Three meters away, slightly hunched, stood a tense figure. The darkness obscured the finer details, but the witch's eyes, now accustomed to it, discerned 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 frozen at full height 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 form.
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 halfway between there and here. 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 realm of 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 unevenly heated 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 reverse side 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 psychologically and physically spent—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, his under-eyes blackened. 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 on the verge of festering. 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 measured steps, each laden with 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, devoid of any presence. Exhaling slowly and wincing at the pain radiating from her head, the witch pondered. Lyrium would have been a trump card, no matter what lay ahead. But mere need or desperate desire wasn't enough to conjure it. Frowning, she recalled the possessed man's words. The song of mana. Her own mana bore no resemblance to any song. Born from within, it was 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 the talentless as explaining the brilliance of dawn's 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 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. 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 dwarf 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 hold, this is 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. Secret rooms aren't so foolish. Discipline here 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. A 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, the girl 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. Confirming it wasn't self-deception—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, rotated halfway on its axis 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 navigated by touch. 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 internal bleeding.
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 concoction 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—herself as a person, and herself as 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 souvenirs.
Steeling herself, she revisited it. Context eluded her, but the emotions were unmistakable: dark anticipation, the heady rush of power, euphoric pain-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's glare, casting the shadows within her deeper, 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 glancing backward. 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 spiraling reflection. 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.
This led to her first reason to descend: 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.
Here, she made a leap: if this rival countered the Breach, they'd also oppose Pride's kin. Thus, 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'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. Wedging her dagger again, she bundled two dozen vials into the cloth, knotting it to her belt.
Now she felt ready.
* * *
Every dozen steps, the staircase narrowed while curving rightward. To distract herself from the horrors of the hall where 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 perception. 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 uneven pallor, 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 level 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 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 observed. 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, 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 as part of 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 disturbed blood led from a leftward turn into the hall she'd just left. The brave soul who'd made it this far.
Silence ruled, broken only by distant torch-crackle 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 with pain-dulled clarity. 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 the roar like a 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 slower—convulsions, liver rot, agony. Yet they drank it, for some deaths were kinder than powerlessness. The only workaround? 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 two-meter 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 white noise that weighed on her ears, Morrigan's vision swam with a kaleidoscope of frenzied, writhing lines of blinding light, trailing spectral hues beyond imagination. 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 sat 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 blade, swelling and receding like a second heartbeat—a cruel reminder that this was no illusion. Or if it was, 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—and thus abruptly—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 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 tangled 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 impartial killer. The flesh-woven body of two mages was dying. The demon might have retaliated with magic, as before, but it hesitated until too late. Tissue decay choked its mana channels, though the lyrium had left it bloated with power.
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 wilted like a spring frost.
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.