rectangular hall. Good oak, to judge by the colour, treated for preservation and reinforced with thick bands of metal. Though rust had covered them, a stroke of the hand revealed it was only a thin surface layer. With no sign of a lock on the inside, the situation forced them to resort to magic.

   Bethany heated the thick hinges to a dull scarlet, until smoke began to curl from the adjoining wood, and then Morrigan abruptly cooled them, making the metal brittle. A few resonant blows from the Templar’s sword pommel—painful in the hands, no doubt—and the metal cracked. Groaning, the door collapsed onto the flagstones like a last sentinel surrendering to the onslaught of the living.

   After one flight of narrow stairs and one grate of twisted square bars, adorned with wrought-iron flowers and locked only with a massive hook, they all found themselves in a wide passage where two people could walk abreast. The passage ran forward, dissolving completely into the surrounding reign of darkness. In the walls, empty brackets gaped blackly—the torches had long rotted or been taken. Twice, locked oak doors reinforced with metal were encountered on either side. And then to the right, a spacious alcove was revealed, containing a pair of overturned stools and a barrel full of foul-smelling water. In the center yawned an opening with a not-quite-closed grate and a single key still protruding from the lock. Surveying the strange disorder thoughtfully, Tristan remarked in a low voice:

   — The dungeons.

   Four steps down, and a corridor with a low ceiling and arches on either side indeed opened before them. Each arch was sealed by a row of thick metal bars. It looked tolerable. The hay on the floor had long since turned to dust, but the cells retained traces of order: benches, buckets, even hooks for clothes. And yet, the air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and excrement—as if someone had diligently maintained a veneer of civility, while the dungeon itself had long lived by different laws. The Seeker raised the lamp higher and strode forward firmly, soon to discover the source of the smell.

   In another corner, behind bars, a man huddled in a ball, squinting listlessly at the subdued light. The original color of his filthy clothes had long been difficult to determine, and his cell stood out among the others for its filth. As his eyes adjusted, it revealed a face more like a skull stretched with skin. His eyes, too large for the hollows they hid in, watered from the light. His beard was matted into clumps, as if doused with sweet syrup—perhaps blood from broken lips. In such a state, correctly assessing the prisoner’s age was difficult. But an experienced gaze immediately noted the scars—his lips had been split more than once. And a couple of phalanges on his left hand were missing—severed too cleanly for injuries sustained in battle. Morrigan coldly reasoned: it was inconsistent to maim a prisoner and, likely, starve him, yet leave him clothed, not even taking his shoes. Immediately, her attention was caught by small bones, arranged in a strange order near the prisoner. The small bones, neatly laid out by the wall, explained the absence of rats. The prisoner didn’t just catch them—he systematized his catch, like a starving accountant.

   Tristan frowned and issued a clear command:

   — Name yourself.

   At the unfamiliar voice, the man flinched. But then, dropping his head wearily, he objected, with a slight lisp as if missing a few teeth:

   — Why? You already know…

   — Then why speak?

   Tristan leaned in, letting his voice slide over the prisoner’s skin like a blade:

   — Let’s see. You don’t want to die. Otherwise, you would have smashed your head against the wall long ago. But no… you eat rats. Catching rodents and devouring them raw requires cunning, patience, and a tremendous will to live. You have hope. But only rotting hay remains here. Your prospect is to die slowly and painfully in the dark, in your own filth, and alone. I don’t know who “conversed” with you before us, but I want to know. So. Hope—a chance to get out in exchange for sincerity. And let’s clarify. Having drunk your fill of misery, you might have thought you’d hit bottom. No. There is no bottom. One can die slowly here, alone, and without hands, feet, eyes…

   Tristan’s words fell like axe blows. Each one precise, measured, devoid of even a hint of pity. As if not a man spoke, but a mechanism created to extract truth at any cost. But this revelation only badly affected Bethany, who looked at the party leader with a frightened and stunned gaze. Morrigan’s fingers dug into Bethany’s shoulder—not support, but a tap on the nose for a puppy mesmerized by a snake. The girl jerked, but met her mentor’s gaze. There was no comfort in it. Only an order: “Don’t you dare fall apart.” Blinking away the spell and pressing her lips together, the apprentice nodded gratefully at her mentor. The prisoner trembled. Three breaths—like a diver preparing for one last attempt to surface. And finally, he forced out a voice that sounded like the creak of rusty hinges:

   — My name is Jovan.

   — Jovan… Jovan… Not a runaway from the Circle, by chance?

   — That’s right…

   Touching his right eyebrow, remembering, Tristan clarified:

   — Ah, yes…

   The Seeker clicked his tongue as if recalling an anecdote:

   — A year ago, a mage fled Kinloch Hold. Right before his Harrowing. He won over a junior-ranked Sister of Light. Lily Mole. And in addition to her, another mage, who had earned her rank a month prior. Solona Amell. Using and betraying both, Jovan disappeared. An “extraordinary” feat, given the distance to the nearest shore and the number of watchful eyes. Mole was exiled to Aeonar. And Amell was made Tranquil.

   At the word “Aeonar,” Morrigan’s fingers involuntarily clenched into fists. For a moment, fragments of others’ memories flashed before her eyes—stone walls, screams… And Bethany reacted at the mention of Amell, which immediately caught her mentor’s eye. But before the witch’s apprentice could utter a word, Jovan intervened. The prisoner’s voice was weak but trembled with smoldering rage:

   — How can that be… I used no one. Betrayed no one. You know… nothing.

   — Then we’re both lucky. You, to explain yourself. Me, to hear answers.

   — What do you care about my past?

   — Stupid questions waste time and patience.

   — You… Fine. Lily and I… we were close.

   — Lovers?

   — We… we broke every rule. Every one.

   His voice shook:

   — I still don’t understand what she saw in someone like…

   Swallowing a lump in his throat, now more quietly, he continued:

   — Never dared to ask, for fear of scaring off my luck. Lily… Kind, graceful, and… But what of it. Words are like entries in an accountant’s ledger; they say nothing of a person’s essence. For most of my life in the Circle, I never thought about the coming Harrowing. But after Solona barely overcame her own… We were friends for many years. And so, by age, I was next. And… I calculated something, thought it over. Since childhood, I had a talent for numbers and an excellent memory. It turned out the chance to successfully complete the rite barely exceeded three in five. A grim prospect… Moreover, the depth of one’s “well,” it seems, significantly affects the outcome. And my reserves were modest. But I didn’t despair then. They didn’t give me… workarounds. Training. Tried various things… Tedious and of little use… This way, that way… The main thing was, into what. In the end, I had a talk with Senior Enchanter Uldred. He offered help… Told me about blood magic. I agreed to everything. And then, on an ordinary morning, Lily tells me: there’s a paper on the First Enchanter’s desk, accusing Jovan of using blood magic against… Well, that’s not important now. Whatever the Templars scribbled in those papers, what I feared wasn’t the Harrowing. But retribution. And the girls helped… not blindly at all. I… didn’t know it would turn out so badly… for them.

   Tristan screwed his eyes shut so hard it looked like he was trying to crush his eyelids—not grinding thoughts, but facts, as if with his teeth. Meanwhile, Morrigan felt a familiar, aching sensation stir in her chest—a sharp, insatiable curiosity. For the girl, the relationship between Uldred and Irving had taken on a new light. While the First Enchanter had delayed, Uldred had acted, masking his true activities by exposing false apostates.

   — Of course, you ran. Where? Likely to Denerim—like all fugitives, hoping to lose yourself in the crowd. Foolish as that is. They caught you on the road. But not with the immediate aim of claiming a reward for a maleficar. People, or elves, I don’t know, offered you a deal as simple as day and night. Return to the Circle to be made Tranquil on the spot. Or…

   Jovan’s eyes, which had been fixed on the floor, suddenly jerked upward, like puppets on strings.

   — Yes… But… How?

   — Even if a few pieces are missing to establish the causal chain, I see the broader picture better than you.

   Flicking his eyes toward Morrigan, the Seeker added almost inaudibly:

   — Astonishing, where new puzzle pieces keep turning up…

   Returning his attention to the prisoner, the man continued:

   — Well? Strangers.

   — Ugh… Yes. You’re right… The choice… There was no choice. And the goal… I was to slip narcotics to Arl Eamon before his departure for Denerim. So that he would miss something… important. I didn’t have to invent anything. No improvisation. None at all. It turned out Lady Isolde had been secretly looking for a tutor for her son. His talent had manifested. And so… they brought me. Secretly arranged a meeting with Her Ladyship. Supplied letters of recommendation. In truth, I know absolutely nothing about how the negotiations went. What was in the letters? Who arranged it? But I got the position in the end. Then I only had to wait quietly for the moment and teach the Arl’s son.

   — And you, so clever, suspected nothing?

   Tristan leaned in closer again:

   — Or did you hope they’d throw you out like a puppy, not slit your throat?

   — I… You’re right… Looking back, I just… went with the flow. Didn’t try to find alternatives. Didn’t think… It was terrifying to think too much. And I even started to enjoy the routine in the castle. Although… occasionally they reminded me of my “role,” so I wouldn’t change my mind overnight. Or grow too… brave. Believe me, when the Arl fell a step from death… It was… like a bolt from the blue. Of course, I immediately found myself in the dungeons. Her Ladyship had no doubts about who was guilty. And no lack of… resolve to interrogate me personally.

   — When did Her Ladyship stop coming down here?

   — Time here…

   — Approximately.

   — Ugh… A week? I don’t know… Maybe… Definitely more than five days. It’s as if everything died out. The guards disappeared. But sometimes I heard footsteps in the outer corridor… Or maybe I just imagined it.

   — So, the Arl’s son is a mage?

   — Yes. And… remarkable. His mana reserves are astonishing. Unlike mine…

   — Right, I see.

   Tristan turned to Morrigan and the Templar, concluding in a low voice:

   — This is a mess.

   Morrigan snorted.

   — Only if you can’t set the political side of the problem aside.

   — It’s not the primary…

   Tristan ran a hand over his chin.

   — But it can’t be ignored either.

   The girl shook her head, baffled at how people and elves alike sometimes complicated their own lives, but then nodded.

   — With some reflection, I can see your position. The Fort itself is important to the Chantry. But stones and walls alone are like a blade without a skilled hand. Capable of much, but only as a tool, not a dangerous weapon. Combined with the bloodline of its owners, the story takes a completely different turn. And Isolde alone won’t be enough for you.

   Tralin reflexively corrected:

   — Lady Isolde.

   — Whatever.

   The Seeker irritably drew in a breath, directing his gaze toward the dungeon exit. Jovan’s voice broke into a whisper:

   — You… you will let me go, won’t you?

   The words sounded like childish babbling—a mix of hope and dread of the answer.

   Tristan’s gaze slid over Jovan, cold and appraising, like a blade measuring a throat. Turning away, he tossed carelessly over his shoulder toward Morrigan:

   — You decide.

   In these words lay not a challenge, but the indifference of an executioner passing the axe. The witch raised an eyebrow in surprise and shot Bethany a questioning look, openly displaying her emotions at the man’s hasty decision. Her apprentice shrugged, but immediately stepped closer and, leaning slightly toward her mentor, spoke in a hushed tone:

   — He mentioned Amell. That’s… unexpected.

   — Why?

   — Family names aren’t so common that you stumble over them everywhere. Finding two identical ones is hard too—that’s rather the point. And Amell… That was my mother’s maiden name, before she married Father. It’s a noble family from Kirkwall. Mother didn’t like to talk about her past. But…

   Bethany’s eyes glazed over for a moment—as if she were seeing her mother again, sitting by the hearth with a book in hand. That image would never repeat, and the girl clenched her fists as if trying to hold onto the slipping memories. But she continued, not letting herself stray into tangential thoughts and emotions:

   — Of course, my brother and I asked questions. And though reluctantly, Mother shared details of her childhood. The Amells were supposedly a powerful family in Kirkwall. But it was power and wealth shackled by the duty and honor of generations past. That’s what Mother fled, to live with the one she loved. So, this Solona Amell is my blood. And I don’t even know… if she’s alive after that horror at the Hold.

   Bethany’s voice wavered:

   — Why was she even in Ferelden?

   Morrigan bit her lip, pondering the strange weaving of individual fates:

   — She’s more likely alive than not. Circle mages would sooner die themselves than let the Tranquil come to harm—it’s the one thing they’re united on. And as for coincidences… Could you have imagined a month ago that you’d be here? Don’t waste time on empty worries.

   Turning to the Seeker, the witch clearly pronounced the verdict:

   — We let him go. But we take no responsibility whatsoever for his fate. Let him save himself.

   Tristan held Morrigan’s gaze—cold as steel, but without objection. A slight nod, and Tralin stepped to the door; the key in his hand jangled like the final nail in a coffin lid…

   * * *

   The castle stood frozen in icy silence. Every step echoed. Not a soul—only shadows stretching in the pre-dawn gloom. Yet nothing around hinted at any supernatural cause for what was happening. The place seemed abandoned. Simple and mundane. Just like Jovan, who, after being freed, had immediately hobbled along the walls in the direction from which his “liberators” had come. Morrigan had remained silent at the time, though she’d decided that, in his current state, the mage was unlikely to make it safely down, let alone out of the underground passage.

   The service quarters, servants’ bedrooms, corridors, and storerooms showed signs of neglect. Yet there were no signs of a struggle, disorder, or the usual rodent infestation that forever, and without invitation, lives alongside humans in large structures. Tristan had pointed out this last fact, noticing twice as many details as Morrigan did. Still, among the stone walls and succession of rooms, the girl did not feel lost or out of place. Though not long ago, on the way to Kinloch Hold, an entire fortress had seemed a marvel to the witch, something her imagination could scarcely contain. In reality, the chantry in Lothering remained the largest intact stone building she’d ever seen in her life.

   Most of the servants were found in the fortress’s main kitchen. Girls and women of various ages, youths and men who had seen much. Two dozen bodies, scattered like rag dolls. Some with fingers interlaced—perhaps in a final attempt to brace themselves. Others frozen in unnatural poses, as if caught mid-fall. Waxen faces, sunken eyes—not sleep, but not yet death. All in the middle of the spacious, and almost certainly the warmest, room on the first floor of the service wing. The stubs of candles, struck from a flint, confirmed that the bodies bore no marks of injury or trauma. The cool flesh did not react to pricks, slaps, or dripping candle wax.

   Tralin ran a palm over the stubble on his cheek, his eyes narrowing:

   — A strange… kindness. For a demon of this scale. If only we knew why…

   Tristan nodded and finished for the Templar:

   — …or what for.

   Crouching by the nearest body, Morrigan examined the sleeping face, touched the forehead and neck with her fingertips, then concluded:

   — They are exhausted. Skin is dry. A heartbeat is barely perceptible. They tried to stave off death by this corpse-sleep, through loss of fluids and strength. But even so, the next day, or the one after, will be the last for some. A handful might last a week. But that is not what concerns me.

   The only response was a silence full of questioning attention.

   — Until now, one rule has been followed without exception. Only the dead are subjected to possession. And here we see… as if there were some compromise. The end for the sleepers is inevitable. But the thread of life will snap quietly. And in that same instant, a new “vessel” will appear. However, what will stop the rules from being discarded if we succeed?

   The Seeker nodded and, turning, strode away with a firm step.

   — Tralin, barricade this room with something.

   Soon the party reached a door leading directly into the inner courtyard, under snow that was slowly settling on the stones and their shoulders, indifferent to the living and the dead. A single set of tracks immediately caught their eye, having broken the delicate blanket an hour or two before. Someone had moved from the massive doors of the main building to the nearest tower of the outer wall, and then back. The prints were small—too small for an adult, yet… strangely deep, as if a child had walked under an unbearable burden. And too even—no swaying, no stops, as if walking to some invisible command. And, of course, Bethany was the first to voice the thought that flashed through everyone’s mind:

   — The son of Arl Eamon?

   Tristan winced and muttered, carefully choosing his words:

   — Not impossible.

   But Morrigan did not beat around the bush, getting straight to the point:

   — A mage with a staggering volume of mana at such a tender age. Though according to a person whose measure of “staggering” likely does not extend beyond the mundane.

   — As if you’ve seen much. You barely crawled out of the wilderness. Or am I wrong?

   — You would be surprised…

   — Nevertheless. Are you suggesting the boy is the key to all this?

   — I am suggesting. Is that a problem?

   — A problem? It’s a catastrophe.

   — Well… It’s not all so grim. Notice the strangeness?

   Bethany cut into the conversation with a question:

   — Strangeness?

   The Seeker sighed and clarified:

   — Either the demon that has seized this place has reasons to act in an uncharacteristic and, let’s be honest, unpredictable manner. Or the victim’s will is not fully suppressed. Unfortunately, Morrigan is right. According to our information, there are no mages in the fortress. Jovan was the exception and, nonetheless, is clean… We must concede—the son of Eamon is exceptional.

   Tralin cautiously added:

   — And dangerous.

   And the older of the mages concluded:

   — The main thing here is not to succumb to an attractive illusion. The Seeker, of all people, should understand. Some predators on the other side are too cunning and ancient to ever be caught by any of us.

   Tristan shot an irritated look at the witch, about to retort sharply or perhaps reluctantly agree, but was interrupted by Bethany’s question:

   — Morrigan, you said the guards, though they looked like mindless puppets, returned to their posts? Where is everyone?

   The Seeker, like the others, slowly turned, sweeping his gaze over the high walls. And as if in answer, from the dark openings leading inside the fortifications, corpse-like things resembling vile spiders began to emerge. A dozen fresh corpses in the tattered remains of clothes, not long ago worn by the castle servants. Bethany stifled a cry, crushing it in her throat with lips pressed white. The men unhurriedly drew their blades. And Morrigan remarked indifferently:

   — So, it seems the creature didn’t immediately learn how to induce lethargy correctly.

   Meanwhile, the possessed did not rush headlong, as those encountered earlier had, but instead used their advantage in numbers and height. Blindly swaying their pale, eyeless muzzles from side to side, the creatures seemed to be scenting the air. And in the next instant, the corpses, clearly reined by an alien will, surged downward as one. Drawing her weapon a moment too late, Morrigan spun on her heel. Four of the dozen, splitting into two pairs, lunged for the Seeker and the Templar. The remainder, not pausing for a second, began to flank to the right and left. What was happening too closely resembled coordinated tactics and a desire to reach the mages ahead of the warriors.

   Pointing her blade forward and resting it on the curve of her left arm, Morrigan muttered:

   — Wait. Meet them with fire a moment before impact.

   Bethany said nothing, steeling herself and barely remembering to blink. Behind them, in a silence taut with similar tension, the scrape of soles on the worn stones of the fortress courtyard mingled with heavy breathing and the whistle of air moaning under swift steel. And ahead, six bodies were already rushing forward, and now and then there still flickered in them glimpses of the people who had once performed mundane work here. No one rushed ahead, no one lagged behind. This instilled fear more surely than a horde of disordered individuals.

   Wasting no time on doubt, Morrigan flipped her free hand palm-up and exhaled a barely audible whisper:

   — Edhe te…

   Seven paces from the mages, the creature on the left flank collapsed, causing its two neighbors to stumble and the line to break. The formation dissolved into a mob. Dropping to one knee, the older of the two girls cleared space for Bethany’s Flaming Flash. The fiery flower halted the corpses, but they did not ignite like dry sawdust. The two nearest caught fire only because of their hanging tatters of clothing. Still, the flames forced the dead bodies to writhe on the stones, forgetting everything else. The weaker spell barely touched the rest. Too much moisture remained in the fresh corpses. Seizing the enemy’s hesitation, Morrigan surged to her feet and, with a wide stride, brought her sword crashing down on the rightmost creature’s collarbone. She lacked the strength to finish it with one blow. But the precious moments left the remaining pair cut off from their desired prey by thrashing torches and the scuffle. Dodging a grab for her leading arm, the girl easily slid her blade into the monster’s chest as if into a sheath. Shoving the creature away with her boot, Morrigan leaped back and down, giving Bethany room to repeat the spell.

   The flames stoked the chaos. And in that same instant, Tristan and Tralin flashed past, ending their fight with the cold efficiency of professionals in a dozen strokes. The girls exhaled, not hiding their relief; the men’s expressions didn’t change, but neither man sheathed his weapon. Everyone warily peered into the depths of the shifting shadows. The low clouds, diffused light, and quiet snowfall gave the inner courtyard a tranquil appearance, behind which, like a screen, lurked a lethally dangerous uncertainty. Wincing, the Seeker spat:

   — We should lower the bridge, but it feels like…

   He was interrupted by the screech of the double doors of the main building. Everyone turned to fully take in the hall, filled to the brim with gloom. Part of that darkness, having “come alive,” shifted unnaturally, flowing softly out under the grey sky to reveal a skeleton without a shred of flesh, swathed like a mirage in shimmering gloom. Behind it, other naked skeletons, looking far simpler and armed with locally made bows and quivers, strode firmly from the doorway.

   Tristan barked sharply:

   — Tralin! Morrigan! Its mana!

   But the shout came too late. The thoroughly out-of-the-ordinary demon had already swept its bony arms wide, splaying its fingers, and was surrounded by a barely noticeable greenish sphere that closed over its head and just under its feet, which hovered above the ground. The archers raised their weapons in unison, preparing to fire. Demonstrating Templar skill, Tralin immediately summoned that force so irritating to the elder witch, an invisible wave rolling toward the casting corpse. Morrigan tried to keep up, sending a faint ribbon—also meant to burn mana—toward the same target two heartbeats later. Passing through the void, both forces converged and wiped out three of the five archers at once. Almost simultaneously, a wave of sickness emanating from an indeterminate depth pressed down on the party. It was like a breach in a sinking ship, through which weakness and fatigue flooded the body. Tristan spun on his heel as if stung, the first to spot the “undead” that had appeared behind the four of them. The demon, by its mere proximity, was draining the life from each of them. A lightning-fast swipe of his usually deadly blade didn’t even reach it, again tearing only empty air.

   The hum of released bowstrings from the surviving archers heralded a different threat. One arrow whistled past Morrigan’s ear, clattering sharply on the stones. Bethany cried out—an arrow had grazed her forearm, tearing fabric and skin. Warm blood immediately welled up through the material, staining her sleeve a dark crimson. The girl swallowed convulsively, feeling the pain spread in hot waves. Unable, without the lyrium boiling in his blood, to repeat the same trick so soon, Tralin was already charging headlong toward the archers, aiming to finish the “puppets” before another volley.

   Whether by pure luck or inner instinct, the Seeker guessed the demon’s next point of appearance. His blade cut the air like silver lightning—only to rebound from an invisible barrier with a pathetic ring. In response, a magical bolt shot from the void, searing the skin beneath his clothes with the acrid smell of burnt flesh. Simultaneous with the crack of the magical discharge, Morrigan, near the fortress wall, struck furtively with a swift Death Hex that slipped easily beneath the unusual defense. She had deliberately exposed herself, focusing all her attention on one goal: reaching the creature. And it dissolved again, leaving no trace, like morning mist at midday, but when it reappeared, it looked hunched.

   While Bethany, trying not to be a hindrance, crouched, clutching her wound, the Templar dealt with the archers. The mindless puppets were no match for a seasoned blade in close combat. Realizing the futility of his own weapon against the demon, the Seeker nonetheless made a sharp slash, as if venting impotent rage into the void. But Morrigan felt the hairs on the back of her neck stir. And then the sphere surrounding the corpse dissolved no less effectively than the demon who had created it. Like a mirage. Unfortunately, another flash of a simple but effective spell glittered. This time, the bolt, with a muffled crack, truly caught the man’s side. Under his ribs gaped a terrible wound—the flesh seemed to have vaporized, revealing weeping layers of muscle. The edges of the wound were charred, emitting a sweetish, putrid smell. Without uttering a sound, the grimacing Seeker closed the distance in a couple of strides and drove his blade straight into the empty eye socket of the creature, already slowed by the hex. Punching clean through the skull, Tristan twisted the blade with a vengeful expression and an audible crunch. However strange the Seeker’s strength might be, it was enough. The corpse’s remains clattered onto the stones and immediately began to crumble into black, dissolving, traceless dust.

   The blood drained from Morrigan’s face, leaving her skin deathly white. She sharply threw her head back. With ragged, deep breaths, she groped her way back to a sliver of composure and, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, stepped toward Bethany, focusing entirely on the injury. To the right, using a hunting knife, Tralin was carefully cutting away the remains of Tristan’s shirt beneath its owner’s hoarse, rapid breathing. The gambeson already lay nearby. Throwing a pain-clouded glance at the mages, absorbed in their own concerns, the Seeker forced out with a note of surprise:

   — Bloody bitch…

   It sounded ambiguous, but Morrigan took it personally. Turning Bethany’s twitching head away from the men by the chin and, without stopping her work, the witch said:

   — You weren’t counting on sympathy and concern, were you? As the saying goes… “Fear the Maker.” Besides, if you deign to give up the ghost here, we will gain our freedom. And slip away behind—

   — Is this… a stupid joke? Hnn! Tralin! The Void—

   — Forgive me. But I need to lift your arm.

   The witch placed dark green leaves of “Bitter Canavarice”—found on the way to the mill in someone else’s garden—under a dry strip of cloth previously boiled by the locals. With that, she finished bandaging the shallow but unpleasant cut. In response to her student’s questioning open mouth, the mentor placed a piece of the same plant’s yellowish root inside and quietly commanded:

   — Chew.

   Then Morrigan returned her attention to the sweat-sheened man whom the Templar was skillfully, but without a drop of pity, bandaging with whatever was at hand.

   — A joke… A joke is something else. That was sarcasm. Albeit mixed with wishful thinking. Don’t scowl. Ah… that’s from the pain… Whatever’s on the tip of your tongue, save your strength. And about them finding us. And about the Blight. And about… everything, along with your personal plans. I’ve no doubt, given time and strength, you’d convince me of it all.

   The witch gestured around the fortress courtyard.

   — We’ve been left alone. Curious… And that wasn’t even the master of this mess who paid us a visit. Has the true culprit exhausted itself? Or did the guess about a delicate balance between demon and victim hit the mark?

   Wincing painfully, Tristan struggled to pull his torn gambeson over the bandage, hiding the spreading red stain on his side. It took him a minute to gather the strength to reply:

   — Hard to say… A spell-wrought nightmare is an unpleasant surprise. As is the fact they tried to control it as if it were no different from lesser demons. That’s why the creature closed with us like that, presenting itself to be struck. These beings, despite their immense hunger and irritation at the limitations of their own vessels, show remarkable patience and cunning, hiding in shadows, cover, or at unreachable heights until the last moment. They send minions ahead and suppress with long-range spells. And… Yes, yes, your magic helped, of course, making the creature vulnerable, I don’t dispute that. Be that as it may…

   The Seeker furrowed his brow, heaved a sigh, and addressed the Templar:

   — Tralin, open the gates. Even if reinforcements aren’t needed here, an easier line of retreat won’t hurt. Take Bethany with you.

   The girl looked questioningly at her mentor. Only after receiving an affirmative nod did the young mage follow the Templar toward the heavy towers that seemed to clamp the gates and raised drawbridge between them. Watching them both go, Morrigan stretched out a palm, catching the snowflakes quietly drifting down.

   — Can you continue?

   Suppressing a groan with effort, the man nevertheless got to his feet on the first try. He immediately fastened his gambeson to hide the bandage and the wound.

   — Been worse.

   The girl arched an eyebrow sarcastically, and the Seeker, popping the contents of a modest pouch on his belt into his mouth, clarified:

   — Just once… Did you stage that performance on purpose? Or do you truly consider the girl more valuable than me?

   Her smile was as precise as a dagger thrust—a beautiful gesture in a lethal dance. And the gleam in her dark gold eyes, as if they had caught for a moment a glimmer of the sun hidden behind the clouds.

   — Jealousy? To feel such emotions… How trivial for a Seeker. Especially when it’s about “servants.”

   Growing serious and directing her gaze toward the pair of towers where the others had disappeared, the girl continued:

   — Returning to the question… Perhaps, yes. In the long run, Bethany is more useful than you. I expect neither a stab in the back from her nor any other threat. That’s not the extent of her value, but details are out of place. However… The question is about something else, isn’t it? You know, “friendship”: it’s apparently a difficult dance. Beat, rhythm, proportion, and the aptness of every movement. But, like magic, it can be learned, by executing the necessary steps with virtuoso perfection. Even if the details still confuse the mind with uncertainty or seeming meaninglessness. But the “dance” between you and me is much simpler. You need me, and you will be of use. Nothing superfluous. Agreed?

   — I look at you and occasionally wonder… Perhaps the puppeteer isn’t behind your back? Maybe I’m just too stupid to see the obvious?

   Morrigan blinked in surprise, but Tristan had already fallen silent. The Seeker closed his eyes and concentrated on chewing the unknown medicine…

   * * *

   Beyond the open gates and lowered drawbridge, there was no sign of reinforcements eager to join the liberation of the fort. Only a quietened settlement, blanketed in fresh snow. The landscape breathed an unnatural calm—as if the snow had swaddled the abandoned houses to conceal their silent reproach. Perhaps the survivors had enough troubles of their own, leaving heroic deeds to the conscience of the Seeker. Or perhaps it was simpler: no one had truly believed in the success of the venture, writing off the “guests” from the start. One could speculate. Or one could get to work… before the worst happened.

   Reunited, the group strode firmly into the open hall of the main building, which seemed like a stout dwarf ringed by the tall warrior-forms of the watchtowers. Light entered the spacious room only through the doorway, continuously igniting hundreds of fleeting sparks among the cloud of dust motes that had replaced the falling snow. A searching gaze confirmed—no human foot had trodden here for at least a week. And thanks to that, three meandering trails of footprints stood out.

   Besides the exit to the courtyard, the hall had three more doors: two, one on either side, thrown wide open. A worn path led to each. Tristan explained succinctly: beyond those traditionally lay service quarters. Servants’ rooms, storerooms. Less often: training halls. There was no reason to think Redcliffe Fort was fundamentally different. But the Seeker was only interested in the Arl’s family’s private quarters. Some of those lay ahead, behind the single closed door opposite the exit. That was where the tracks converged.

   Slowly, they opened the heavy oak panel, lovingly carved with a scene of a fir forest in summer, and beheld a corridor devoid of its own light sources. Here, for the first time, a touch of variety had invaded the practical minimalism of the décor. Paintings hung on the walls depicting the local bay and the Frostback Mountains. There were also other landscapes, unknown to Morrigan, yet vaguely familiar all the same. At the far end of the corridor, the steps of a broad staircase were just discernible. Four doors stood on either side, and the space between was filled with candelabras as tall as a man and stands bearing decorative armor. Four suits of full knight’s plate stood there: three, by their appearance, from different Fereldan eras, and one of clear Orlesian make.

   Tristan leaned heavily on the doorjamb and spoke with unease in his voice:

   — This doesn’t look safe…

   Morrigan swept her gaze down the corridor and asked:

   — And?

   Nodding, as if in agreement, the Seeker answered:

   — You’re right. But let’s be on our guard.

   As if a prophecy made flesh, with the man’s last words, the decorative armor creaked. The air seemed to freeze. Bethany involuntarily stepped back, bumping into Morrigan. Tralin froze with his blade half-drawn, his fingers white on the hilt. Even Tristan—he held his breath as the steel giants began to move. Overcoming the resistance of old, unyielding metal and fused joints, gauntleted arms twisted behind their backs—something no living man could achieve, be he thrice the acrobat of a famous troupe. Gauntlets screeched as they gripped the stands. With the sound of tearing metal, the suits of armor wrenched free from their places, crashing onto the floor slabs. Dust billowed up as the four steel skeletons straightened to their full height—unnaturally smoothly for such massive constructs. Helmet visors creaked, lifting of their own accord, revealing black emptiness within. All four figures turned in unison—awkwardly, mechanically, but with inexorable precision. The nearest pair were about five paces away, the farthest twice that.

   Morrigan straightened up, muttering under her breath:

   — The Void…

   Tralin eagerly drew his blade, but, glancing at it, asked the Seeker uncertainly:

   — Not sure if…

   Tristan, carefully extracting his own weapon to avoid sudden movements, clarified:

   — To possess a corpse is difficult. To possess iron…

   The Seeker clenched his teeth:

   — A hundred times harder. Every moment it will try to twist free and end this hated existence. Such a thing happens… rarely. And only when the Veil is thinned incredibly by bright emotions and memories soaked into the object. The demon behind this… it’s like casting rubies before swine. And the swine—are us. Morrigan… Blades mean nothing to these creatures. Slow, but unstoppable. And more than anything else, mana is their weak point.

   Immediately, an invisible force surged from the Seeker’s direction. The others seemed to notice only the brief tightening of his lips, but Morrigan sensed it clearly. By chance or by design, the force struck the Orlesian armor. Having barely lifted a foot to step, it stopped. But that was all. Its knee joint creaking, the metal figure repeated the attempt and, with a slight delay, took a heavy step forward. The elder of the mages grimaced, feeling acutely just how little mana had been drained. And yet the master of these pawns remained out of reach. A thought flashed through the girl’s mind: if one discarded the mental categories so “captivating” to the Seeker’s mind, this “casting of rubies” was productive. Exhausting morale, strength, mana… Moreover, Morrigan’s instincts were “winding their own sinews around a fist,” demanding she conserve mana for the possibility of transformation.

   Tristan shook his head and commanded tersely:

   — Fall back. The hall offers room to maneuver. Here they’ll just trample us.

   The party quickly retreated, spreading out across the spacious room and awaiting the enemy’s appearance. The first figure, grating foully with every movement, entered the hall, heading straight for the elder witch. The second, bumping its shoulder against the doorjamb, marched toward Bethany. The girl addressed the Seeker:

   — Are they blind?

   — Do you see eyes? They’re armor, girl. I imagine the monster inside can somehow tell up from down, whether it’s moving or not, if it’s hit an obstacle… And it can definitely sense a concentration of mana. But that’s all.

   Tralin suddenly cursed quietly under his breath, perhaps for the first time on this journey. Raising his free hand, the man tensed, forcing out a wave of power that struck the armor to the right of the Orlesian one. The suit of plate likely dated to the late Blessed Age. The glorious era of Vaelan the First, son of Calenhad, founder of the Kingdom of Ferelden. Unfortunately, the massive figure didn’t even sway, continuing its advance.

   Suddenly, the full Orlesian plate armor bumped into a low, massive table that stood in its path. A pair of such tables, with soft, low-backed benches drawn up to them, were the only furniture filling the room. The figure froze for a couple of moments, as if processing what had happened, then bent over, clumsily seized the piece of furniture, and with little apparent effort hurled it at Bethany. From the outside, it looked surreal. Even so, the young mage didn’t panic, trying to leap aside. But she was too late. An instant was all it took from throw to impact—Bethany didn’t even have time to draw breath before the table slammed into her. The girl seemed to vanish, tumbling like a sack of tangled clothes to the nearest wall and lying there motionless.

   Blood pounded in her temples. The world narrowed to Bethany’s still form. A ringing filled her ears—Morrigan suddenly realized she had bitten her lip until it bled. Then cold composure returned.

   — Edhe te!

   The Orlesian armor, right in the middle of a step, pitched forward, collapsing onto the floor in a heap of separate pieces with a deafening metallic crash.

   The witch shot a glance at Tralin—in response, he merely scowled and shook his head emphatically. In this fight, the warrior was constrained, and the Templar’s strength, without lyrium to fuel it, had already been stretched to its limit. Glancing back, the man decided to sheath his weapon and rushed to the motionless girl’s body.

   Tristan ignored his subordinate’s retreat, only gritting his teeth—the wound on his side immediately reminded him of its presence with a hot wave of pain. Just as Morrigan, fighting her instincts, was about to spend the last of her mana on a final spell, the second pair of armored suits emerged from the corridor into the hall. That’s when the Seeker broke into motion. Showing enviable agility despite his serious injury, the man lunged toward the nearest enemy. Morrigan felt the familiar wave of power surge ahead of Tristan, reaching the walking plate armor first. Then, between the Seeker and the possessed suits, something flashed, striking with a barely audible chime straight into the opening of the helmet. The first attack halted the animated armor, followed by a deafening crack accompanied by the distant ringing of shattering glass and pain in the ears. The unexpected sound made the girl reflexively squeeze her eyes shut, shielding her face with her hand.

   When she opened them, she was surprised to discover the armor’s transformation. It had been completely stripped of its helmet. Moreover, a section of the plate on its chest—both front and back—was torn open. The dense metal, though lacking the flexibility and temper of modern alloys, was ripped apart like paper, with flaps of it twisted outward at strange angles. Like an iron flower blooming, brought straight from a nightmare. With a final screech, the armor began to disintegrate on the spot, collapsing to the floor in a metallic rain.

   Tristan looked neither fresh nor healthy: pale, sweat-sheened, sucking in air convulsively, his lower lip trembling. Vessels had burst in his right eye, and his stance was skewed by his wound. It made the Seeker look like a typical possessed at the start of transformation. Yet he remained focused and intent on the remaining enemies.

   Not waiting for the metal figures to close in, Tristan, moving quickly though with a slight limp, advanced to meet them. Briefly glancing back to where Tralin was fussing over Bethany, the witch reasoned: the Templar wouldn’t be wasting so much time on a corpse. So her attention centered on the fight unfolding before her. When the two slow, seemingly inexorable figures were just five paces away, the Seeker gripped his blade with his bare left hand and carefully, so as not to sever the tendons, drew it from its improvised “sheath.” The blade was stained along its length with a barely noticeable crimson trace of fresh blood.

   As if continuing an unbroken chain of demonstrations of hidden power, a movement appeared at the edge of Morrigan’s vision, making her jerk her head nervously, searching for the source of the illusion. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly what had moved or where. But each time, she managed to make out individual fragments of the sensation more clearly. Now, it seemed something had slid in from outside, converging on Tristan from different sides. Like a grey carpet of rats, surging toward his feet from a multitude of cracks in a cave the moment a torch sputters out. A rustling, vague movement, and fear, merging with the darkness in unison.

   No devastating attack or miraculous magic followed the man’s action. The possessed suits of armor continued forward and, closing in, delivered a simple blow. A gauntleted fist whistled past Tristan’s head—he’d managed to duck, and droplets of sweat from his face splattered onto the steel fingers… The following kick from the second figure, descending from above, resonated in the ears like the strike of a bell, its long, fading hum vibrating in the empty core of the plate. But it also missed, as Tristan skillfully slipped aside, still not even attempting to counterattack. Morrigan didn’t understand the man’s plan or tactics as he again and again evaded blows, each of which promised him certain death. From the witch’s perspective, this dance with luck couldn’t last forever, and the potential payoff remained beyond her comprehension.

   Yet something was changing. The blows of the initially indifferent figures grew sharper, more hurried. Their precise, almost mechanical movements blurred ever so slightly. As if the demons inhabiting the metal were rushing to achieve some goal. It seemed unlikely to Morrigan that they’d been suddenly overcome by rage simply because Tristan kept slipping from the jaws of death. He was now openly gasping for air and… Then the witch remembered the Seeker’s words about every demon in such an inanimate shell craving to twist free and escape, even back beyond the Veil. But that meant the man, frantically dodging the hail of blows, was somehow damaging his foes simply by being near them…

   Choking back anger at her own blindness, Morrigan almost missed the moment when one suit of armor froze mid-motion, then the other. Beginning to tilt under the not-inconsiderable weight of the metal, the figures clanged heavily together and, with a sickly crash, collapsed onto the floor in pieces. Among the wreckage, only Tristan remained standing, but he didn’t look victorious for long. After two breaths, the man swayed to the side and crashed to the floor, matching his vanquished foes.

   * * *

   Bethany had narrowly escaped the worst—the table could have crushed her skull or shattered her spine. Instead, the girl got away with a broken left arm, instinctively thrown up to shield herself. And since the young mage had no experience in taking a blow on a shield, she’d positioned her hand in the worst possible way. Under the impact, some of the wrist bones had cracked, perhaps worse. The radius in her forearm had probably given way as well, though no severe displacement was apparent. Finally, the shoulder had been knocked out of joint by the blow, and resetting it wasn’t yet an option. Later, as the girl tumbled across the floor, the elbow joint of her injured arm bent at an unnatural angle on top of everything else. The minor bruises were too many to count, and among them, a proud bruise on her forehead from meeting the wall stood out.

   Thus, her only real luck was being alive.

   Under Morrigan’s gloomy gaze, which followed every movement, measuring it against her own hard-won experience, Tralin deftly fashioned a splint from furniture debris and leather straps. Switching his attention to the focused mage, he laconically concluded:

   — It’s bad.

   Nodding, the girl replied:

   — But well executed.

   Shrugging, the Templar reluctantly muttered:

   — Not the first time…

   — Does it not bother you that she’s gifted and unregistered?

   Tralin closed his eyes, massaged his forehead, and said dryly:

   — Few things bother me. That’s why I’m with a Seeker, and not guarding mages, hunting apostates, or roaming in search of the gifted.

   Mirroring the nod exactly, Morrigan shifted her gaze to Tristan, who had been unconscious for well over a dozen minutes. Finally, he opened his eyes—and his gaze, hazy with pain, met the witch’s.

   — Welcome back.

   The man glanced sideways at Bethany, licked his dry lips, and returned his attention to the mage.

   — Thank you.

   — How…

   Tristan raised his less battered hand, gesturing to cut off the first in a series of questions from the girl, and, wincing, said:

   — If I’ve revealed too much, don’t think I’ll spoon-feed you explanations.

   Morrigan grimaced, not even bothering to hide her agony of curiosity. But in the end, the girl shook her head, demonstrating acceptance and bewilderment. Inwardly, however, the mage smirked. Tristan’s tricks had already provided fertile ground for future contemplation. All that remained was a trifling detail: finding the time to piece the facts together and make considered guesses.

   Inspecting the doorway leading straight from the hall into the corridor with paintings and empty armor stands, Morrigan quietly uttered:

   — In this situation, almost anyone in your place would have withdrawn already.

   With difficulty sitting up and clutching his side in the process, the man drew a couple of noisy breaths before answering:

   — Stubbornness? No. — He clenched his teeth and exhaled. — The stakes are simply too high to give up. A situation like this won’t come together a second time. And time has long been against me.

   — Let’s hope we don’t regret those words before evening. But my mana is nearly…

   — Tralin. Retrieve what you left in the kitchen when you barred the doors behind us. And return.

   The Templar nodded, drew his blade, and moved off, following the trail of the squad. The mage raised her eyebrows in surprise, but that expression was immediately replaced by a mask of suspicion.

   — What is he talking about?

   — Lyrium concoction, of course. You’ll be able to replenish your mana before the next push.

   — But… Why? No. Wait. Why wasn’t the lyrium used earlier?

   — A trump card up our sleeve. Already played. There’s no point in keeping lyrium in reserve at a safe distance anymore.

   — At a distance?

   Tristan gave a bitter snort.

   — Enough questions. Help me up.

   Tralin returned shortly, confirming that the fortress was still quiet and, as far as a cursory glance could tell, the servants’ condition hadn’t changed. The Templar brought two oblong ceramic vials, polished on the outside. Both were promptly handed to Morrigan. Weighing the unexpected treasure on her palm, the girl asked:

   — Why don’t they finish us off?

   Tralin shrugged artlessly, and the Seeker answered:

   — Don’t rack your brains. Because it can’t. Otherwise, they would have killed us back when they dealt with the local army of the dead. Unlike the incident at Kinloch Hold, the emphasis is different here. Power and authority aren’t concentrated in a single place, making it impregnable and lethal. On the contrary, the influence is spread thinly across the entire Arling. Trusting the rumors even halfway—no, even a quarter—suggests this creature has reached a dozen places, several days’ journey from here. Like the snowfall outside the walls. How much snow falls on the southern shore of the lake in a day? Countless. And how significant is a single snowflake? But we’re only wasting time on doubts. Let’s go.

   The mage cast a final glance at her carefully arranged apprentice, still unconscious, and moved off after the men.

   Re-entering the corridor, the girl knocked back one lyrium concoction after another. The vile, tasteless liquid and the residual grit on her teeth unexpectedly triggered a pang of nostalgia.

   Checking four rooms on either side of the corridor, the diminished party discovered a library crammed with books. From the open tomes left here and there and candle stubs—some in candlesticks, others scattered in disarray on silver trays—it was clear this room had been in continuous use over the past few days. But the time had been spent here by someone who placed little value on order or the worth of things. Casting a darting glance from corner to corner, Morrigan came to a strange conclusion: the mysterious reader had been meticulously studying the geography around Redcliffe Fort. She also noted that, judging by the spines, the predominant portion of the library’s books related in one way or another to collections of travelogues, sketches, and diaries. Probably copies. Moreover, this body of works wasn’t limited to the homeland of the fortress’s owners. But besides that, it was easy to stumble upon works on the history, cartography, culture, and mineral wealth of Ferelden. The other three rooms housed a formal parlor, a cozy room for rest and tea, and an ascetic study. These rooms hadn’t been disturbed for at least a week.

   With the unpleasant creak of the old stair steps, the party steadily climbed to the second floor. A straight corridor, a couple of paces wide, began where the stairs ended and ran through the building in a straight line to its opposite edge. The walls were filled with portraits of the current Arl's ancestors from the Guerrin line. Stern men, chaste ladies full of dignity, and reservedly smiling youths. The number hinted at how far back into the centuries the roots of Lord Eamon stretched, and their modesty at the restraint preserved through generations. Their colors had faded, but the eyes were still alive, as if watching the uninvited guests. Light filtered through simple yet not inelegant stained-glass windows, placed beneath the ceiling at the opposite ends of the corridor. A compromise between security, beauty, and economy on candles and torches. Unobtrusive vases stood on decorative tables. For some reason, the red pattern with black outlines and rare flecks of dark yellow on a white background immediately told Morrigan it was the work of local artisans. In each, carefully dried summer flowers. A keen glance caught a child's wooden sword tossed under the nearest table. Just the right size for the Arl’s heir, Connor. This place was not a mausoleum of sanitized memory or an embodiment of power and wealth. It was a dwelling, a home, where every detail told stories of its owners, following the example of ancient Fereldan families not detached from their own land and people.

   And as soon as the party stepped off the stairs… a door creaked, as if sighing under the weight of centuries. A figure appeared in the doorway—too straight, too still to be fully human. As it stepped forward, the light fell on a face where arrogance wrestled with despair like two demons in one vessel. But the illusion dissipated, and it turned out to be merely a woman. Stately, tall by local standards, blessed by nature with generous curves. Her blonde hair was gathered in a practical bun, save for fine curls framing a pleasant, round face with a pair of pale green eyes and the distinctive nose of an eastern Orlesian native. Moderately adorned, an unpretentious burgundy satin dress emphasized what it should without flaunting anything extra. Through all this, traces of exhaustion and emotional strain peered through, each step threatened to crush what remained of the Lady. Yet in her gaze was an inappropriate arrogance, as if something alien watched from behind the cracks of a mask.

   Before the woman could open her mouth, an invisible torrent of force silently erupted from the Seeker. As unexpected as it was, given how battered Tristan appeared, it caught even the tense mage off guard. Especially since she sincerely believed the man had reached his limit downstairs in the hall. Cursing inwardly, the girl took stock of the surprise, strengthening her opinion: “Seekers” were not an “improved form of Templars,” but a phenomenon fundamentally different from them. And yet, thoughts of Tristan’s “pact” would not leave her alone.

   Washing over the Lady with no visible effect, the force seemed to rip away the foreign presence. Tears welled in the woman’s eyes, her hands trembled, and Lady Isolde sank to her knees, caring little for the pain or her dress. Her parched lips parted, whispering almost inaudibly:

   — My son… Save my son! Please…

   Then, from the open room, came the sound of a small body falling, and on the tormented mother’s face it became utter, hopeless horror…

Chapter Text

   The Lady’s brief hysteria lasted less than two minutes. Character, breeding—or perhaps reason—won out, and she rose from the floor and let the newcomers into the bedchamber. Though no fire had been lit for many days, the room was warm compared to the corridor, and the air lay heavy with scent. Frankincense dominated. A keen eye picked out a thin thread of bluish smoke drifting from a plain clay bowl on the mantel above the hearth. The other notes demanded a subtler nose. They hinted at something foreign—spiced, sharp, like a wind off the southern seas. The aroma tugged at the imagination, conjuring hazy silhouettes of sun-struck port cities and the murmur of crowded markets.

   Tristan drew a deep breath and muttered, almost to himself:

   — Cardamom and lemon rind. For breathing. An unexpected reminder of Kirkwall…

   Then the Seeker’s attention—followed by Morrigan’s—settled on the massive bed with dark, weathered oak posts at its corners. Beneath a worn but sturdy blanket, stark against the chamber’s luxury, lay a man. His face was sunken, skin pulled taut over his cheekbones like parchment; the sickness was consuming him. Once powerful—shoulders broad enough to bear armor and features sharp as if carved from stone—the Arl now resembled a desiccated shadow: skin over bone, breath reduced to the faintest flutter.

   A delicate bedside table, its legs as thin as a spider’s, stood by the bed. On it sat a massive silver tray stamped with a coat of arms, but Morrigan’s gaze slid past it to what lay on top… a finger-thick rectangle of fine malachite, its greens startlingly pure. Across its mirrored surface a rune of “Toth”—a cross with forked ends like serpent fangs, ringed by tongues of flame—had been traced in veins of lyrium. A masterpiece that had cost its maker his health… perhaps his sanity. It was the source of the room’s gentle warmth, and, with the shutters closed, it gave off a dim light—like a candle-flame stripped of its living flicker. As her eyes traced the elegant lines, Morrigan recalled how her mother had spoken of Tevinter’s dragon gods of ancient times and the runes tied to them—unrelated to spells. Flemeth would sketch symbols with a dry twig in trampled earth by the doorstep, speaking of them as if discussing roots or yesterday’s rain, without a trace of awe. Quite the opposite: she often scoffed at notions of ancient beings. The dragon “Toth,” “Master of the Forges of Fire.” And much later—the Archdemon.

   When Morrigan was young, one question had tormented her: how could a symbol denoting a huge dead lizard affect the “Waking”? But the moment Flemeth sensed her pupil linking the effect directly to the meaning people assigned to the image, the stubborn girl found herself scrubbing a sooty pot. The rune’s power came from a particular form of magic, worked into the slab with lyrium over years—if not decades. The symbol… the symbol was decoration, something people could pour meaning into. Most were trained to respect and value only form, not substance. Morrigan found it ironic that such an object lay beside a sick man’s bed, and not a symbol of the Chantry—or, say, the Chant of Light.

   Only then did she shift her attention. The witch stepped onto the worn bearskin rug by the bed and stopped before the youth’s body, over which the Seeker was already leaning. The Arl’s heir was perhaps seven or eight—ten at the most. Judging by the reddening bruise on his forehead from being thrown against the wall, the boy wasn’t pretending. And there was nothing in the room to suggest a supernatural presence as the source of the arling’s misfortunes. A room like any other. Once a cozy refuge from harsh routines…

   Tristan sighed, weariness and irritation leaking through, and said sharply:

   — Possession… but not a demon. A spirit, perhaps.

   He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

   — The boy is still here—not devoured. Though… who knows what goes on in his head.

   Isolde clenched her dress until her knuckles whitened. Her breath—relief first, then ragged—betrayed more than words: hope, immediately crushed by fear. Morrigan turned at the sound, studying the emotions flitting across the woman’s face. The Lady of the Keep tried to look at her husband’s gaunt features as if clinging to him, as though he were a bastion of constancy in a sea of raging emotion. Relief, anxiety, fear… regret and guilt? Tralin, standing guard by the door, tensed as if to step toward his Lady, but in the end he did not move.

   Crouching beside the Seeker, Morrigan asked cautiously:

   — Like Wynne?

   She narrowed her eyes.

   — Or worse?

   Startled, Tristan flicked a careful glance at Isolde and shook his head, uncertain.

   — Perhaps… Or perhaps not. The demon showed a frightening talent—and some grasp of strategy—striking at an entire region’s weak points, a region cut off from support by what’s unfolding everywhere. That’s far from ‘mediocre.’ Its power can seem overwhelming. But its grasp of nuance is still crude. To retreat beyond the Veil, taking the boy’s essence and mind with it… Let’s assume the creature’s behavior is no less complex than a mortal’s. What does that remind you of?

   — A beast that knows its ground,— Morrigan said. — With a hostage. And now you haven’t got a single true-blood Guerrin.

   — You think it’s from that crowd that understands perfectly well why I’m here?

   — The creature of the Fade definitely has ‘ears.’ In unexpected places.—

   — Yes…

   Rocking back on his heels, Tristan let himself sink to the floor, his back against the wall. He looked terrible, his unfocused gaze wandering over the ceiling and the decorative cornice. Unable to bear the weight of uncertainty, Lady Isolde asked softly, as if afraid to startle them:

   — Will you… will you end this nightmare? Expel the monster?

   Before answering, Morrigan scanned the room again, as if searching for a trick, and only then asked:

   — Nightmare?

   Isolde swallowed, groping for words, then exhaled slowly, letting some of the agitation drain away.

   — It… yes. It was like a nightmare. Every day—like a knife in the ribs: you see him fading, and you can’t even scream. You only watch as the blackness closes over him… and over you with it. At first… I tried to hold myself together. Keep my dignity. I clung to the ideals that once stirred me. But soon the truth crystallized: my husband’s duty meant far less than his life. I was ready for anything… even to destroy the fruits of his labor and achievements. Everything he was proud of. Let him despise me when he returned—if only he would return…

   — My son… day and night he worried for his father, for me… often alone… an abandoned child. I admit—though it makes it worse—that the moment that abominable creature took my son’s place passed unnoticed. I simply woke one day surrounded by familiar faces with empty eyes. It turned each of them into a doll. The same faces, the same voices… but behind the emptiness—alien thoughts, alien decisions. And then… when it compels you, you don’t feel pressure. Or coercion. You’re simply, painfully aware you would never act that way, never speak those words. But you do—and you say them. Again, and again, and again… Always wondering if anything of your son remains in the body you know so well. Yes… A hopeless, endless nightmare.

   Not hiding her surprise, Morrigan nodded.

   As if drowning… in a quagmire.

   She turned to Tristan, and her voice went cold as steel:

   — Well, Seeker? We’re here. Did you get what you wanted—or what you were permitted? A curious tale, I won’t deny. But it isn’t worth my dying. For you, it’s the opposite. So decide.

   Tristan blinked, focused on the girl, and rubbed his cheeks as if to scrape away fatigue.

   — You’re right. Well then… if we need a male-line heir—

   Lady Isolde cut in, carefully restraining her emotions.

   — I’ve heard this twice now. Why do you need the Guerrin bloodline? Did you not come here by order of the Chantry or the capital because of the dead rising from their graves?

   Morrigan shifted, leaning her back against the bed so that Tristan remained in front of her and she could watch the Lady of the Keep from the corner of her eye. Before he found an answer to the delicate question, Morrigan said plainly, without concealment:

   — The Guerrins are in the Ser’s sights for a reason. I’ve heard that ‘pure blood’ among Ferelden’s aristocracy has been worth its weight in gold since ancient times. And the Chantry’s interest lies in seeing bloodlines don’t die out unused—but serve. The benefit is theirs, of course. It’s easy to forget up here. But from the south the Blight presses in, and in the north the madness of civil war grows stronger around an empty throne. While blood isn’t flowing so freely that it’s as cheap as water, everyone is scrambling to secure their ‘treasure.’

   Tristan grimaced and spat, not without venom:

   — Why…?

   Morrigan smiled like a cat noticing the tremble of wings on a trapped bird. Lady Isolde’s eyelids twitched—steel nerves finally faltering, old political reflexes stirring against her will at the bluntly stated facts.

   — Vindictiveness, Seeker. You’ve earned that bite twice over. First, because you toss my name around like trash. Second, because the wind has turned. This isn’t about who’s stronger—it’s about who needs whom. Your motives are plain as day. If it were only personal interest, you’d have satisfied it without dragging an unpredictable fighter into a pointless struggle. But the Ser doesn’t put personal matters before duty. Nor does he discard a sharp blade before battle because there’s a blasphemous engraving on the hilt. I solved a similar problem in the Circle—and it seems I condemned myself to torment.

   Again Morrigan caught the twitch of Isolde’s fingers at the mention of the Circle and everything tied to it. Tristan rubbed the bridge of his nose, but the tremor in his hand betrayed him: pain, fatigue, anger… or fear? He nodded slowly, accepting facts sharp as daggers.

   — Fine. Do you even have an idea what to do next?

   — Do it ‘your way’?

   — Even so.

   Morrigan grimaced, replying more quietly:

   — Hard to imagine.

   Tristan shook his head, incredulous.

   — It’s simple here. We know the answer to ‘why.’ Without Wynne, there’s no chance to improve the Arl’s condition. Obvious—and regrettable. And time is always against us. Waiting is like taking another knife in the back, and we’re unlikely to survive the next one the way we survived this one. Since the creature fled beyond the Veil, our options are few. And if we’re to wrench the boy from its claws… we’re left with one solution.

   The darkening gold of Morrigan’s pupils, the slight dip of her head, spoke for her better than any frozen expression.

   — Is that so… Yes. Bethany isn’t suited for that. This isn’t a heroic feat—it’s an elaborate murder.

   — Yes and no.

   — Nicely put. Enough empty talk. Where’s the lyrium you need?

   — We’ll make do with what we have.

   Morrigan raised an eyebrow, interest flickering at the speed of the exchange.

   — The Pact allows this too?

   Tristan faltered. A pause hung in the air, thick as tar, underlining his involuntary lie.

   — In part. But it will be enough for us.

   — The answer is no,” Morrigan said softly. “And you know it.

   Tristan swallowed an impulsive reaction and asked his question without words, lifting his brows. Morrigan studied him, then let her head fall back onto the blanket and closed her eyes. When she spoke again, irritation and anger edged every word:

   — It’s hard to judge what matters amid a riot of bright colors—your plans, the Chantry’s plans, a mother’s desperation, politics. Expectations, expectations… I don’t give a damn. I’m not here of my own free will. There was no personal interest. And if there’s only one outcome, why take the difficult path?

   — Nothing answers to—

   Morrigan’s eyes snapped open, meeting his sharp, cold gaze.

   — The words that nearly left your mouth—the very attempt to spit them out—are offensively primitive. Either your powers of observation are strangely selective, or I misjudged the sharpness of your mind. Altruism? Not my element. Not yours. You and I are two of a kind. Lie to yourself less. While you flee the truth and wrap yourself in faith and duty…

   Without warning, Lady Isolde cut into the rising argument. The words, shot through with smoldering anger, seemed aimed at no one—yet their target was plain:

   — Mages of the Circle…

   Her voice trembled.

   — Always the same. You rebel when it’s convenient, and when your power is needed—you hide behind dogma. Less risk, a full belly, and closer to the inkwell.

   Tristan’s cheekbones tightened like a drawn bow. He forced the words through his teeth:

   — Your arrow missed, my Lady. Morrigan does not belong to the Circle. That’s the catch.

   Isolde’s stunned gaze jumped from the man to the girl as she tried to reshuffle everything she’d already learned. Her picture of events no longer fit together as neatly. Tristan, meeting her blazing look without flinching, said:

   — It was foolish to hope for a different outcome. What’s the price?

   — Well, well… shouldn’t you have started with threats to Bethany and Leliana?

   — A waste of time. That’s what you truly threaten. Whatever it looks like from the outside, you’re not the sort to die for ideas, convictions, or stubborn pride. I wouldn’t bet on that—not even for… partners. Even if you called them friends. You calculate risk. Or close to it. So spare me the arguments and answer the question.

   — Your Pact,— Morrigan said. — Everything I want to know. Everything you can do to share it.

   — Simplicity is not your forte. In the Circle you rummaged through books; here you dig through other people’s secrets. I can scarcely imagine what use you could make of it—especially now. And the very idea of helping… brings me no joy.

   — And?

   — The answer is obvious.

   — You’ll have to squeeze it out of yourself.

   Tristan let out a short sigh and gave what was required:

   — Yes.

   — Splendid. How will this be done—sending a mage’s consciousness beyond the Veil? My mother never taught such a thing. Perhaps for good reason. What I managed to glean from the Circle says one thing: the Harrowing is complex, and it requires lengthy preparation.

   With a barely audible groan, Tristan drew his legs in, bent his knees, and pushed himself up, back to the wall. Looking down at Morrigan, he answered succinctly:

   — The Harrowing is a tribute to tradition. Much of it is symbolic. Safety against possession outweighs practicality and speed—and lyrium demands extra precautions. We don’t need any of that. Still, we should move to another room before we begin.

   Morrigan rose and gave a short nod. Then she addressed Tralin:

   — Since it’s come to this… it’s warm and safe here. Bethany should be moved.

   The templar looked to the squad’s leader. With a nod, the man gave consent and flicked his eyes meaningfully toward Connor’s body. Tralin returned a slight bow and strode off, leaving Lady Isolde in renewed bewilderment. Wincing at the pain in his side, Tristan muttered:

   — Is that… concern? After your words…

   — Pragmatism. Answer me this instead: why does it seem the Chantry’s plan, through you, hinges on me? A needle’s eye.

   — Fate.

   Morrigan smirked—briefly, caustically, as if spitting in his face without a sound.

   — Fate? A convenient excuse for those afraid to admit you’re just a pawn in someone else’s game.

   Frowning, Tristan went on:

   — As you ask it, so I’ll answer it. The ‘plan,’ as you crudely put it, never hinged on specific individuals. When there are options, some are simply more attractive and lead to fewer senseless deaths. Priorities imply flexibility, but no one could have predicted what happened at Kinloch Hold or at Redcliffe Fort. Chance played its part. And amid the tragedies, a Seeker happened to be at the Chantry’s disposal on other business—one who happened to have in hand… a ‘wild card.’

   Listening intently, Lady Isolde opened the room opposite—evidently a storeroom for the Arl’s hunting trophies. Judging by the number and variety of stuffed beasts and antlers, the collection spanned more than one generation of Guerrins. Tristan pointed to a carpet from northern Rivain—vibrant as tropical butterfly wings, its patterns as if woven from the northern lights. He stopped Isolde, who had followed, with a shake of his head. Kneeling, Morrigan ran her palm over the dense pile.

   — Yes. A needle’s eye. The path to exclusivity…

   — What?

   — Just… a strange thought. So?

   — Lie down. Breathe. As you said—‘exclusivity.’ That will be the price I’ll pay.

   — Just don’t ‘forget’ your promise. I wonder… do deeds like this cling to the memory?

   Overcoming the pain, Tristan knelt beside her and took her hand. Not fully understanding, he gave a restrained shrug.

   — Depends on who. Mages who survive crossing into the Fade usually try to forget it for the rest of their days—often unsuccessfully. That’s why research moves slowly, and why it’s done in terrible secrecy. If you mean me… I’d like to forget a great deal too. I hope this won’t be added to that list. For the inconsolable mother behind the door—absolutely, whatever the outcome. For the others, it’s harder to vouch. Pick one point. Concentrate. And be silent.

   Tristan closed his eyes. Morrigan stared at the ceiling, her face suggesting a single question: what will it feel like? Minutes passed, and nothing unusual happened. In fact, nothing happened at all—only breathing: her own steady rhythm and the tense one of the man beside her. Until a dull thud reached her ears, the sound of a body hitting the floor. She turned her head—and found no trace of her companion…

   What had Morrigan expected? Her notions came only from her mother’s tales, which never explained how Flemeth knew this or that fact. Still, she’d carried instinctive expectations—something that could be summed up in one phrase: “fragments of reality floating in an ocean of eternal chaos.” Reality proved far more prosaic… and far more terrifying. Instead, mundanity closed around her—save for two or three details.

   First, the silence. Not the hush of early morning, when everything stills before sunrise—the air, the forest, even the clouds and birds. This silence pressed against her eardrums until a single instinct pulsed in her temples: “Scream!” Second, the moment she fixed on the ceiling, dizziness washed through her. Instead of what she’d expected, she met a “reflection” of the room above—at least, it seemed so. The obvious difference was that she herself was absent from it. And the reflection was not a mirror at all: it obeyed its own laws. Soon another impossibility surfaced—the upward-pointing antlers tangled with their own reflection, weaving a pattern that could not exist.

   If not for those anomalies, she might have believed she was still in Redcliffe Fort—like a vague dream snapped into crystalline clarity.

   Morrigan stood, shook her head, and gathered her scattered thoughts, forcing them toward the goal: find Connor, and the demon that held him in a grip not omnipotent, but firm.

   Suddenly, from behind—right by her ear, and yet from very far away—a deep bass voice sounded, almost musical:

   — Got you, vermin.

   Morrigan whipped around and looked up. In the “reflection” loomed a massive, asymmetrical figure, as if carved from violet iolite. It gazed down at her with three pairs of eyes, an unnaturally vivid blue, and a dozen horns that curled in random arcs. Then an oddly large palm swept her aside, hurling the witch against the nearest wall…

   * * *

   At first, Morrigan felt as if she were floating down a quiet river, losing all sense of direction. But soon her senses began to recover their unwelcome sharpness, jerking her out of her reverie. As if that weren’t enough, a sharp, knife-like pain lanced through her right shoulder, forcing her to remember every detail that had led to her present, crippled state. And she could hardly decide what was worse: all of that, or the way every vivid gradation of pain reached her more keenly than it had in the past month.

   Above her, in the “reflection,” the warped figure of the demon—recognizable as Pride—still loomed over Morrigan. The same deep voice, seemingly indifferent to distance, continued its monologue:

   — Nothing is forgotten. It is repulsive that such a cowardly trifle interferes with the plan. Not once—twice over.

   Tensing and fighting nausea, Morrigan sat up, shifting toward the wall so she could lean against it and exhale in ragged pulls. A question worried at her mind: why was the pain so sharp here, in this place? So vivid… And then it clicked. The important thing was “where,” not “how” or “why.” After all, Morrigan was not physically present in the Fade. Which meant her perception of what was happening mattered no less than the events themselves. One did not follow neatly from the other; they were knotted together. Strangely, it was almost pleasant to feel a shred of her old “normalcy” returning. With that thought, the pain in her shoulder eased—not gone, not healed, but dulled. Morrigan managed to flex her stubborn fingers. She ran her tongue over intact teeth, tasted blood, spat, and smiled as she replied:

   — So much self-criticism in so few words. Everything a mighty demon devised, shattered into a thousand pieces by a single “cowardly trifle.” And how often great pride blinds itself to great folly is hardly rare.

   She expected a reaction—something faintly human. But the demon only seared her with its unnaturally blue eyes. Looking closer, Morrigan began to make out a pale ring—like the outer edge of a pupil—and a blank white rim, featureless beyond that. Still without any visible mouth or maw, the next words came:

   — The poison in your words is a sign of defeat.

   Morrigan couldn’t hold her expression. She twisted her mouth; the phrase scraped painfully at her pride.

   — Why hesitate, then?

   — Hesitate? A strange question. What needed to happen has happened. Ah… You expect open aggression as the final beat of your revenge, the plunge into chaos while a chance remains. No. Crushing what embodies your existence is tempting, but such an end is too fleeting. Worse, you might return to the dream you crawled out of. And tormenting your mind would take time you’re not worth spending. So you will remain here, among reflections—indefinitely—languishing in powerlessness.

   The demon’s massive figure shifted. Morrigan leaned forward.

   — I came from a dream? I am not like you: echoes of mortals’ urges and emotions, feeding on fragments and after-sounds.

   Giving her less attention now, the demon fixed only three of its six pupils on her.

   — There is something strange in you: a glimmer of the real wrapped so tightly in shreds of illusion that no detail can be made out. But your delusions are typical. The dull yet arrogant faith in your own uniqueness—like a fleeting moment believing itself eternity without beginning or end. You are all echoes of the dream of minds that wove what you call the “Waking.” Shadows dancing on walls at the whim of fire. And like shadows, you know only a sliver of existence. Nothing will force the truth on you more surely than your inability to escape these reflections, you little forgery. For even the “magic” your hopes cherish is unreachable here—like everything that never truly belonged to you.

   Struck by the demon’s tirade, Morrigan blinked, struggling to find even a few words for a worthy retort. But the demon stood before her—and then, without sound or motion, vanished, just as it had appeared. Her hand, meanwhile, had almost returned to normal, leaving only a dull ache in the shoulder with sharp movement. Getting to her feet, she massaged her wrist and spoke quietly into the emptiness:

   — If we are reflections, isn’t it foolish to chase them so ferociously?

   With a sigh, her first act was to try to shape a familiar spell: “Winter’s Grasp.” The runes obediently arranged themselves into the necessary pattern; mana gathered—then nothing followed. The demon had not lied. A moment later the unstable pattern fell apart, lingering only in memory. Frowning, Morrigan stared at her hands, clenched into fists. Magic had always been an extension of her body. Yes, herbs could cloud the mind and make spellwork stumble. Poisons could warp perception, break the ability to feed a runic chain with mana. But for a spell—runes aligned, mana present—to simply… disintegrate for no reason? Like taking a warrior’s blade before battle.

   Morrigan closed her eyes and slowly smoothed the turmoil of her emotions. There was no sense wasting mana on repeated attempts. Nor did she see any prospect now in a fight with the captor of the Arl’s son. With magic, she’d retained some chance. With bare hands? She had no burning desire to test that.

   Setting doubts aside, Morrigan headed for the door—the only exit from this kaleidoscope. Pinching her cheek wasn’t enough to return. Flemeth had sometimes mentioned that certain poets compared such journeys to vivid dreams. But immediately afterward the witch would sternly reprimand her daughter: in practice there were many degrees of a traveler’s “presence” in the Fade, each with its own limits, threats, and advantages. And then, catching herself—realizing her young pupil had drawn her into talking again—the mother would fall silent for a long time, refusing to answer new questions.

   Whatever power lay behind Tristan’s pact remained a mystery, but in rough terms this breach of the Veil resembled the Harrowing. And that meant it required more than “shaking oneself awake.” In the Circle’s trial one was meant to seek help from the “locals,” which Morrigan flatly dismissed. An alternative might be a “rift” in the surrounding mirage—something she could slip through. She was confident of that. The confidence, of course, was founded on nothing at all, but there was no time for doubt…

   The door swung open without the faint creak she remembered from when Isolde had opened it—as if to remind her this place was only a semblance. But beyond it waited something impossible: the same trophy room, as though in a maze of mirrors. In two quick glances Morrigan confirmed the likeness was not superficial. The number and arrangement of trophies matched. Yet the details differed: a slightly altered pattern on the carpet, a shift of carving here, an antler’s curve there. The hair at the back of her neck tried to rise. An icy shiver followed: the demon had spoken the truth. These rooms were reflections—almost identical, but made monstrous by their minute differences. And instead of a ceiling, the new room again had an inverted copy above.

   The moment she crossed the threshold, the door swung shut in silence—too soft to be natural. Instinctively turning, Morrigan confirmed it wasn’t her imagination. Her thoughts threatened to bolt, throwing up frantic theories about how this could be. Instead, she walked to the nearest set of deer antlers hanging at eye level and, throwing her weight into it, tore them free of their plaque. She opened the door again and wedged it with the trophy so it could not close. Stepping over her improvised obstacle, Morrigan found herself in another copy of the same room. And yet… casting a glance at the spot on the floor where she had recently spat, she found only clean boards.

   Silence. Minutes stretched as Morrigan, teeth clenched, analyzed the situation. A labyrinth of reflections… how to find the way out? Finally, sweeping her gaze over the trophies lining the walls, she chose a conspicuous mount and, without hesitation, twisted its neck with a crunch. On her way back, she kicked the antlers aside and closed the door. Exhaling slowly, she pulled the handle again. The next “old” room appeared—intact mount, no trace on the floor. She repeated the act in a new way, methodically reproducing the sequence. This time, at last, a room opened on cool, worn flagstones marked by a smear of blood.

   For nearly an hour Morrigan moved from room to room, ceaselessly opening and closing the door. The work came with a sullen expression and wanton vandalism, without a flicker of remorse. A map steadily formed in her mind; with each step it began to resemble the layered structure of a complex spell, with connections not only across a single plane but also to neighbors above and below. And the moment she thought to watch the “ceiling” as well, she caught a ripple that ran across the apparently flat image of the “reflection” with each slam of the door. Then the room above shifted—changed—into its next state. The discovery gave her trained mind the missing clue to grasp the trap’s overall design. And it justified Pride’s words at Kinloch Hold.

   There were eight copies of the Guerrins’ trophy room. And just as memory fails in trivial details, each copy was subtly different from the next. Each room offered three possible outcomes beyond the door, cycling in a fixed order. The “reflection” above was no exception; it obeyed the same rule.

   Exhausted, Morrigan sank onto the carpet—the only thing in this cursed room that did not whisper of death—and mechanically ran her palm over the pile. The coarse fabric scratched her skin, as if to remind her: even the illusion of comfort here was not real. And the new knowledge offered her nothing useful. The structure was closed in on itself. It didn’t even allow for an “exit.”

   Sprawling on the carpet and clasping her hands behind her head, Morrigan closed her eyes, forcing herself to imagine the puzzle as a layered spell. Nine runes. She stripped away the superfluous. Seven positions remained. But there were eight rooms… so an extra place had to sit aside. In the end, to make the scheme match the facts, she had to allow connections that felt—inside her mind—literally impossible between positions.

   Frowning, she let a smirk tug at the corners of her mouth. Not long ago she’d been astonished to see truths familiar to her arrive as revelations to other mages. What protected her from a reversal of roles? Only the blindness of pride. In the end it came down to imagination—and a foundation of logic. Sword and shield. Letting her thoughts range, she returned to the problem. Those “impossible connections” could be understood the same way she’d tried to translate what she’d observed in demons into her own spellwork. Something clicked, like pieces of a complex mechanism sliding into place.

   Suddenly, in the midst of silence, a question surfaced—so obvious it was absurd it had taken so long. What was easier? To shift runes into new positions in the instant a spell filled with mana… or, against habit and common sense, to accept that runes could be linked as if adjacent even when, by known rules, they were not. Shaking her head, Morrigan let herself assume the first method might be nothing more than an untrained mind’s attempt to interpret the counter-intuitive nature of the second. Recalling the principles of spell construction, she cautiously agreed. A hunch bolstered her: by moving runes, one could mimic layering even within the traditional “flat” embodiment used by Circle mages.

   Grimacing, she tried to invent precise names for the new links between runes. No everyday analogy fit. In the end it became something like “inside” and “outside”—a peculiar addition to “above,” “below,” “left,” “right,” “in front,” and “behind.” But it was far too early to celebrate. Her guesses could be wrong. And even if she was right, a long road of training and methodical work lay ahead before any timid attempt could be made in practice…

   She opened her eyes and stared at the carpet pattern above, in the “reflection.”

   — Ugh… If you get stuck here too long, you might never get out…

   Morrigan winced. She understood: if she lingered here, the demons would finish off the Seeker and the last inhabitants, showing new tricks she could not yet anticipate. Whatever the Chantry’s plans, this region would become largely useless to them in the sense Tristan had described. Worse, she doubted his ability to put up much resistance. Coldly assessing the blood and life he spent on his own “spells,” she could roughly estimate how much it had cost to send her mind into the Fade. Too much…

   She stepped back inside herself and returned to the original problem. If the trap was flawless, of course there was no escape. But what if it wasn’t? Morrigan murmured:

   — If there’s more pride in “Pride” than skill…

   Effort was for what could be reached. So she accepted the idea of a flaw as her starting point. Slowly scanning the seam where the two reflections met, she asked herself what mistake a demon might make. Squinting, she plucked one thought from the swarm: how would she build such a trap? And how would she hide… the imperfection? Snapping her fingers, she spoke aloud, slowly:

   — I understand how to move rooms. So rooms don’t appear from nothing. They connect again and again—quickly… but “quickly” isn’t “instantly.”

   She rose and returned to the door. The only apparent weakness in the puzzle was the simultaneous existence of two exits: the door below and the “door” above. If there were two doors… were paired connections even necessary when there was only room for one? She stroked her thumb over the cool bronze of the handle, polished as if by a thousand touches. The detail felt more real than floor or wall—as if someone had memorized the sensation of a palm against it down to the smallest grain.

   — So. That instant when the room above shifts—perhaps that’s the only crack to the outside. Assuming it isn’t fantasy. And how would I…

   Morrigan looked up, judging whether she could climb. With antlers and mounts, nothing could be simpler. Without delay she scrambled up the wall, breaking only two or three exhibits. At the boundary she felt a strange tension: her upper body already pulled toward the floor of the new room, telling her head—without argument—which way was up and which was down, while her lower half still tugged the other way.

   In the end the problem was simple and brutal: how to use the crack at all. For the first time, Morrigan felt pinned by limitation. The Fade’s great obstacle for any traveler was this: unlike its inhabitants, you could not freely change your form, your perception, or the things themselves. Experience, which should have been a tool, turned into fetters.

   Two facts irritated her most. First, the lack of options—real ideas—forcing her forward blind, trying at random. Second, the kind of ideas she was driven to. She knew that for the past week—perhaps two—she had lived inside another’s will and desire. By contrast, the moments when she’d raged against circumstance now seemed childish and selfish. And here she was, seriously considering the power that had always repelled her most: the spell of transformation.

   She did not expect it to “turn the game on its head.” But Flemeth’s formula seemed to draw not only on mana, but on the caster’s blood and flesh. Would that difference be enough to make the spell take hold here, where magic itself seemed not to work? And another question followed immediately: how would magic bound so tightly to flesh function where there was no flesh—no body—at all?

   Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Morrigan let out a long sigh. Knowledge of the Fade was like religion or philosophy: many words, few facts, fewer still that could be proved. She didn’t even know where this idea had come from. Flemeth had never gone into fine detail. And young Morrigan, learning magic, had cared more about how to strike, flee, and survive.

   She discarded weak objections and anxieties until only one remained: why not? And nothing worthy rose to oppose it…

   As before, mana slid easily into the spell’s pattern—and then, against her skepticism, the transformation began. A wave of conflicting feelings swept her: the sweetness of success, the gnawing dread of using this strange magic again, and the familiar, pulling numbness. Like a steep snow slope that steals direction and replaces one movement with the next, the emotions swapped places without mercy. Only the usual sounds—skin tearing, joints and bones cracking—were absent. The change happened in an ominous, unnatural silence. Fortunately, it did not drag on; it reached its end swiftly.

   A quick inspection revealed two differences. The minor one was clothing. Morrigan had imagined it as an “idea,” which made sense if only her mind was present here. She had even been curious what the spell would do to her appearance. The answer was dull: her garments melted into her flesh as if, here, both were the same. In the end, as last time, only altered flesh remained—interesting, for several reasons.

   The important change was vision. Two images came to her at once: evening twilight in a forest and an Orlesian veil of fine gossamer. Both obscured detail without blocking the whole. Now it seemed the obstruction had fallen away. Morrigan could scarcely believe how limited her perception had been minutes ago. So much had been hidden in plain sight. Now she could trace how the walls, converging toward the imagined dividing line of the “reflections,” curved outward instead—never meeting, never joining, but intersecting. And it became clear that once you began to climb, you could continue ascending the chosen wall without ever touching the other.

   Gathering herself, Morrigan acted. With claws that found purchase as if they belonged, she scrabbled upward, concentrating on motion and the small patch of wall beneath her. Only after a minute of rhythmic ascent did she dare to look around.

   There was plenty to see. She was on the outside of an enormous—something. Morrigan struggled for a definition; she had never perceived anything like it in life. From the side she could see eight rooms at once, intersecting yet separate, parts of something larger. And she herself, like a fly, clung to the bare, stretching wall of one room. When she focused on the creaky, dry sensations beneath her fingers, the surface gained solidity, losing the transparency it had possessed a moment before.

   The essential thing was that she was “outside.” Up and down here were determined only by eye; other senses offered nothing. The “sky” was grey haze, in which details were hard to pick out, yet slow, chaotic movement without beginning or end seemed to pervade it. Morrigan could not bring herself to call it cloud or mist. Any detail dissolved into distance—and the longer she looked, the more the movement felt colossal, overwhelming in scale.

   The only anchor for the gaze was a deep blue-black rock floating at an indeterminate distance, with a building rooted there. A majestic palace—architecture unfamiliar to Morrigan—rose as if carved from black obsidian and adorned with dark gold, almost blood-colored. Even from afar the masterpiece looked lifeless, long abandoned, frozen in time…

   “Below,” by the logic of sight, lay Redcliffe Fort. Like the distant palace, the fortress stood on its own slab of rock surrounded by emptiness. Once she forced herself to track small details, Morrigan became convinced: the recreation was crude, distorted in places. And the “trap” hung above the buildings like ripe fruit on a branch.

   She did not waste time on contemplation. Morrigan moved deftly toward the roof of the fortress’s main building. A jump that contained disorientation, flight, and fall ended successfully. Only after anchoring herself to the massive roof tiles did she let herself look around again.

   No sound. No smell. Not even the slightest movement of air. The uniform light had no source and cast no shadow. After a minute of working at a window, Morrigan was inside a familiar corridor, sliding silently along the ceiling toward the Arl’s bedchamber.

   She paused at the door and listened. She hardly expected to overhear anything in the Fade. By all accounts, any boundary divided “here” and “there” by more than a wall. But for a mage, caution was not excessive—even if it reeked of paranoia. And since there was, in truth, no other choice, she gathered her courage, dropped to the floor, and flung the door open…

   A voice, breaking with adolescence and full of fear braided with puffed-up irritation, greeted her:

   — Why did you pull me out of…

   The Arl’s bedroom, in Eamon’s absence, looked authentic. Morrigan had no time for decor. Two figures stood by the bed. The first—tall and gaunt, a head taller than any tall man—belonged to a demon. It resembled a desiccated mummy that had retained enough flesh for the contours to suggest unmistakably a female form. And the eyes: two piercing gemstones, burning an intense blue against ashen, wrinkled skin. The second figure was easy to recognize as Connor, the Arl’s son.

   Cut off mid-sentence, both turned to the newcomer at once—but their reactions differed. Connor flinched, taking half a step back and placing himself precisely between two monsters. He interpreted what he saw at face value. The demon, however, merely lifted a weary hand and spoke in a surprisingly melodic, soothing voice, neither male nor female:

   — The Pride of Elevation has always suffered from overconfidence. And you, as I told him, are a fidgety, slippery little worm. I wish I knew for certain: are your thoughts empty, or do some of them reach higher than ours? Pride is convinced you are a shard doomed to vanish in the seething maelstrom of change—and therefore an adversary, though an insignificant one. Yet Pride himself managed to stumble over a minor obstacle. And this is the result. But reaching the end is not enough; one must know what to do with it. Do you know?

   Morrigan slowly shook her head, hiding neither surprise nor wariness. Her gaze slid over the demon, weighing each detail, before she spoke, drawing the word out slightly:

   — Desire…

   — A good guess.

   Morrigan bared a long row of needle-like teeth.

   — I’ve had… luck. What could break a young mage’s will at his father’s deathbed? I’ll go further: you feed on a certain kind of desire. The desire for a loved one’s return, for the dead to rise. That’s the source of your fondness for corpses…

   The demoness shrugged, almost human, smiling peacefully.

   — A predictable display of wit, memory, and logic. I confess, I like those who yearn to reclaim what is lost—especially when it concerns loved ones.

   An elegant yet grotesque gesture—given the demoness’s appearance—settled on Connor’s shoulder. He flinched but did not move from the line between the two women. The demoness continued:

   — As part of Ghaskang’s retinue, I know how to handle the remains of these primitive, flat-born creatures of dream. But there is a detail. Your… current state is pure weakness and vulnerability. Cunning alone is not enough. Here, for example: a desire lies buried in a dark corner of the mind, like a filthy stain. One might expect it to be a clever feint, but here it is different. The desire has taken root—become real. Oh… unexpected. A fear that your mother exists only in memory and is, perhaps, already lost. Against all logic, that fear feeds the desire to return to bygone days… Yes… Such foolishness is inexplicable.

   Morrigan sensed the threat and yet could neither respond nor understand its shape. With a sharp flick of her wrist, the demoness—without moving—seemed to reach into the very core of the mage and seize her by the spine. Numbness flooded outward from that point, pinning Morrigan’s body so completely she could not move a finger.

   — A trick requiring some knowledge, certain conditions… and a great deal of true light. Oh—you call it “mana.” You see, dear Connor? We will deal with this monster who delayed our plans, and then return to our task. An important task. And when all is finished, you will receive what was promised. So there is no room for idle argument.

   Connor opened his mouth to object, but he caught himself, casting a wary glance at Morrigan. He fell silent and, without noticing, stepped closer to the already familiar evil. Yet curiosity pushed through fear:

   — You address that thing as if it were one of us, not one of your kind.

   The demoness lifted a brow, shifting her gaze from the boy to the captive whose back arched under the pressure of an alien force.

   — Indeed… it is.

   Meanwhile, Morrigan’s mind—trapped—boiled with futile attempts to find a loophole. Thoughts whipped in a wild vortex, offering one barren idea after another. And from the black nothingness of despair, something dark and ugly finally crawled out.

   Again she found herself at the lip of that black chasm in memory. She never forgot it, despite its strange habit of slipping into oblivion, and she tried not to summon it without need. The solution born there was desperation made flesh. Morrigan guessed the Fade-creature slipped into the mind through the open wound of a fresh loss—oozing longing and grief. A thin trickle was enough. For the demon these were not abstractions but something tangible, as if it could see them laid out before it. And the power it wielded over Morrigan reached her only because of the contradictory image of Flemeth living inside her.

   So if Morrigan tore the memory of her mother from her own mind, she could free herself—become invulnerable to the creature’s touch, and cast off the shackles of the past forever.

   Yet something in her recoiled, finding the idea vile. In that instant, Morrigan understood with brutal clarity: in many ways she had been shaped by the very memory she would have to sacrifice. Shared days, conversations—those recollections still formed her, made her who she believed herself to be. Not a noose. A source. To lose it would be to renounce herself.

   The thought rang through her like a struck bell, and with effort her attention dragged itself from the demon’s mocking blue eyes to the youth playing the victim. From the gloom in her mind, curiosity flared—ugly, bright, and shaking—shot through with arrogance, and envy. What, exactly, had the demon done? How?

   Morrigan felt hot blood running from the corners of her mouth, forced tight by an alien grip, down to her chin. Felt pain lance through joints wrenched toward cracking. Felt muscles drawing into cords. Felt seconds stretch with the slowing, resonant rhythm of her heart. In utter silence, life was being squeezed from her body, drop by drop. And one thought worried at her, stubborn as a burr: why had the demon mentioned mana?

   Images of known spells that bound caster and victim rose in her mind. Bare distortions in the air—like heat shimmer in cold—coiled in a dense ribbon between source and target. Following that thread, Morrigan began to see similar streams between her and the demoness’s fist, appearing only to dissolve and reappear. Whatever the creature was doing did not resemble a binding chain so much as the sheets of a lashing downpour—complex, demanding a virtuoso control Morrigan could only envy. Like a host of trivial spells whose dance gave birth to something greater than their sum.

   Traces of magic crawled across her body. And at the edge of her vision she saw the traces spiral, chaotically, around the wrists—then vanish at the fingers, absorbed into the skin without a mark.

   Morrigan snapped her attention back to her opponent. Malice coiled inside her, and by sheer will she reversed the transformation. As if ignoring the external grip, her flesh began to change again, returning to normal—and the demon’s paralyzing hold began to weaken. Sensing its prey slipping away, Desire frowned. And Connor’s eyes flew wide as he watched the dark-haired girl emerge from the monster-shape.

   Morrigan did not waste a heartbeat. The instant she had freedom, she lunged for the youth, fixing him with a gaze that shimmered crimson-gold. Connor still stood between two fires. So she ducked under the demoness’s arm as it reached past him, caught him easily despite his futile recoil, and—baring her teeth in a savage grin—sank them into the Arl’s son’s throat.

   Teeth pierced skin, muscle, tendon, vessel. With steely discipline she held in her mind the remembered shape of her transformed maw, the moments when, monstrous, she had torn flesh from the possessed. Overriding every preconception about her own body, Morrigan tore out Connor’s throat.

   A silent rasp choked in him; horror filled his eyes as he began to collapse, dragged sideways by the predator’s weight. Over his shoulder the demoness’s face appeared. In genuine confusion she reached for the body of her precious puppet, having no idea what to do next.

   And the world around them—rebuilt from the young mage’s memories—had already begun to crumble, turning to grey ash that, defying all sense, streamed upward.

   Hot blood—sweet and metallic—filled Morrigan’s mouth. She did not see but felt Connor’s consciousness gutter out, and her own body tipping through the Veil back into the Waking. Reflexively she swallowed, then spat toward the fading image of the demoness as she exhaled:

   — I’ll remember your hints…

   Then her body fell—never reaching the surface. And the mage, breathing convulsively, clutching her chest where her heart ached, blinking hard to drag the world into focus, woke on the carpet in a room filled to the rafters with the hunting trophies of the Guerrins.

   * * *

   Morrigan stood over Tristan where he lay, frowning, unconsciously worrying her lower lip. His left arm was gone entirely. Bandages soaked in a healing compound bound the ragged stump below the elbow. Something had severed the limb—through muscle, tendon, and bone—with surgical precision. Tristan himself, though he looked corpse-pale, was breathing: slow, heavy pulls. Blood loss could explain the state he was in, but Morrigan suspected another influence as well, with no illusions that the Seeker would wake soon.

   Many hours had passed since the moment the girl had “fallen asleep” and her first conscious breath. Long enough for night to yield to a new dawn. Morrigan knew nothing of an uneven flow of time beyond the Veil. Logic suggested that if it were possible, mages would have built whole schools of theory around it. Or else demons would have become the dominant force in both worlds an eternity ago.

   Either way, she’d lost time—either in the passage into the Fade, or in the return with Connor. Perhaps in both. As for the Arl’s son: once Morrigan had more or less pulled herself together and found no sign of the Seeker—except for the frightening pool of clotted blood beside the carpet—she had gone to the opposite bedchamber. Nothing there had changed in the meantime. Only Isolde looked spent; the dried blood on her elegant hands and the stains on her dress made it plain that, “highborn” or not, the woman could tend wounds—and do it bravely. Set against the abundance of hunting trophies, Morrigan drew a likely conclusion: more than once, the mistress of the castle had had to patch up her husband after an ill-starred encounter with some beast, while also directing the treatment of the other participants in the noble pastime. Connor lay there too, to the left of his father, and he was little better.

   At that moment Isolde roused, lifted a weary gaze to the mage in the doorway, and managed a few words:

   — You… have returned…

   Then, emptied of her last strength, she gave in to fatigue and sank into an anxious, fitful sleep.

   Morrigan returned to the corridor and followed the trail of blood drops. Before long she found her “partner.” Apparently—with Tralin’s help—he had been laid on a bed in a room that, by its furnishings, had belonged to Connor. And here, now, still tasting the irony, Morrigan stood and watched.

   Minutes dragged. Then footsteps approached—Tralin’s, unmistakable. Instinctively, Morrigan shifted so she could keep both the Seeker and the doorway in view. Tralin halted on the threshold and lowered his gaze to the revolting-looking leader of their party. As if sensing the tension in the room, he did not step inside. He spoke quietly:

   — The people of the Fort are coming to their senses. The lethargy has lifted. Many are ill. Gravely so. I found the guards earlier, but they’ll be of little use for the time being. We need aid from the village. This whole place… needs aid.

   — Isolde is asleep.

   Tralin nodded.

   — Milady helped greatly with the Seeker. She knew where the medicines were. She showed admirable composure. But Milady wasn’t meant for this—especially with her husband and son teetering on the brink in the next room. Still, that does not change the fact that it was Milady who bled Redcliffe Fort dry by sending most of the knights away. It was Milady who hid her son’s talent from the Chantry, choosing to teach him in secret. Untrained mages…

   He cut himself off, realizing where—and with whom—and under what circumstances he was speaking. Morrigan’s lips twitched into a barely perceptible smirk. Tristan had chosen his “tools” well. In the weak dawn light, the shadow of her lashes slid over her cheekbones as she shifted her gaze to Tralin. Aloud, however, she said something else:

   — Predictable. Isolde was the weak link their enemies exploited. A chink in the armour. But sometimes… to rid yourself of weakness is akin to killing yourself. The Arl is no less to blame—preferring blind comfort within the family to constant vigilance. Perhaps this whole affair began with his weakness, not his wife’s.

   Tralin’s gaze stayed on her. He gave nothing away—acceptance or disagreement—only silence. After a pause, he said:

   — The decisions are for the Seeker to make. Are we safe?

   Morrigan shook her head, more bemused than affirmative.

   — Strange words to hear from a Templar. Safer than before, I suppose. A powerful Fade-spawn can do much, if it doesn’t care what it costs. You’d know better than I would. Strangely enough, what happened to the tower at Grintorn comes to mind… No cause, no catalyst—yet the building vanished into the Fade. Entirely.

   Morrigan’s brows lifted—genuine surprise. She had never heard of the incident near Orzammar, of a stronghold said to have played no small role in Ferelden’s resistance during the Orlesian occupation. Wrinkling her nose, she went on:

   — But otherwise, the demon has no foothold left here.

   — Connor?

   An unpleasant question. Morrigan shot him a look; wariness flared in her gold eyes before she answered:

   — If his mind isn’t destroyed, a talented healer could bring the young mage back to the living. Or a miracle. The main thing—as Tristan wanted—is that the Arl’s son’s blood still runs true.

   — Understood. Then I will go to the chantry. To report what’s happened… and request reinforcements.

   Morrigan inclined her head, not letting Tralin out of her sight, and added:

   — I’ll be here.

   * * *

   With the arrival of Bann Teagan, Ser Pert, several Sisters of Light, and volunteers who had come to help with the wounded and the work of the household, Redcliffe Fort bustled. Snow crunched under boots and shovels; axes thudded; woodsmoke rose from stoves; doors slammed; voices carried—shouts and curses.

   Morrigan had settled in the guest room on the first floor of the main building, where Bethany lay. A fireplace there kept steadily dancing tongues of flame; a sofa held the bandaged apprentice; and a soft chair had been brought down from the second floor, and Morrigan sank into it. Her young companion occasionally muttered indistinct words; she only rarely surfaced before slipping back into sleep. The injured girl needed a mage capable of healing. Local healers hoped such injuries might mend with time—and help—if one accepted that her arm was gone for good, like Tristan’s. Few, even among fighters, learned to live with that unaided. Wynne and the others—if they had not perished on the road—were not expected at Redcliffe Fort for another two or three weeks. Her mentor could only watch over her, hope… and then do it all over again.

   Morrigan herself, too, was giving in to dark ruminations. Too many impressions and questions had piled up. Her thoughts darted like frightened rats—close at hand, yet she couldn’t seize a single one by the tail. More than anything, Morrigan was troubled by her helplessness. Once again. And though the whisper of logic tried to reassure her—the enemy had proven far beyond the “ordinary” and even the “extraordinary,” and it was only to be expected she was no match for it—somewhere deep inside, pride whispered otherwise…

   Yet, as always, Morrigan forced herself past frustration and onto what was useful. She began to pick apart what had happened, methodically, not skipping from fear to fascination to strategy. She decided to start with Tristan’s pact. As soon as she weighed the facts, what Pride had called a “trifle” dwarfed her recent “adventure” beyond the Veil.

   The catch was that it was not the Seeker who turned intent into fact by shaping a spell and feeding it mana. The work was done by a hidden force, presumably dwelling beyond the near-unbreakable Veil. Firelight played in Morrigan’s golden eyes as she moved from one fact to the next, as if along a long shelf in a library. The ability to detect possession—with caveats known only to Tristan himself. How could such a thing be conceived? Abstractly… Morrigan wet her lips and dared to imagine it would require nothing less than taking full hold of a victim’s mind and wrenching out the truth: who was in charge. Not a harmless trick. Not a painless one. And if the victim did not yield willingly, their will would rise like a wall. Morrigan knew the limits of mind magic, even at a distance: it was better at breaking than shaping.

   And yet, for a definitive answer, the Seeker had needed only to mark the target with his own blood. Even the power that served as the source of the Seekers’ original gifts seemed close at hand. In Morrigan’s opinion, that entity had no reason to play hide-and-seek.

   She remembered the Fade—her recent, bitter lesson in perspective. What was immeasurably complex for a mage might be simple for one who saw differently. For the demoness who had clenched Connor’s mind in her fist, Morrigan’s weakness had looked like a genuine flaw. For the force behind Tristan’s pact, possession might stand out against the general background as clearly as a lone hill on a plain.

   But Morrigan seized on something else as the main point: the ability to see through the Veil what was necessary, without disturbing it in the slightest. As if it… wasn’t there. One short mental step, and she pushed the thought further. The ability to find the possessed hidden in plain sight—or even at some distance. Similar enough. But… Morrigan frowned, considering. If finding the possessed required no marking at all—only the right “question,” are there any nearby?—then the unknown creature’s reach must be far broader, and the Seeker received only a pitiful fraction. A reflection. Someone on the other side, ceaselessly watching countless places in the Waking, and—at a price set not by calculation but by whim—handing answers to those willing to pay.

   A logical guess. A chilling one. Morrigan’s mouth tightened; the thought burned like red-hot metal. One fact spoiled everything. The moment the Seeker had shattered the possessed armor rose vividly before her. That had not looked like an exchange: question, answer. Leaning back in her chair, Morrigan whispered, as if confessing to herself:

   — Direct influence…

   So this was proof the creature could do more than “answer.” It could kill—or, more simply, affect things through the Veil on par with the mightiest Fade-spawn. Slowly raising her eyes to the indifferent ceiling, Morrigan noted the key difference between this and everything she knew: no tether to a single “here and now.” She rapped herself on the knuckles, mentally. She shouldn’t forget the connection between Tristan’s unknown “patron” and blood magic. Simplified, it could do what traditional magic did—and far more besides. How was the entity drawn into the cycle? A moneylender, trading blood for mana? Tapping her nails on the chair’s arm, Morrigan added the last event to her chain of facts: sending a mage’s consciousness into the Fade. The resemblance to blood magic held—until one accounted for the Seeker himself, with neither a drop of mana nor a grain of talent.

   And what did Morrigan make of all this, in the end? Her mouth curved into a cold, viscous smile she did not fully understand herself. She needed power—but beyond that, she was scalded by genuine curiosity. And envy.

   Later, Morrigan’s thoughts were interrupted by mundane concerns: to wash, to eat, and to try to feed Bethany. And in the course of these tasks, one after another, Isolde caught her—rested a little, perhaps, but not relaxed in the slightest. Fear and pain showed through the thin veneer of the noblewoman like cracks in old porcelain. For reasons Morrigan could not quite name, it stirred something like respect in her, and left her with no desire to dodge a hard truth. Besides, Milady had no wish to make their conversation public; she closed the door firmly behind her.

   — Mage…

   — Morrigan.

   — That name has an interesting origin. It’s not Hasind, is it?

   Morrigan’s smirk was grim.

   — Got Tralin talking… The Templar’s weak before nobility…

   Then, after giving Milady a quick once-over, she added:

   — You would know better than I. Mother never told me how she chose my name.

   Isolde nodded and went on:

   — My husband’s people are of real interest to me. Quite the opposite of indifference. In my youth, the history of these lands fascinated me—the extraordinary interweaving of remnants of Avvar culture, reforged by northern invaders into something new, yet still distinct. Your name, in the ancient Avvar tongues that served as the basis for the Fereldan language, means: “Queen of Ravens.” A strong name. Mine stems from an old Orlesian dialect and means merely: “to rule.” Which I am trying to do… perhaps not in the best way. Tell me, “Queen,” what of my son? What is there to hope for? And can one even speak of hope here?

   At those words, it was as if a mask slipped from Morrigan; pretense vanished without a trace. She had never known the meaning of her own name, but she knew this much: the “mad” Flemeth never did anything simply for amusement. Much could look like amusement… until the appointed time arrived.

   — The enemy proved too formidable. I killed Connor in his own dream, on the other side of the Veil. Meaningless words to an outsider. In plain terms: the boy’s mind is damaged—likely beyond repair. That is the price of liberation. His and ours. I cannot forbid you to hope. The heart won’t stop beating. And perhaps a healer of great knowledge will reach us in time. You are likely sick of patience by now. But I cannot offer anything else.

   The inconsolable mother bit her lip until it bled, staring at the floor. After a minute of silence, she said, almost inaudibly:

   — To wait again…

   — Yes.

   Morrigan’s answer made Isolde flinch, and the girl continued:

   — It resembles a spider’s web. You’re caught. And no matter how much you struggle, the end is already clear—only death is in no hurry to grant release. Each of you faces a choice: to keep choosing, or to stop. To open your eyes, or to press on blindly. To go on for something—or for someone—or…

   She exhaled, her voice flattening.

   — To you this is only air—shreds of meaningless phrases. You know… you’d do better speaking to any “Sister of Light.” Or there—across the bay at the chantry—a companion is coming to her senses. Leliana. In some measure, she is a specialist in wounded and bleeding hearts. Tell her you come from Morrigan, who is all right. And that she’s rested enough.

   Watching Morrigan’s face carefully, the Lady of the Fort nodded slowly.

   — Thank you for the honest answer. And the advice.

   Already at the door, Isolde added:

   — By the way. The Seeker woke up an hour ago.

   — A tenacious bastard.

   — Yes. You are right…

   * * *

   Was it even right to say Tristan had received her? Morrigan entered without knocking, closed the door behind her, and stopped at the head of the bed. With effort, he lifted his sunken eyes to the witch and managed a pale half-smile.

   — Glad.

   Morrigan clicked her tongue, swept her gaze across the room, and pulled a chair closer to the bed.

   — A lot of subtext for one short word. Speak plainly: are you nauseous or shaking because I’m not so much as scratched while you’ve been carved up? And yet you’re glad the deed is done.

   The Seeker exhaled slowly, carefully. He said it dryly:

   — That’s true.

   The girl jerked her chin at his arm and asked,

   — Did you expect this price?

   Their eyes went to the Seeker’s left stump. He shook his head—half denial, half assent.

   — It… was too much.

   — Yes… But I have fulfilled my part.

   Tristan returned his gaze to her, frowning, and made it plain:

   — Truly?

   — Oh, we could play word games. But it seems you’re not in any state for a duel. Yes, the result isn’t ideal. But you will have to accept it.

   Tristan’s lips twitched; irritation smoldered under the pain. The Seeker nodded slowly.

   — It is what it is.

   — When can I expect your… allies?

   A pause followed. Tense silence hung while Tristan pinned Morrigan with his gaze, and she—masking her interest—waited without expression. At last he forced it out:

   — A month, I suppose.

   — Hmm…

   Her fingers tapped the armrest.

   — So they’re somewhere between Halamshiral and the gates of Orzammar. They’ll cross the southern border with the first blizzards. And even if some passing merchant spots them, winter will serve as a shield. That much is clear. Wynne, I think, will return sooner. Now—next question. The pact.

   The Seeker licked his dry lips, glancing sideways at the clay jug and mug on the bedside table. Morrigan poured water without ceremony and helped the sick man drink his fill, buying him the time he needed to think.

   — Not now—

   — No, no, no.

   Morrigan shook her head.

   — If not now, the right moment will never come. And if you’re too weak, you won’t be serving that pact for long anyway. Let’s… clear this up.

   Rubbing her forehead, the witch went on:

   — There is no alliance between us. No friendship either. Unless…

   Her mouth twisted.

   — A coincidence of interests. You hold my leash—and the promise of my death is the handle. A strong motivation, without the rest. But I wager that leash comes from the same pact. Now ask yourself: would you give your life for mine? You’re a step from the grave. What price will your “patron” exact for a mage’s death? So many questions… It’s not as if I’m free to leave while you’re weak. But you are right: before, I held time in my hands. Now, while you lie abed, how many of your patron’s plans can I ruin? Choose.

   Tristan closed his eyes and was silent a moment. Then he said:

   — Very well…

   * * *

   Ten years and a handful of dawns earlier.

   Melsendre stood by an apple tree in full leaf, leaning against its smooth trunk, awaiting her patron’s orders. The girl’s task was to remain nearby, unnoticed and inconspicuous. The role suited her perfectly. So her thick hair was pulled back into a severe braid in the Fereldan fashion, and her clothes did more to conceal than to accentuate her feminine form, standing out neither in color nor in style.

   Her patron, Gaspar de Chalons, clad in the light armor of an Orlesian noble yet without the usual lordly finery and gold, was speaking with his officers. A war council in the middle of an apple orchard would have seemed surreal to a city dweller: hundreds of trunks stood in neat rows, stretching in every direction. On a bare patch of earth, the current state of the campaign had been scratched out in a rough sketch, showing the nearby terrain and the positions of the forces involved.

   The Gislaine Fields, dotted with fruit orchards, lay along the border with Nevarra. Some had been planted back in the days of the Old Empire... There the enemy army had dared to invade Orlais, pressing forward to seize a string of settlements and then the major city on the old Imperial Highway: Larecolte. Gaspar had no more than fifty thousand—light and heavy cavalry, with infantry besides. Skillfully using his army’s mobility, his knowledge of the terrain, the locals’ help, and every source of information he could lay hands on, he had driven a numerically superior enemy behind the walls of Larecolte, cut their supply lines to Nevarra, and done it at a cost of no more than ten thousand killed and wounded.

   The heavy scent of ripe apples mixed with the smell of horse tack and sweat. A gentle breeze stirred the spreading branches. Between the trees moved the figures of soldiers, their armor dully glinting through the foliage. Somewhere in the distance, the hammers of smiths rang...

   Melsendre had played her part, too... The main credit for reconnaissance belonged to several “specialists” from Antiva, hired by her patron before the campaign began. Shadowy figures appeared at Gaspar de Chalons’s tent at any hour of day or night, adding detail to the lines scratched in the dirt between the officers’ boots—and then vanished without a trace, never lingering a moment longer than necessary. All except one...

   — Milady.

   The girl startled, gooseflesh prickling for an instant. That cursed Antivan mercenary had crept up behind her again, unnoticed, and could have slit her throat with ease. Her fingers clenched the folds of her simple dress. She forced herself to slow her breathing, as she’d been taught—in for four counts, out for six.

   — My origins are not so noble. Such an address borders on an insult.

   A soft, almost musical laugh answered her.

   — Perhaps.

   — I detect no accent in your speech. None at all.

   — Thank you for the compliment.

   — You are different from the others.

   — Is that good or bad?

   — Depends how you look at it. What matters is that you are fulfilling the task.

   — Oh... Don’t you worry about that. Your patron is an outstanding leader. Gaspar de Chalons would have managed even without our humble aid. We only helped him... skip a few steps. And reduce losses. And with that hint about the enemy commander’s character... I’d wager: by the standards of war, this will all end fairly soon. And without needless bloodshed.

   Melsendre gave an involuntary shudder—her skin crawled at this dangerous stranger’s familiarity with her lord. Yet she could not fully suppress her curiosity about the person standing behind her, who procured information as if he could draw it from the earth itself—or straight from the enemy camp. If the facts he brought had not always proved useful, the young bard would have suspected the mercenaries of playing both sides. Melsendre bit the inside of her cheek and, without turning, ran her palm over the apple tree’s bark as if seeking support.

   — Good news. Finally.

   The mercenary took a step closer, his gloved hand coming to rest on the trunk beside hers. Dry leaves crunched under his boot as he leaned in.

   — Is that because you feel awkward here?

   — Here? Awkward?

   — Yes. Out here—fields, woods. On the road.

   The girl hesitated slightly and nodded.

   — I prefer cities... And the apples here are bitter...

   After a short pause, the next words slipped out, unbidden:

   — Like the truth in this war.

   — Cities... A tangle of stone, blood, sincere impulses and lies, one step from filth to beauty. I understand...

   — You...

   — Yes?

   Melsendre felt the cold blade of fear slowly slide between her shoulder blades. This man didn’t smell of sweat and steel like ordinary soldiers, but of something alien—as if his clothes were steeped in the smoke of distant lands where familiar laws did not apply.

   — Why are you wasting time on me?

   — Because it is a dance. You take a step, a sweep of the arm—every necessary movement. Some moves seem meaningless, but without them the beauty of the dance dies. Another might casually pluck a flower. But I... am patient. For now.

   — Is the flower an allegory? How crude?

   Melsendre felt the man’s smile against her back. Something must have shifted in his posture: a faint creak of glove-leather or boot-leather.

   — You... are unusual. And that is your value.

   — Do not stoop to empty flattery. You want something. And it is certainly not my ‘flower.’ Such men do not waste time on empty dances. My intuition is silent, like a frightened cat in a corner. But whatever you want in the end, I will not serve two masters. Nor am I privy to my patron’s current affairs.

   No answer came. Just as the girl began to think her interlocutor had dissolved as he’d appeared, strong hands clad in fine black leather settled on her shoulders, and warm breath brushed her ear—breath that, contrary to expectation, carried the scent of mint and the pungent aroma of unknown herbs. Like the embodiment of a far northern coastline—sea to the horizon.

   — You are right. And wrong about the main thing. Your place at Gaspar de Chalons’s side, and the trust he will one day place in you—those are unique. Together, you are like a masterpiece. Exceptional. This dance you share will open so much to you. You simply cannot imagine...

   When his footsteps faded, Melsendre took her first full breath of the evening. She plucked an apple from the nearest branch and discovered, to her surprise, that the fruit was worm-ridden. As if the orchard itself was giving her a sign: beauty merely masks the rot.