Morrigan found herself in the same corridor again. The difference was that now it bore the scars of fire, and the girl lacked her stock of lyrium potions and her only cold weapon. The dead bodies on the floor had not been spared either—charred limbs, mouths frozen in silent screams... Yet, like everything else in this accursed Tower, they emitted no stench of decay or the reek of burnt flesh. They seemed frozen, mute witnesses to horror. But the stone beneath her feet chilled her bare soles, relentlessly dragging her thoughts back to the present. The exit to the next large chamber was two or three meters away, and the girl stepped boldly into the familiar darkness, leaving the battleground behind with no small satisfaction.
The hall, its boundaries swallowed by gloom, resembled similar chambers on the floor above. At its center loomed the shadow of a massive support column, and a little farther—statues. There was nothing heroic or memorable about them—just mundane poses, as if they were trivial decorations like cornices or abstract bas-reliefs, not stone-carved figures standing two to three meters tall, pedestals excluded.
But what soon caught the sorceress's eye was the staircase descending into the depths. Listening carefully and detecting no signs of threat lurking in the dark, she took a breath and cautiously moved left, skirting the wall toward the coveted steps. The stairs plunged into impenetrable blackness, forcing her to move slowly, her fingers never losing contact with the rough surface of the stone wall. The turns mirrored those of the staircase from the fourth to the third floor. But at the bottom, no welcoming torchlight awaited her. If there was any light in the chamber below, it was barely enough for a couple of candles at most. And with each step, the voices grew clearer—human voices, laced with the vibrating tones of suppressed fury. Unwilling to reveal her presence just yet, Morrigan stopped just out of sight of the final flight, listening intently to the subject of their argument.
A high-pitched yet not unpleasant—almost ringing—female voice, youthful but sharp, rose in accusation:
— Valinsi, you damned coward! While I slept, you let Niall go alone. Why did no one go with him?! All those oaths you shouted so proudly... You arrogant goats. Every word—empty drivel?
A deeper, calmer voice—the kind one would expect from a man of solid build—answered with restrained rage:
— Ner... Do you hear yourself? What nonsense are you spouting?
— Don't worry, I'm perfectly aware. You just said it yourself—Niall found something in the library, a means to fight demons. Basic logic dictates you should've gathered a team before heading upstairs. Instead, you're here, safe. And Niall? Dead by now, I'd wager!
— Wait... You're ordering me around? You?
— Why not? Let's not mince words—you discredited yourself as a complete failure the moment you taunted Godwin into fearing his own shadow. But, Void take it, in this nightmare, that seemed the lesser evil. Now I see you're just a millstone around the neck of every survivor...
A sharp sound followed—a slap's crisp crack merging with a girl's pained cry. Then the man's voice turned icy, dripping with violence:
— You know, I've grown tired of your blind faith in your own infallibility. That stubborn, childish view of everything as black or white. Irving coddles you, calling you an exceptional talent. But to me, the First Enchanter is just spoiling another mage, robbing them of discipline. Before you judge me, let's revisit your mistakes and the price paid for them. No one here is indifferent to the usefulness of your sigils carved by the stairs. They've saved the barrier's defenders more than once. But remember our agreement—how guard shifts work. Simple rules. And two days ago, someone was 'tired' and decided it was fine to leave without warning. A trifle? Say that to Louise's face—the woman who burned alive while the rest of us scrambled to restore the barrier. She held the passage to the end, replacing your sigil with her own body. You weren't collapsing. You weren't mana-depleted. The day was quiet, so the young genius deemed it fit to decide for everyone. That's all. Louise lies over there, by the column. No one threw it in your face. I admit my mistake too—like letting myself sleep three hours after sixteen on watch. I was the one who slit the throat of a woman thrashing in her death throes to re-seal the fading barrier. A woman who taught half the mages surviving here! And all because the healers vanished. Ironic, isn't it, bitch? Remember Godwin? Did you miss how the little shit deserted his post twice while demons battered the barrier? We're dying every day, not picking flowers in a meadow. If I must make Godwin fear me more than demons to do his duty, I'll knock his teeth out myself. No regrets. And Niall? Let's skip how the Senior Enchanter's mind's been slipping lately—especially after strangling his own friend. Yes, Niall found something. Yes—it seemed promising. But what did 'wonderful' Niall do when asked to wait? He ruined the damn barrier and left without a word! So you see, we disagree. Why am I so chatty? Hard to believe... I care. And because you're needed. But words aren't enough.
The sound of a belt being forcibly yanked from its loops followed. Morrigan frowned and peered down toward the base of the stairs. Straining her eyes in the poor light, she spotted runes smeared with dried blood on the last step. Around them coiled geometrically intricate yet elegant patterns, meticulously traced with a fine dust of processed lyrium. Had she not known what to look for, the accumulated fatigue and pain might have made her miss it. This method of rune-work was unfamiliar to her, as were some of the symbols in the script. But she grasped a hint of its general meaning—one that matched the definition mentioned in the argument. She also noticed where the continuous script was interrupted by a smeared bootprint. Meanwhile, the situation below took a darker turn.
— No! You bastard... What are you planning? Get away!
— Kicking? Spirited... But thorns need trimming. Hold her legs still.
The screams, sounds of struggle and kicking, muffled grunts, and the rustle of fabric were replaced by the whistle of a belt cutting through the air and the sharp crack of leather striking bare flesh, followed by a girl's shriek. Another strike came immediately—the kind that would leave a red welt on any part of the body, soon to darken into a bruise or even split open. The shrieks dissolved into sobs. Morrigan realized: it wouldn't take ten more strikes to break the proud girl's will. Shaking her head, she rose to her feet.
From Morrigan's perspective, events had unfolded disastrously. So disastrously, in fact, that she couldn't help but wonder if another will was pulling the strings. What were the odds that such a volatile scene—boiling emotions spilling over—would play out just as she descended? Especially with the barrier against demonic incursion already compromised. Yet even with her suspicions, the oaths she'd sworn demanded intervention. There was little doubt about the victim's identity now. Naire. Alim's face flashed in her memory—clenched teeth, burning eyes... Morrigan tightened her fists. If the girl broke under the belt today, tomorrow her bones would become playthings in someone else's games.
Moving down with deliberate care to avoid drawing attention, Morrigan soon witnessed the scene in full. The chamber resembled the upper central hall only in its massive columns—four here, with the staircase emptying into the center of the open space. Along the curved outer wall stood towering open cabinets, twice a man's height, their contents lost in shadow. To the left, a five-armed candelabra held thick candle stubs—the sole flickering light source, likely to gutter out in hours. Nearby, five cloth-draped bodies lay on the floor.
At the base of the stairs, a mage slumped against the railing, his posture slack, arms limp. His thinning blond hair suggested he was well past his twenties. Morrigan glimpsed his face from above—she couldn't be certain of his expression, but she'd swear he was grinning wildly, reveling in the spectacle to his right.
There, the source of the sounds filling the shadow-thick hall: a broad-shouldered Circle member, taller than Morrigan, brought his belt down in relentless arcs, blood spraying with each swing. A middle-aged woman, also robed as a mage, stood nearby, biting her lip as she watched. She seemed torn—unsure whether to act or why she did nothing. Another man, dressed neither as a Chantry brother nor a mage, held a slight, fragile girl by the arms, her robes hiked up, her smallclothes discarded. She'd stopped resisting.
Morrigan glanced back into the darkness. The mage by the stairs should have warned of intruders if the barrier was breached. Either he'd been the first victim, or he'd always been a sociopath savoring the violence. She frowned—where had that term come from? It had never come up in talks with her mother or anyone else... Alim had said keeping one's sanity in the Circle was no small feat, so the man's deviance might well be a symptom. Shaking her head, she forced herself to focus.
She had mana for one spell. Without hesitation, she placed a hand on the "canary's" head. As the girl's pain dulled and the seated mage arched with a stifled groan, Morrigan lunged forward.
The woman noticed first. Her eyes bulged, but shock didn't paralyze her—she attacked instantly. A bolt of energy lanced out, searing Morrigan's vision and wreathed her in a fiery halo for one agonizing heartbeat. The air detonated. Pain like a red-hot rod speared her spine, wrenching screams from both her and the spellbound mage. The disorientation bought her seconds. That, and her unnatural ability to keep moving after such a spell.
Morrigan slammed into the woman shoulder-first, driving her skull into the stone floor. Ignoring fresh bruises and the belt whistling past her ear, she pivoted to the largest man, ducked under his swing, and rammed her palm into the silent partner's nose, her knee into his groin. As he folded, a fist smashed into her face—fresh blood joined the dried crust on her chest as she fell. She rolled aside just as a boot aimed for her throat. Blood dripped steadily from her nose. Black spots danced in her vision, but through them, she saw the spellbound mage wasn't breathing.
Sprawled on the floor, gasping, mana nearly spent, Morrigan spat a thick mix of blood and saliva. Adrenaline gave way to hollow exhaustion—then she burst into laughter. Hysterical, absurd, mad. When it subsided, she took stock.
The broad-shouldered mage—short-cropped hair with a single braid trailing to his jaw—stared at the belt in his hand, stunned. Meanwhile, Morrigan felt a trembling, fever-hot body press against her. The girl wasn't sobbing—just shuddering with ragged, hiccuping breaths. Now Morrigan saw her fully: petite, barely reaching her shoulders, yet curved with delicate femininity. As Morrigan touched her sleek black hair, careful to avoid her pointed ears, the girl lifted her tear-streaked face. Below the waist, her thighs and buttocks were a lacerated mess. Naire Surana. Wordless, her piercing blue eyes held only shattered gratitude.
The mage, shaken from his stupor, finally grasped the barrier's absence and the lack of defenders. He flung the belt aside and bolted for the stairs, yanking a triangular blade from his sleeve. Fresh blood dripped onto the rune-smeared step. As he worked to restore the damaged script, Morrigan noted grimly: the stone drank the blood, each symbol demanding far more than it seemed.
By the time the man managed to reseal the chain of runes, his hands were trembling. Exhausted, pale, and slick with sickly sweat, he slumped to avoid collapsing, sucking in a sharp breath as if starved for air. The runes had drained him—of blood, of strength. Even turning his head toward Morrigan required effort. Naire clung to the stranger, her eyes rolling back, consciousness teetering on the edge of oblivion—one moment limp, the next jerking awake as pain yanked her back. Her fingers dug into Morrigan's sleeve like claws, the only anchor against the dark abyss of unconsciousness.
The man's gaze faltered as it landed on the consequences of his actions—the corpse by the stairs, Naire's convulsing fingers, the bloodied belt. Something in his expression fractured, a veil lifting. Then his eyes locked onto Morrigan's golden pupils, his posture tensing with unmistakable readiness for violence.
— And what kind of creature are you?
His fists clenched, but he didn't move, weighing his dwindling strength. Morrigan tilted her head, voice dripping with mock sweetness:
— Oh... Starting with pleasantries? How touching. Let's find common ground quickly.
She raised her open palms higher, maintaining eye contact.
— The situation favors it. But paranoia screams otherwise in that head of yours. A few facts, then. The Right of Annihilation looms. Niall lies dead two floors up. Naire sleeps on my shoulder.
The man shook his head, reaching his own conclusions.
— I'd hoped none of the senior enchanters would make it down. That we could hold out long enough to—
— To what? What scenario did you imagine? Or was it just a desperate wish to survive, devoid of any real plan? You stare at me but lack proof I'm possessed or otherwise tainted. Am I wrong? How different are your abilities from a Templar's? A week has passed outside. No one's coming to save this island—only to burn it to ash.
— Even so, that changes nothing—
— On the contrary. Time slips away. Even the creatures above sense it. This isn't about principles or rules clogging your mind. Only a choice. Talk? Fight? No, no, no. Stay quiet a moment...— She smirked.— Alim 'sang' to me how mages are taught to assess facts soberly, without bias. My words are threads of trust weaving through your caution. And the signs of danger? Overwhelming. Who else could have descended from above?
Her gaze swept pointedly over Naire, then the room.
— But as I see it, we're neck-deep in shit. Threats must be weighed anew. Your earlier conversation made it clear your word carries weight here. And protecting those at hand isn't empty rhetoric to you. Forget the Templars for now. How many mouths remain to feed? How many die daily despite this barrier? How many can still fight? What's left of discipline, reason, or will when a single spark leads to... this?
The man's lips pressed into a thin line, but her questions struck true. His eyes raked over Morrigan—not with hunger, but the appraisal of a rival. Finally, he growled:
— Pretty words won't help the suffering. 'Heroes' and their ideas breed corpses. Your arrival proves it. Even if I ignore doubts about your nature, what alternative do you offer beyond clinging to one more day? Hope is all that keeps hands from giving up.
— Hope has done a piss-poor job so far, whittling down your people day by day. A plan, then: I've been to the Templars' cache. Where they stockpile lyrium.
She arched a brow, watching his reaction. It came—predictable, but satisfying. The man narrowed his eyes, probing for deceit, then snorted darkly.
— You're saying if you got down here, then—
— No. Something guards the fourth floor. Niall and I slipped past, but a group wouldn't. The creature must be dealt with first. That requires coordination. For now, we're better together.
— And you want...?
— Help. I can't do it alone. Also... access to the libraries. A safe place to sleep. Food. Even a cell with bars. I'm spent, and worse—I'm saturated with lyrium.
— Templars don't risk keeping high-purity potions in the Tower. Those are stored outside, in the barracks... So clothing isn't on your list.— He exhaled.— Three questions remain. First: who are you?
Morrigan chewed her lip. The truth was dangerous, but lies would collapse this fragile truce. This conversation was born of desperation, with death breathing down their necks. She could almost taste his hesitation—if he'd felt surer of his strength, he'd have rid himself of the unknown variable already. A man who trusted only what he could control.
— A witch of Korkari. Morrigan, daughter of Flemeth. Your suspicions are right—I've no ties to this Circle, or any other. But fate tangled me with Alim, a recruited Grey Warden. Led me here. As for getting inside... I persuaded the Knight-Commander to take a risk. Like you. My value is negligible...
The man cut in, nodding.— ...But a chance is a chance. That sounds like Gregor. So the old man surrendered. How did you survive upstairs? No—better question: how did you even get up there?
— Too much at once. Almost like we're friends. Hours ago, I'd have called myself deadlier than most of the fools here. Now? I survived by luck. That alone should tell you much. The rest... You'll have to tolerate some ignorance.
— We'll see.— Valinsi dragged a hand down the left side of his face.— The last question is for me.
He pointed to the mage's corpse by the stairs, its features grotesquely split—one half twisted in agony, the other frozen in ecstasy, a testament to the limits of human facial muscles.
— You're responsible for this death.
— Is it so simple?
— For me? Yes. If I had the strength to judge solely by my principles...
— So?
— A cell. Some food. Sleep. We'll start there. Every instinct screams this is folly, but... You're right. Many here can't tell the difference between dying today or tomorrow.
His tired eyes lifted to the stairwell's darkness as he added over his shoulder:
— And some are eager to hasten the end.
* * *
The same forest again. The same nightmare. And ash falling upward, defying nature. Morrigan perceived her surroundings more acutely now, but couldn't say for certain—was this sharpness subjective, the present always brighter than memory? Or an objective truth? Her mind throbbed with doubts. The knowledge of where she'd fallen asleep left its mark...
Something was wrong with this dream. Morrigan knew: she was in the Tower's heart, where even the air bent to another's will. She couldn't move—her body might as well have been stone. Only when icy breath grazed her neck did her muscles twitch, fingers first. Consciousness lurched free of paralysis, and with effort, as if tearing through cobwebs, she turned.
Behind her... stood herself.
But something was off immediately—the shadow mirrored her movements half a heartbeat too late. The same clothes, the same braid, the same jewelry... Yet the missing half of its head seized her attention first. A jagged line split a living face from void, tendrils of bluish smoke leaking from the "wound". More such wounds revealed themselves. Morrigan's hands flew to her own face, relief flooding her when she found no matching injuries.
Then the double's hands locked around her throat, squeezing.
As its lips moved soundlessly, whispers came from everywhere at once:
— Give it back... Mine...
Gasping for air, Morrigan clawed at the freezing fingers. They felt unliving, unyielding despite her thrashing. Her vision darkened at the edges...
* * *
The last thing she remembered was icy fingers digging into her throat and... a sharp jolt to her chest. Morrigan jerked violently, her head striking the wall. Air. She desperately needed air. Her hands flew to her neck—no marks, no wounds. Yet her skin screamed with the memory of a burn from that... thing's touch. Wild-eyed, Morrigan scanned the room. Her chest heaved as if she'd just clawed her way ashore from drowning in uncharted waters. Through ragged breaths and the frantic drumming of her heart, a whisper escaped:
— Not a dream. A warning...
Around her was the same locked storeroom, serving as both her resting place and cell. Crates in the corners held folded bedding, household supplies, bundles of fabric and parchment, ink tablets wrapped in leather, quills, and other odds and ends. Her makeshift bed occupied the only clear space. No windows. The sole light seeped in as a narrow strip beneath the closed door.
Calming her breath, Morrigan touched her neck again. No signs of strangulation, despite the dream's vividness. Her thoughts spiraled. The witch had expected sharper nightmares here, given her circumstances, but this surpassed even her fears. On one hand, she knew: the closer the contact with the "opponent" vying to share her body, the worse her own position became. On the other—she couldn't shake the urge to see her enemy clearly, to strip away its abstraction and give it a face. Least of all had she expected that face to mirror her own... Rubbing her brow, she shook her head. Exhaustion clung to her, the interrupted rest leaving her body and mind frayed. Yet even this was tolerable.
Piecing together memories of the Tower, one question gnawed at her: why did demons seize other mages in moments, while her own struggle dragged on for weeks without escalation? The discrepancy defied logic. Only two theories held: either her mother's power was the shield prolonging the fight, or the Tower's proximity to the Fade had eroded the others' resistance. The latter implied time was running out.
A dozen other questions demanded answers, however flimsy. Doubts about reality's fabric. New concepts etched into her mind, unheard of before. And—she winced—the unwelcome intrusion of a word: boudoir. A term plucked from nowhere. Shoving it aside, she stood and stretched.
The Circle's borrowed robes, slightly too small, covered her now. Clean enough, barely mended. Beneath them, dried blood itched against her skin; washing had been a luxury. Approaching the door, she knocked sharply.
The wait dragged. Finally, footsteps, a creaking lock, and candlelight spilled in. A broad-shouldered figure filled the doorway:
— Welcome back.
Morrigan cut to the point:
— How's Naire?
A pause.
— Since when do you care about someone you met hours ago?
She met his gaze:
— My reasons aren't yours. Someone who knew her dragged me through swamps to get here. Call it repayment for his naivety. Concern hardly warrants suspicion—beyond what's already in your head.
He exhaled:
— You're not... Never mind. This leads nowhere. Follow me. No sudden moves. The ones still fit to fight are gathering. A new objective might buy us time. Otherwise... Sometimes it feels...
— Like you're rotting alive?
His frown deepened. Suspicion flickered, then drowned in exhaustion:
— Maybe. Maybe.
— You didn't answer.
— There is no answer.
Turning away, he muttered over his shoulder:
— Without a healer, the girl needs a week. If infection doesn't take her. We've no poultices left, so... I... Hmph.
The corridor unfolded in shadows. Every corner bore chaos: toppled shelves, workstations, living quarters. Stubs of candles. Torn clothing, crumpled beds where none should be. Shattered furniture. Scorched floor marks—odd, with fireplaces nearby. Brown bloodstains around bodies in the gloom. Were they clinging to life or already dead? Filth festered in dark corners. Yet the stench Morrigan expected was absent.
The few survivors split into two groups: Circle mages who flinched away, faces hidden, and strangers in unfamiliar garb—humans, elves, half-breeds—moving mechanically or staring blankly. As if despair couldn't touch them.
Something clicked in Morrigan's memory, and she asked:
— These are the Tranquil, aren't they?
The mage answered without turning:
— Yes. Stripped of magic. The Templars barely care about those the Chantry unofficially equates to objects. When their ranks couldn't hold back the shadow-creatures, they retreated in orderly fashion, preserving their brothers' lives. The few surviving Circle Wardens died alongside those who joined them—whether out of folly, self-preservation, or lofty ideals. That's how we saved most of the Tranquil and other pacified servants of the Hold. Ironic, but they endured the hardships far better than their saviors. Almost none fell to demons.
— Creatures from the other side crave flesh saturated with mana. Or so I've heard. So I'm speaking with one of the surviving Circle Wardens?
After a pause, the man nodded. Morrigan pressed on:
— Here's the real irony. The Templars abandoned the Tranquil, forgetting how vital they are to the Circle. But they abandoned their own just the same. Chantry servants' corpses litter the upper floors. Doubt many rose above initiates. Common folk. But don't mistake me—I couldn't care less who left whom to die. Tell me, did anyone try escaping through the windows?
The mage halted, his neck cracking as if straining to maintain composure under the witch's relentless scrutiny. Yet his voice remained steady, barely tinged with irritation:
— They tried. Creatively. But the windows here have become... unnaturally solid. Unscratched. Like the walls.
— Interesting...
The man shrugged and led her onward. Minutes later, they entered a vast hall lined with towering bookshelves. A modest table held five mages: two men, three women, their ages spanning from Morrigan's peers to what she'd uncharitably call dotards. All shared the same gaunt frames, fever-bright eyes, and exhaustion gnawing at their edges. One woman stood out—her bandaged head marked by torn fabric.
Their escort nodded to the group, receiving curt nods in return. In the silence, Valinsi spoke:
— Wondering who our guest is? I'm scarcely ahead of you. Briefly: she's been upstairs. Likely the last visitor before Templars storm in, counting us as collateral. Trust her or not... Normally, I'd vouch for her. Today, that's empty. If pressed, I'd call this a trap. But the joke is—it doesn't matter. Each must choose: gamble on this chance or not. Yesterday... Well, you know. I broke. Let anger nearly take a life—me, who always preached caution. So I spent the night thinking with a cold head. Here's the truth: we're sleepwalking. Time's blurred. Critical thought's frayed. Many just wait to curl up and die. It's unlike us. Niall and I prove that. This is our last grasp at straws. Tomorrow, those still holding on will snap. The day after—we will.
He glanced at Morrigan, shadowed in the corner. A wiry mage, knotted like a root, rapped his knuckles on the table with a rasping laugh:
— What does the stranger add? We can mount a final suicide charge without her. You admit she's a wild variable. Didn't she prove that?
Valinsi opened his mouth, but Morrigan cut in:
— You're mistaken. The difference is what you want—to die or live. I also understand this place better. Uldred began it, didn't he? A font of knowledge, folly, and blind pride. The Tower's foremost blood mage? Ah... Your eyes say yes. Some here knew. And in that moment, the Hold became Pride's domain. Every demon you've met is just a guest of the host. Think: how many corpses rot here? Days dead. Smell the decay? The filth in corners? Darkness behaves here—but upstairs, even in pitch black, you see details three paces away. We're not at the Veil's edge. We're in a monster's belly, half-digested. The ones above know this. Yet how many have come for you? Another thing: no children's bodies. No apprentices in corners. Where are they? I entered through a fourth-floor window—why can't anyone here escape the same way? My theory: two entities hold the Hold. The first loosed hounds on you. The second hid the young. How it blinded the Templars mid-battle? No idea. The first breach widened the Veil. The second locked events within the building. A fragile balance. But balances can tip.
As she spoke, the mages exchanged glances. One tapped the table nervously; another clenched whitened fists. A middle-aged woman with fading bruises sighed:
— I'd wager everyone's below, on the first floor, barred by a stronger ward than ours. All the healers, too. Otherwise, the absence of familiar faces makes no sense. And I refuse to believe they're all dead. These facts fit a puzzle we can't solve from here. Denying it is folly. But it could also be masterful lies. Still... Valinsi's right. This is personal choice. Risk or wait for the end. But before choosing, one question remains. From what I gathered, our guest killed Johan... smashed Tomara's skull. And if she claims Niall's dead, might she be involved? This isn't a "hidden risk". It's a matter of principle.
Valinsi nodded. His gaze circled the table, searching for the right words, before he spoke:
— I can confirm part of Johan's story. Tomara speaks for herself. The rest remains conjecture. As for principles...
While the bandaged woman averted her eyes, unwilling to engage, another mage clenched his jaw so tightly his teeth might've powdered. Forcing out the words, he continued:
— Rigid principles are a luxury for lone wolves. I always mocked the elders who preached them as virtues. The pride of fools wrapped in false wisdom. Until this cursed week. Now every one of those old fools died for the rest. And I stand here. Our oaths are clear—protect. They gave their lives for it. If my price is bending principles... I'll count it luck. Let the First Enchanter deal with the witch when death isn't breathing down our necks. As for fearing a knife in the back—let it keep you sharp.
The accusatory mage spat on the floor and turned away—but didn't leave. Even she doubted her own words. The last silent man suddenly leaned forward:
— Principles aside, unlike the rest ready to leap into the abyss for spectacle, I find no proof in these claims. How do scattered facts confirm a... witch's tale?
Valinsi exhaled irritably:
— Obviously. No one remembers her as a Circle member, apprentice, or Chantry sister. Logic says she's either a demon, possessed, or— He raised his brows, implying the obvious...— I won't claim exhaustive knowledge, but—
The skeptic waved a hand, cutting him off:
— Yes, yes. I know more of demons than you.
— Then we agree she came from outside? Regardless of her current state. The Void take it—we're wasting time.
— Possessed. Say it plainly.
— Fine. As you wish. Deadlock again. We circle the same drain. Listen clearly: we all see the situation worsening. Few will last until the Templars arrive. Will those remnants even save us? Doubtful. How do we prove we're not possessed? It's the same mirror. Trust and reputation, not logic, hold the answer. Our failure changes little. That's why this is personal choice. The only outcome is death.
Silence hung over the table. With no further objections, Valinsi stood:
— Then we're agreed. One hour. Gather supplies. Think. Say farewells. Let emotions settle. Meet at the barrier—we'll discuss details there.
Some nodded; others shook their heads; a few left without reaction. As the table emptied, Morrigan's gaze lingered on the last mage's retreating steps until they faded. An image of Alim flashed in her mind. She turned to Valinsi:
— Take me to Naire.
A pause. Then, through gritted teeth:
— Please.
The man frowned, weighing doubts—but finally nodded.
* * *
When Morrigan entered the room where Alim's sister lay, she found the girl on her stomach in a long shirt that barely covered her thighs, the edges of bloodied bandages peeking beneath.
At first glance, the living quarters were far more spacious than the Templars' cramped lodgings on the fourth floor. But the extra space was crammed with multi-tiered bunks, leaving almost no room for personal chests or drawers—let alone privacy. Most beds stood empty. The cavernous hall, dimly lit by two or three candles near the entrance, drowned its far corners in shadows, weaving unease with the palpable threat of the unseen. No wonder the survivors huddled in tight groups within smaller library nooks, dozing fitfully on makeshift pallets rather than these "cozy" bunks.
Wincing, Naire lifted piercing blue eyes—then widened them in shock. Morrigan leaned against a bedpost, studying the petite mage. What lay behind this unremarkable facade? Was there something here that had driven Alim to near martyrdom for his sister's sake? Or was it merely his own devotion? And did her supposed "talent" with sigils hold any weight beyond rumor?
Naire's next act arched Morrigan's brow. Despite her wounds, the girl carefully slid a leg down, found her footing, and stood—knees trembling—before extending a hand. Morrigan scoffed at the foolish effort but gripped the calloused fingers (scribe's marks, unexpected on such delicate hands). Naire's voice emerged hoarse:
— You...— She swallowed dryly.— You're the one who saved me?
A curt nod.
— I... don't know how to thank you, but... thank you.
— "Thank you" suffices. I didn't come to collect a debt. Curiosity, mostly. And honesty compels me to admit my motives weren't purely—
Naire pressed fingertips to Morrigan's lips, shaking her head.
— I don't want reasons. Because... I acted foolishly, provoking Valinsi. We both knew control over emotions—over dark impulses—was fraying. Yet I... stumbled. And... Forgive me. I'm rambling. This must sound absurd. It is absurd. Normally, I keep emotions locked away. No public tears.
Her voice cracked, but she pushed through like wading through thorns:
— But now... I'm terrified. Exhausted. Not from labor, but from waking each day into this nightmare. The Tower wasn't a prison to me. Few know, but my brother grew up here with me—his care made it home. I had goals. A clear path forward, step by step. Then... One thing. Another. Others spoke of misfortunes that crippled minds for years. I never believed... until it happened to me. A descent. Step by step. First Alim left... then small things... and now this. Yet I forced myself to rise, to work, to live. When Valinsi raised his belt... I thought, 'This is just another step down'. That passivity shames me. But when it struck—the pain, the humiliation...
A tear traced her cheek. She barreled on, afraid to stop:
— Pride, cleverness, confidence... Gone. Just hollow ringing and the primal urge to flee. Others have suffered worse, but that's... abstract. Empathy is nothing beside lived pain. Hypocrisy aside—others' agony means nothing when your own consumes you. So when you intervened... There are no words for that reprieve. Even if accidental. Even if self-serving. The result stands alone. You saved me. And I've... dumped this torrent on you. Forgive me again.
Spent, Naire turned away sharply—then swayed. Morrigan caught her before thought caught up. The warmth of another body felt startlingly alive in this dead place. They froze mid-hall, shadows dancing: one grappling with unexpected candor (and the unfamiliar softness pressed to her cheek), the other with her own uncharacteristic openness.
— Your name?
A pause. Morrigan's thoughts scattered before coalescing:
— Morrigan.
— And I'm...
— Naire. Naire Surana.
— Ah...
The conversation floundered. The taller woman's mind drifted to the survivors' bleak prospects—even if they escaped the Tower's nightmare, would it ever release them? A disquieting parallel to her own plight. The smaller one simply floundered in the awkwardness, yet basked in the shared warmth.
Eventually, Naire managed:
— You...?
The vague question hung. No miraculous understanding dawned. Morrigan huffed, softening slightly:
— Rest. You'll need strength for whatever comes. I make no promises, but I'll try to save you. The debt's paid. Your...— She caught herself.— Just don't you dare give up.
A ghost of a smile flickered on Naire's face before she nodded—doubtful, but grateful. Morrigan helped her back to bed and left without farewells, thoughts churning.
Wandering the corridor, Morrigan wrestled with why she'd pledged to protect a life unrelated to hers. First, logic: Naire mattered as Alim's sister. And curiosity played a role. Then, honesty—saving the elf's last kin had kindled something warm within her. Strip it bare, and what remained? Selfishness. The urge to act on what felt right, then dress it in noble justifications. A subjective calculus. Morrigan grimaced at the philosophical quagmire.
Then it struck her. Envy.
She halted mid-step, startling a passing mage. The simplicity of it stunned her. Every action reduced to one concept. Her rational mind lined up the facts: her long-abandoned childhood weakness for shiny trinkets (harmless, yet a vulnerability Flemeth scorned); her later habit of tolerating only exceptional or useful companions (Leliana had called it "proprietorial cynicism"); and now this. Step by step, to the unavoidable truth.
Bracing against the wall, she whispered:
— Why... Why do I care?
The answer crystallized. Naire wasn't valuable for her pretty face, rare skills, or utility. Only her bond with Alim made her unique. That was what Morrigan coveted—the selfless devotion the elf had waxed poetic about. Not admiration, but a black hunger to possess it. That's why she'd remembered Naire from the moment she entered the Hold. Why she'd rushed to save her with flimsy excuses.
Something formless and unnamed within her was shifting. Morrigan's eyes snapped open, molten gold burning into the corridor wall. She was losing the battle for her own self, cornered. Resisting would harm them both. Reality cared nothing for personal crises. Naire needed aid, healing, escape—now.
A slow exhale. A grim smile.
— Escape the nightmare...
The parallels were undeniable: her own struggle, Naire's plight, the Tower's collapse. But defeat came only when admitted. Morrigan would extract Alim's sister. Deliver her to him. Solve her own problems. Leave them behind as a closed chapter. For new goals, tools like Leliana and Bethany would suffice.
* * *
At the barrier, a group of mages who had attended the preliminary discussion had gathered. Not a single one had refused. Surveying the grim audience, now split into small clusters, Morrigan approached Valinsi and Tomara and asked:
— Who crafted the barrier?
The man furrowed his brows but, finding no reason to conceal the fact, replied:
— Niall and his companion. Tinwall.
Having her suspicions confirmed, the girl smirked. Tomara lightly touched Valinsi's shoulder and gestured to the time:
— It's time to discuss the plan. If there is one.
The man nodded gratefully, never allowing himself a moment of weakness—no smile, no remark to lighten the atmosphere thickening with nerves and tension.
— So, Morrigan. The first major obstacle will be the demon by the staircase to the fourth floor?
— Correct...
Using a nearby candle stub and dripping beeswax, the enchantress deftly sketched the central hall of the third floor on the ground, marking the columns and the demon's position. With brief explanations, she outlined the method to overcome the first hurdle. Lyrium was the key element, so the plan was to unleash their full power, minimizing risks. After posing a dozen probing questions—answers to which required Valinsi to act as a "translator"—Morrigan broadly clarified the group's spell repertoire. Almost immediately, her sharp mind dictated the order in which to deploy them. Tomara and Darin, the oldest mage in the group, wielded Fireball. The second acerbic, gaunt man, who still hadn't introduced himself, knew Grease. Valinsi commanded Weakness. Additionally, a woman named Lida, who had emphasized the importance of principles, and the silent Anna possessed Mind Blast. This diversity reflected each mage's inclinations and research focus, offering significant tactical flexibility. Morrigan proposed simultaneously casting Grease, Mind Blast, and Weakness on the demon. Given its stationary position, it made for an ideal initial target. Once the flesh-bound foes were slowed, the next step was to unleash two Fireballs. Anna would remain on standby, ready to stun the demon again if it tried to escape the fiery inferno. Despite initial antagonism, most agreed the plan was sound. Even the explanations were deemed thorough enough to secure grudging approval, though displeased expressions lingered.
Frowning, Valinsi summed it up with a question:
— Fine. Suppose it works. We reach the lyrium alive. What then?
Morrigan bared her teeth in a predatory grin and answered with utter seriousness:
— Then we start a fire.