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 sliver visible 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 girl 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, drowning 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 Corps 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:
— By 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 to 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 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 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 Corps-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 evasion. 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—though a dozen more could 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 repeatedly. 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 much—including your insight into the Corps' plight. But one question gnaws: why 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 its 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 Corps 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'm confident. 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 all, if not at once.
He paused, weighing consequences.
—The Corps 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 in demon claws, 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 returned 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 gazing backward, it was awe-inspiring how 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—stirred sharp envy in her. For their heights reached. Their legacy left. Their power 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 inner courtyard's vigilantly guarded outer wall 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 yet faintly envied her. 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 its results defied expectation twice now. 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 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 imposed limits on how many runes any one 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—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 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 as 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, which 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 twitched to 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 hours' worth of information in that brief exchange. 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's nightlights streaming inside 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 made blood rush 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 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... drowned 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... 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.
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 could. Might even pray to the Maker for stamina. But believe me, a man is more than what swings 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...?