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 terrain.
Ancient, sloping hills, cloaked in grizzled pine forests, 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 anew in fresh greenery.
Her gaze wandered aimlessly across the untamed contours of the land until it caught on a familiar landmark. Recognition flared in her eyes: 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 wet forest and lazily stirred the loose raven-black curls tied back in a tight braid. The girl frowned—somewhere in the direction of the smoke lay a home, but her memory failed her, offering no facts from the past day. Instead, there was only a hollow certainty: there was nowhere 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 gray basalt blocks, promised no traveler health or comfort.
Struggling to her feet, she surveyed her surroundings. The wall behind her rose three or four meters before ending in 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-spun trousers of stitched leather 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 spanned a full 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 evoked either wind or roots. Around her neck hung an old necklace of tarnished metal segments. A cord strung with a bone-carved amulet connected to 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 her right hand's ring finger hid a band of scratched gold, 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 down to the earth, revealing what lay within.
The complex was once 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 four-fifths of the efforts 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 withheld was why she'd awakened so far from home, in this specific place, and not 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 meant death.
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 longer. That explained her stiff but not useless muscles. Everything before this moment blurred into a haze of threat, sharp loss, and some unplaceable need. 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 (hopefully) 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 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 slowly enveloped 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 unmarked 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—dangled from his chest alone.
The second warrior boasted a massive two-handed blade, muscles bulging under his armor, and a thick neck. His bristly, week-old buzz cut stood out, but his face betrayed bewilderment mixed with fear. His movements lacked half the threat of his leader's. 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. Nature had gifted him with 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, leaving his shield too, 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 posture 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 skyward:
— Night's coming.
And locked eyes with a glint in the thickening shadows. The stranger watched them like some oddity, weighing hidden value or meaninglessness. The mage betrayed nothing but whitened knuckles on his staff and dilated pupils. 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 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, slipping:
— So you know—
Then 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 better claim. As a mage, he's heir to the Empire the Wardens built on. 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, hand on his shoulder, and murmured:
— Commander. Dark's falling fast. We'll camp in the ruins. On one hand—shelter. On the other, you did fret 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 facts hung midair, 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 tide, 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, 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—near 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 unspoken in the air. 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, Alem?
The elf at the rear flicked water from his lashes and scoffed silently.
Four things happened in the next quarter-hour. Daveth slipped on a slope, vanishing with a yell into the roots of southern pines. They found him unharmed but mortified by 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 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, voice edged with anger:
— 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 its leap aimed 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 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 his ally 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 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 following 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—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 palm-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. Under 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 the lyrium's creeping decay. 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: 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 it.
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 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 his earlier order with 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 excess blood.
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 volumetric.
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 as your shield. Harvested power as 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.