The organized ascent to the third floor took no more than ten minutes, unhurried and methodical. Valinsi attempted once more to raise the question of what exactly the "fire idea" entailed, but the enchantress deflected his curiosity twice with the same trivial argument: explanations would come in due time, before the act itself, and for now, they should focus on what lay before them. It was clear she took satisfaction in the mage's reaction—her bait had been cast deliberately. The rest of the group kept their questions and thoughts to themselves, outwardly showing little reaction beyond their initial surprise. Still, Morrigan noticed how Tomara, unlike the others, cast long, thoughtful glances her way—sometimes appraising, sometimes as if searching her features for something familiar. At times, Tomara's eyes glazed over, as though she'd momentarily forgotten where she was, only to snap back to awareness just as quickly.
Finally, the staircase ended, and the party encountered none of the imagined threats lurking in the shadows. The hall of statues seemed empty and safe, despite the encroaching darkness that swallowed the outlines of the sculptures and the distant walls and ceiling, fading into an indistinct void. It was as if the seven mages had scared off the lesser creatures responsible for the oppressive emotions and ever-present sense of dread.
Morrigan stepped into the corridor where the battle with the rage demon had taken place, a flicker of tension in her narrowed eyes and clenched jaw. Yet the scorch marks on the walls, floor, and numerous paintings remained untouched, drawing a quiet sigh of relief from her. Valinsi touched her shoulder, his gaze lingering on her strained expression:
— You're hiding something.
Morrigan didn't answer immediately, merely slanting her yellow pupils toward him:
— Astute observation. I expected an ambush. Just like on the way down.
He pressed his lips together. It wasn't hard to guess what troubled him: she was skilled at lying, yet just as eager to speak the truth. The question was—which parts of that truth were bait?
— Fine. But if you lead us blind again, I'll handle it without discussion.
She smirked, as if she'd been waiting for that very response:
—Promise?
He nodded curtly and gestured for them to move forward. Peering through the arched passage into the central hall, Morrigan remarked softly:
— No changes.
Indeed, every detail remained exactly as it had been, as though no more than a dozen hours had passed. With a confident nod, the enchantress explained briefly that beyond the ring of central pillars, movement had been safe before. But given the size of their group, it was best to keep their distance now.
Prepared and without hesitation, each fell into their assigned roles. Two men and Lida began incantations, timing their spells to unleash in unison. But the key players were Tomara and Darin—after exchanging a knowing glance, they raised their hands in perfect sync.
As if sensing the disturbance, the flickering shadows at the center began shifting toward the edge where the mages stood. Morrigan clenched her fists, fearing the shadows might break free and attack. If that happened, the plan would fail, and a painful death would await them all. Yet she didn't retreat, standing firm and staring ahead. In that moment, she gambled on one assumption: that the puppet master behind this was driven by sloth or indolence.
Magic cascaded into the pillar ring in flawless sequence, a testament to the group's coordination and experience. The movements of the agitated, translucent figures slowed, growing erratic—if such a thing were even possible—before a deafening crack echoed through the hall. The air expanded violently from the overheated cores of two fire spheres, which swelled in the span of a heartbeat to fill the space between the pillars with lethal heat. As if on command, every flammable surface ignited.
No one in the group failed to shield their faces from the searing waves, the sheer intensity of the heat dizzying even in such a vast space. A draft of cool air rushed in from the corridor, replacing the scorching updraft surging toward the ceiling. Flames devoured everything, choking the space between the pillars with acrid smoke and soot.
Where the mages felt only discomfort, their enemy suffered far worse. The fire illuminated the ghostly figures darting aimlessly around the central pedestal. The possessed one, nearly indifferent to the flames licking at his flesh and devouring the remnants of his robes, fought desperately against his own nature and the restraining magic, straining to abandon his perch and reach the source of his torment. His eyes darted from detail to detail, the scene striking in its near-silence—only the crackling flames and the mages' labored breaths filled the air.
When the slowly burning possessed finally collapsed, Anna broke. A Mind Blast struck the creature again, leaving it twitching erratically. No one looked away from the inferno they'd created, ignoring their watering eyes. Soon, the fire within the pillar ring had nothing left to consume. Within minutes, the flames died, leaving behind streaks of soot, new cracks from thermal stress, and the familiar, oppressive darkness settling back in. The torches, once sustained by the possessed's will, had burned to embers. The last thing visible was the charred remains of the possessed at the pedestal—and the absence of the translucent figures.
Someone exhaled in relief. One of the enchantresses coughed. Everyone kept their focus sharp, eyes straining against the dark. Valinsi raised a hand, cupping his fingers, and with a short incantation—"Luminance"—a spark flickered to life. The motionless emanation cast a cold, steady glow, illuminating a circle a dozen paces wide. His gaze swept over the group, lingering on Morrigan. Doubt was plain on his face: had this been her brilliant improvisation or a calculated scheme? And which was worse?
Taking a few hurried steps, the leader dragged the fallen foe back into the light. The moment the charred body entered the illuminated circle, it twitched. The movement of its arms was unmistakable—no trick of the mind—and the reaction was immediate. Three Arcane Bolts struck with a wet thud, splattering black ichor. Morrigan had expected a coordinated response but was surprised by its speed. She'd barely begun to move while others were already preparing counter-spells. No panicked cries—only Anna's sharp inhale.
But Tomara was fastest. The spell from the woman with the bandaged head struck first. Despite her head injury, her face showed remarkable focus. Morrigan couldn't help but note how starkly this determination contrasted with her behavior during their first encounter.
After the finishing blow, the body sprawled on the floor showed no signs of life—not after a minute, nor after three. Still, Morrigan approached Valinsi and gestured toward his dagger, asking permission to use it. Once the mage handed her the blade, the enchantress was the first to step into the central ring, pausing only once to confirm the absence of threats before striding straight to the corpse. Prodding a revolting chunk of flesh with the toe of her boot and flipping it aside, she swiftly—without hesitation or a trace of disgust—slit the grotesquely swollen throat. With measured steps, she returned, offering the dagger back hilt-first and wiping her hand on her clothes. Valinsi gave her a look of faint respect and a satisfied nod.
Behind them, Darin's voice rasped, grim and creaking:
— Can't say the obstacle was insurmountable. Or deadly.
Lida snorted in retort:
— Now that the danger's passed, you boast? One would think wisdom comes with age, not insecurity.
The wiry mage, with decades behind him, wiped his brow, pushing back sweat-dampened gray strands. His hand trembled—the Fireball had drained him more than he'd expected. Darin grimaced before replying:
— Youthful mockery... Regardless, Tomara and I did the heavy lifting. Meanwhile, our so-called 'guide,' who waxed poetic about the threat, stood aside. A spectator. Here's my point: we all spent mana. But the two of us, wielding the most lethal spells, paid a steeper price. And in my eyes, the enemy wasn't worth the effort. Doesn't that strike you as odd? Hm?
Tomara nodded slowly—first hesitantly, as if resisting her own gesture, then sharply. Her lips twitched, but no words came.
Valinsi, pacing back with deliberate steps, scanned their faces in the conjured light and voiced his thoughts:
— The fight was easy for one reason: we knew what awaited us. Morrigan's warnings proved true to the last drop. Your shortsightedness astounds me. Fine, the old fool I expect—but you, Tomara...
As Valinsi shook his head in dismay, Lida—her voice tinged with reluctant agreement—sided with their leader:
— I'll admit, Morrigan's plan was inventive. Practical. The fact that I'm saying this speaks volumes. Darin, crow all you want about your 'indispensable' role. The flames decided the fate of those... things surrounding the possessed. Ignoring that would've been idiocy. Had they swarmed us, who knows how it'd have ended? But fire alone didn't win this. The heat choked the life from him; the rest of our spells kept him trapped.
Valinsi surveyed the group—some grudgingly agreeing, others feigning detachment, a few scowling—and ended the debate:
— We move. And try not to let fear decide for you. However natural it feels.
Morrigan tilted her head pensively, her gaze drifting unfocused across their faces. Her expression gave no hint whether she agreed with his words or doubted the mages' ability to heed them. Ahead, the shadowed outlines of ascending stairs awaited.
* * *
The return to the fourth floor once again proved the "guide's" words true. Though darkness filled the hall, their eyes retained an uncanny ability to see—not far, but enough. Valinsi's light had faded midway up the stairs, and Morrigan warned against summoning another, pointing out that reaching the lyrium was still a challenge. Thus, the darkness's strange behavior was laid bare for all to witness.
Wary and expectant of traps, Morrigan immediately directed the group's attention to the corpse lying nearby. To her, it was a symbol of eerie constancy—unchanged and unmoved since their last encounter:
— Niall.
All eyes snapped to the body. Morrigan, meanwhile, subtly studied the group. They seemed to her like a kaleidoscope of masks, each hiding something unknown and therefore perilous. To keep this thought from clouding her judgment, she sometimes had to ground herself with sharp, sobering pain. Most faces bore grim surprise, sorrow, and regret—natural emotions, perhaps. Yet Morrigan couldn't shake the suspicion that appearances rarely matched hidden motives.
Tomara knelt beside the corpse, her fingers gripping Niall's sleeve with unnatural force, knuckles whitening. When she looked up at Morrigan, something flickered in her eyes—gone the next instant, replaced by neutrality. Her words, however, carried a hidden edge:
— Were you with him when he died?
Her voice was even, though a vein twitched at her mouth. The question seemed innocent, but Morrigan sensed treachery beneath, like still waters hiding a predator. Valinsi, meanwhile, stared grimly at the body, as if the dead man had betrayed his trust and left him with a guilty conscience. The mage showed no reaction to the question. Neither did the others, who turned away or remained silent observers.
Morrigan shrugged, irritation bleeding through before she replied:
— Yes. How else would I know his fate? The darkness here is fickle. It's easy to fall prey to illusions. The fight happened here, but I still doubt what I saw.
Tomara sighed slowly, nodded, and continued in the same neutral tone:
— So even your own word isn't proof you didn't kill him?
Morrigan noted the darkening expressions of every man in the group—except Valinsi, lost in thought. Lida tensed visibly. Knowing she couldn't rely on the leader's intervention, Morrigan sharpened her tone:
— Clever. But pointless. These insinuations you leave hanging only aid our enemies. We made our decisions before ascending. New doubts here won't lead to truth—only death. Seems your concern for allies isn't a priority. Do we move forward, or waste time?
She turned to Valinsi, who, shaking off his ghosts, nodded:
— Enough talk. Lead.
Tomara's gaze grew heavy, flitting across the others as if seeking support before returning to the corpse. Morrigan thought she saw the ghost of a smirk—but, wary of paranoia's quagmire, she bit her lip hard, cleared her mind, and strode toward the corridor, focusing only on the threats ahead.
The only change since their last visit was the absence of the black shroud that had barred the armory. The sight dredged up memories of the Hunger's lair. Peering inside, Morrigan saw three bodies—like the others, stripped to bone. The door hung from bent hinges, as if rammed open. From a distance, their garb resembled Chantry attire more than mage robes.
The final hall was as oppressive as the rest—silent, dark, and unnervingly still. Everyone tensed, expecting the illusion of safety to shatter. So when the blackness coalesced into a figure slightly darker than the void, it was almost a relief. The creature emerged soundlessly from the hall's center. At first glance, it seemed human—but then the wrongness settled in. Its shoulders sloped unnaturally, as if lacking scapulae or collarbones, and its arms hung far below the waist.
Valinsi, Lida, and Morrigan reacted first. Two Arcane Bolts lanced through the figure, briefly illuminating the emptiness before vanishing into the dark. Morrigan's spell left no visible trace but struck true, revealing a second silhouette—the real threat:
— There!
A shout, a raised hand, and a volley of spells from the rest immobilized and crushed the enemy's true form.
As the corpse hit the floor, Morrigan and Lida approached. It darkened, merging with the shadows, decaying without scent—as if the darkness itself consumed it. But the remnants of its robes marked it as a mage. Something had reshaped its skull, shoulders, and hands into something clawed and predatory. Studying the remains, Morrigan asked Lida, not expecting an answer:
— Why didn't it attack immediately?
Lida rubbed her forehead thoughtfully before answering:
— You're right... It holds all the cards. It could have torn through our ranks without risk long before we realized the trick. Or maybe we never would have.
— It's as if... something among us gave it pause. Like a predator chasing wounded prey only to stumble upon a rival of equal or greater strength. Hunger pushes it forward, but fear and the feeble whispers of reason scream 'wait' or 'flee.'
Lida shot a suspicious glance at the girl bent over the corpse, grimaced, and reluctantly looked back at the others. They huddled in shadowy clusters, poised for an attack from any direction while the two enchantresses busied themselves with matters only they understood. Morrigan straightened and asked her companion:
— Did you follow me here out of distrust? Certainly not curiosity.
The woman replied without bothering to turn around:
— I don't trust you. But right now, I have no choice.
— And your expectations?
— Same as ever. Nothing good... Is this how Niall died? When neither you nor he knew for certain what—or who—you were facing?
Before answering, Morrigan studied Lida's lean, unfeminine frame from head to toe. The Circle mage was clearly wrestling with thoughts that troubled Morrigan herself. Yet she couldn't decide if that was a good sign. Likely not, since clarity only bred vulnerability:
— Yes. It's terrifying how easily a familiar face becomes a stranger. Dwelling on it is pointless. A knife in the back won't hurt less for seeing it coming.
— An interesting thought... Am I to assume you have specific suspicions?
— Hmm... Your choice of confidant speaks volumes. You'd rather share doubts with me than show weakness to those who've known you for years. Your unity seems built on rotten foundations—intrigue and mutual blame. Makes one wonder if that's why Uldred turned radical.
Morrigan stepped closer, deliberately avoiding sudden movements that might startle the already tense woman. Placing a hand on Lida's shoulder, she forced her to turn. Yellow eyes met brown:
— To be blunt, everyone here is like a puppet. And I think you understand that. What binds you—shared history, for instance—blinds and confuses. In the Tower, certainty is a luxury. And even that's temporary. Monsters that leap for your throat are simple. The real dangers are those who avert their gaze and wait in sheep's clothing. Don't misunderstand. My words will feed your paranoia, contradicting what I've said before. But my goal isn't to drive a wedge deeper. Trying to guess where the enemy lies often means dancing to their tune. Assume every mask hides a monster. The taste of betrayal may not be familiar to me, but sensitivity to it grows with time. I can easily imagine how an enemy might hollow out your unity from within.
Lida narrowed her eyes and said slowly:
— You're suggesting the enemy hides behind an illusion... of normalcy. While their body is already twisted by possession?
Morrigan bit the inside of her cheek, weighing her response, then answered with uncharacteristic hesitation:
— More yes than no. It's conjecture without proof. And what the enemy does is more than just illusion or appearance.
Lida nodded, then stiffened as if struck by revelation. Her next words spilled out in a rush:
— That's it. The flames, the fire... Demons warp reality near Veil tears like clay to their whims. What you describe—it's as if the possessed cloak themselves in an image, like clothing. And the Tower's been subjected to the same trick. But like clothing, the facade is static at its core...
— A torch burns, giving light and warmth, but never consumes itself.
— Yes... And darkness hides flaws perfectly. That's why eternal night reigns here. And why your plan might work. But the same trick could also dispel our mutual suspicions.
Morrigan smirked in surprise before withdrawing her hand:
— An excellent deduction. I'm impressed. Fire has other strengths, of course. But how—
Lida cut her off with a sharp gesture:
— Fire is natural. Self-sustaining. Predictable in progression, yet chaotic in nature. Most importantly, true flame alters essence—inside and out. If we—
— No. The idea has merit, but such provocation would cause more problems than it solves. Better to wait for a traitor's strike than force their hand.
— But—
Morrigan shook her head firmly. Glancing at the spot where the monster's corpse had lain—now just tattered rags—she huffed irritably and added without enthusiasm:
— There's another way. The lyrium storage is ten paces away. A small, dark room with a door that's neither quick nor easy to open or seal. If someone were to lock it... Almost all rats in one trap. Animal terror in absolute darkness. Vulnerability. Opportunity. An imperfect method and a grim experience. But better than your mad idea of setting comrades ablaze and turning everyone into enemies. A predator in the dark, if pushed, can't restrain its nature. If we're 'lucky.' If not, we're dealing with something far worse. But this plan requires blind trust in me. And that this conversation isn't just a cat toying with a stupid mouse.
Lida didn't answer immediately. Her fingers clenched her robes until her knuckles whitened; her gaze fixed on the floor as if answers were written there. Her breathing was too even—the controlled rhythm of someone forcing down tremors. Jaw tight, her voice like a rusted lock grating open, she muttered:
— We'll see…
Morrigan recognized that tone. It was the voice of those who had made a decision they despised. With a shrug, she feigned indifference to the woman's choice. Then, without a word, both returned to the group, only to immediately become the targets of irritation for the others, who had endured what seemed like a pointless wait. Only Valinsi remained silent, observing each of them from the sidelines with practiced detachment.
After several more minutes of Lida's vague account—deliberately omitting any mention of new discoveries—the leader ordered the group to move. And with a faint smirk, Morrigan soon guided them to the darkened maw of the hidden Templar lyrium cache.
Approaching a rotated segment of the wall, the witch placed her hand on the trigger stone as if by chance, then turned to the group, locking eyes with Lida. The girl nodded and stepped boldly into the thickening gloom, vanishing from sight. The darkness here was oppressive, reducing visibility to an arm's length—no accident, Morrigan suspected. At first glance, it seemed the Tower's current master's grip weakened near lyrium. But logic whispered another possibility: the effect here was stronger.
It served multiple purposes. First, it hindered access to the lyrium, forcing mages to grope blindly under conditions that strained their very being. Second, it bred fear in the foolish and false confidence in the clever. And third, it tempted mages to waste mana and health on futile efforts. So when Valinsi, entering behind her, immediately conjured a "Luminance", Morrigan merely turned to watch. The result would prove her right—or reveal the limits of the demon's power.
The light flared—then choked, smothered by a dark cloud that refused to spread beyond half an arm's length. The mage's frustrated mutter confirmed it: the blackness had become a claustrophobic wall. To the others, the light was a dim flicker, barely illuminating two steps ahead.
Perching on a chest she'd found by touch, Morrigan spoke:
— This darkness leaves everyone alone with their doubts. Valinsi, what's your take? Does the Tower's master know our plan?
A weary sigh came from the shadows.
— He doesn't even fully know his own plans... You're implying we have a traitor. Or worse—someone possessed.
Voices erupted almost in unison from the dark—Anna and the unnamed man, both already moving deeper into the room:
— Maker's breath! This isn't the time or place. Can we discuss this after finding the lyrium? I feel like I'm being turned inside out...
— Enough games, 'guide.' Show us the lyrium. Let's leave this cursed place before the headache drives us mad.
Darin's dry, grim tone followed:
— Actually, this is the perfect spot for such talk. No one can strangle the instigator, no faces to read, and concentration's shot. Easy to cast blame. But ask yourselves: whose promises lured us beyond the safe barrier? We're blind moles suffering lyrium sickness. If we vanish one by one, who defends those still alive below?
Morrigan laughed softly, ignoring her own creeping nausea, and addressed Valinsi again:
— No implications. Just a question awaiting an answer.
Footsteps suggested he'd retreated to the far wall before replying:
— ...I think so.
She nodded to herself:
— Darin's paranoia is pointless. Our fates were sealed the moment we stepped onto this floor. The real question is: who stood guard when Niall broke the barrier?
Valinsi's voice was quieter, strained:
— Johan and Tomara. Neira came almost immediately after. Then me.
— Johan drooled over Neira's beating. Tomara watched silently. Neither stopped Niall. So: one stranger, one old friend.
Silence. Then Tomara's voice, slurred and brittle:
— Do you truly believe I'd betray you? Or are you just desperate for a scapegoat? Valinsi? Lida?
Valinsi frowned:
— Tomara—are you all right?
— Oh, splendid. Just a... headache.
Morrigan smirked:
— Speaking of... Lida never entered.
A dry click sounded from the entrance. Then, with a faint creak and scrape, the wall segment rotated—sealing the six mages inside. The silence that followed was thick with dawning horror. The golden-eyed witch shook her head in disbelief, lips forming soundless words:
— As if burying us. Herself included.
It was proof of the madness gnawing at them all, where doubt made even the wildest gambits seem rational. Morrigan had nudged Lida's unraveling mind, yes—but she hadn't expected the woman to trap them in a lyrium-choked tomb just to root out a possible turncoat. Cracking her shoulders, Morrigan addressed the dark:
— Maybe she's the traitor. Or maybe she's waiting for the spiders in the jar to kill each other. Who knows? Right, Tomara?
Tomara laughed—a ragged, dissonant sound, as if two voices tore through her throat. Then a hiss:
— He didn't believe I'd betray him either.
Valinsi's alarmed cry overlapped:
— Tomara?!
A grotesque gurgle from Anna answered Valinsi's call—then cut off abruptly, like the flash of a blade severing a head. Taking it as her cue, Morrigan began stripping off her clothes, indifferent to where they fell, her focus locked on suppressing the creeping nausea. Her voice sliced through the blind dark, cold and detached:
— Find a corner. Press your back to solid stone. Preferably where the sickness is weaker. This 'spacious' vault is a lie—it's crammed with chests of wood and metal, all filled with danger. And for the love of the Void, stay quiet.
Darin's muffled cursing and Valinsi's increasingly frantic calls for Tomara thickened the air, but Morrigan ignored both. Naked and alone in the dark, she exhaled, straightening. Not for the first time, she noted how easily her body now embraced the change—an anomaly that should have terrified her. Then her bones clicked. Muscles tore. Skin split.
The scent of fear spiked as the others sensed it: they were trapped with two predators, hackles raised, seconds from tearing each other's throats out. A keen ear might have caught whispered spells—but whose?
A wet thud silenced all speculation. From the far end of the room came a choked gasp—Darin's—then another impact. Two voices overlapped in the dark, one familiar, one alien:
— No. Not... now—
— You are weak.
Morrigan launched herself up the wall, claws screeching against stone. She glimpsed Valinsi's back, lit by a flicker of light as he turned toward the noise—but he saw only a shadow that moved like no human could. Where Darin had stood, a warm body now lay, its chest a wet crater.
She kicked off, hurling herself backward toward Valinsi, betting Tomara would target him next.
She was right.
Their bodies collided midair. Morrigan didn't hesitate—she bit. The thing wearing Tomara barely flinched, confirming her suspicions. It wrenched at her, but she sank her claws deeper, even as its grip crushed her shoulder. Bone crunched. Pain lanced up her spine, white-hot and cleansing—it burned away the nausea, the headache.
One-armed, she tore at its clavicle, blood flooding her mouth. The monster leaped. They crashed through a chest, metal vessels clanging, before Morrigan's spine hit the wall. Breath fled. Then—fire.
Valinsi's spell—a crude Flaming Hands—ignored ally and foe alike. The possessed roared; Morrigan's skin blistered. Agony anchored her to the moment. She drove her remaining claws under its ribs, yanking. A hiss answered, like a nest of enraged serpents—then the thing spun, slamming her into stone again. Air whistled from her lungs in a gurgling scream.
From the dark, an Arcane Bolt took her elbow clean off.
No blood. Just laughter—wet and hacking. Of course. The very people she was protecting had maimed her. And when she reverted...?
Another bolt came—aimed at her, but it tore through the possessed instead, punching a fist-sized hole in its chest.
Morrigan kicked off the wall, dragging the monster with her. Her jaws found its throat. It retaliated with hammer-blows to her skull, one even striking itself in its frenzy. She writhed, knowing a solid hit would end her—
Another Arcane Bolt whizzed past, scattering dust from the ancient masonry.
Then—leverage. The thing grabbed her leg, heaving—but she clung to its swollen neck with her remaining arm. Momentum did the rest. With a sickening rip, she took its Adam's apple with her as she flew.
She hit the ground hard. Behind her, the possessed bubbled, blood sloshing onto stone. It refused to die—until, a minute later, a heavy thud announced its collapse.
—Morrigan?
In some twisted way, the witch felt a surge of grim triumph at Valinsi's question—an acknowledgment of reality and a flicker of hope in her survival. Of course, the darker part of her whispered that he might simply be confirming her death over Tomara's. She silenced that voice. In her current state, though, a coherent reply was beyond her.
— Careful! We don't know what happened in the dark. Or if it's truly over.
The unnamed mage's voice, laced with suspicion rather than Valinsi's concern, was far more familiar to Morrigan's ears. Spitting a glob of bloody saliva, she clenched her teeth and willed the transformation to reverse.
Her body erupted in agony—not the dull throb of past shifts, but something new, perverse. Magic stitched her flesh back together with brutal indifference. Bones cracked into place too fast, too rough—a rib gouged muscle, her collarbone screeched into an unnatural curve. Worst was her right arm: the phantom pain of the severed limb became real, as if each knuckle were being methodically crushed.
She swallowed another mouthful of blood but didn't scream. Screaming was weakness. And weakness here meant death. Through the pain, a thought slithered: 'The magic mends me carelessly. As if I'm just... meat'.
When her vision cleared, she looked first at her right hand. Fingers intact. Whole. But the pain lingered—a distant, gnawing ache, as if the bones remembered being shattered. Flexing them brought a fleeting relief. The rest was secondary.
Cautious footsteps approached. A dim light pierced the dark, revealing Valinsi's silhouette looming over her. The glow exposed her nakedness—and the extent of her injuries: bruises like smudged ink across her ribs, a shoulder mottled with crushing fingerprints, blood sheeting her arms to the elbows.
The mage frowned:
—Are you... all right?
Morrigan uncurled her trembling fist:
— Oh, perfectly. I simply adore being beaten half to death. Care to check my pulse?
— You owe us answers.
— Nothing new there.
— Your tone suggests I shouldn't hope for any. Yet you're in no position to evade. Your current state and... what I first saw of you share disturbing parallels.
— I'm in the perfect position to evade. Priorities, remember?
— Half my team is dead! Don't lecture me on—
Valinsi cut himself off, wincing as his own raised voice spiked his headache.
Morrigan barreled on:
— Now's exactly the time. Remember what killed them? Remember your odds? Spare me the outrage. Survival is the only priority. The only proof. Doubts mid-battle are for fools and corpses—often the same. If you need evidence, grope for Tomara's body in the dark. The signs will speak for themselves.
From the shadows, the other mage's tense voice confirmed:
— She's... not wrong. This thing—it barely resembles Tomara. But the amulets, the clothes, the earring... they're hers.
Valinsi pressed his lips into a thin line.
— The others?
— Gone. No chance. Anna's neck was snapped—nearly torn clean off. Darin's chest was caved in...
Morrigan corrected idly:
— Twice.
A pause:
— ...If you say so.
Valinsi shut his eyes.
— Darin. Twenty years...— He inhaled sharply, voice dropping to ice— How did Tomara die?
The mage hesitated:
— Valinsi, that wasn't—
— How?
— From what I can tell... claw marks, a puncture under the ribs, bites, and... her throat was ripped out.
Valinsi nodded, as if confirming a private theory. His gaze slid over Morrigan—battered but unbroken, her wild grace undimmed even now. The light clung to her sweat-slick skin, to the rise and fall of her bruised ribs...
His lips twitched—in irritation or something darker. When he met her mocking stare, his paranoia snapped taut:
— Where are your clothes?
— Somewhere here. Look for them. Find the lyrium while you're at it. I'll... rest, with your permission. It's been tiring work.
Her heavy eyelids fell, veiling those golden eyes. Just to rest them, she told herself. Just that.
* * *
Morrigan opened her eyes to the sensation of someone tapping her cheek. The darkness here was different from the lyrium vault's oppressive gloom. Above her loomed Lida's face—forehead creased with doubt, lips pressed thin to cage irritation, but relief flickering in the red-rimmed depths of her eyes. A quick glance confirmed Morrigan was propped against a wall near the secret door, dressed (if haphazardly), with no men in sight.
The silence stretched until Lida broke it:
— You're awake.
A pointless observation that prickled Morrigan's temper. The younger witch's expression must have betrayed it, because Lida sighed before continuing:
— Good. Though that's the wrong word. Nothing went to plan.
Morrigan tested her limbs. Everything moved, albeit with a dull ache radiating from fingertips to scalp. New pains, too—gifts from that brutal transformation. Bandages constricted her torso, shielding the scrapes on her back. She held her breath, assessing: Ribs intact. Tolerable.
Methodically, she flexed her right fist, forcing obedience through the pain. A sardonic thought flickered: An hour's rest, good as new. Only then did she deign to reply:
— To plan? Was there one? Or did you finally believe what I told you?— Her golden eyes burned into Lida.— Spare me the hypocrisy. When you sealed that door, you knew. Hoped, maybe, but knew. So ask yourself: Who walks out? And as what?
Lida's fingers fussed with Morrigan's sleeve:
— There's truth in that. I can't stop thinking... Anna hated the dark. Slept with a lamp since childhood. And now—
— You bandaged and dressed me.
— Yes.
— Thank you.
Lida kept her eyes down:
— Don't. I needed you to kill her.
— And now?
— Now I see I was right.— She finally looked up—no joy, just weary certainty.— Tomara... No, I don't want to know.
— Wise. Some nightmares are best forgotten.
Valinsi pinched his nosebridge, grimacing through a headache:
— Optimistic.
Morrigan shrugged:
— Option two is death.
— Are they different?— he snapped.— Every 'plan' of yours leads us into another monster's jaws.
— Yet you live. Isn't that proof enough?
Lida cut in:
— She's right. We'd be dead ten times over without her.
Valinsi's jaw clenched—admitting it cost him.
Groaning like an old crone, Morrigan leveraged herself up the wall and adjusted her clothes:
— How long?
— An hour.
— Did I...?
— Sleep peacefully?— Lida's pause was answer enough.— You thrashed. Like all of us. I doubt anyone here remembers a normal dream. The Fade clings tighter than childhood memories. But you needed rest, even at the cost of... visions.
Morrigan nodded, privately unsettled. This time, there'd been nothing between closing her eyes and waking—no nightmare, no void. A bad sign, or a worse one?
— The others?
— Ransacking the vault. We need direction. 'Burn it all' is too vague. And after that... fight...— Lida's voice frayed.— This feels like elaborate suicide. Any hope of success is—
Morrigan shuddered, suddenly abrupt:
— This endless dark is nauseating. And I've endured barely a drop of it. No wonder it's driving you mad.— She straightened.— The plan's simple. And mad. Like your stunt with the door. But we wait for the others.
Lida nodded, leaning against the wall and directing her blind gaze into the formless, depthless darkness. Morrigan studied her with a scrutinizing look, searching for signs of fracture, then called out to the remaining mages, her voice unapologetically loud. Contrary to expectation, no echo returned—no reverberation that would suggest a spacious hall with high ceilings.
Soon, Valinsi emerged from the storage room, looking weary, followed by his secretive partner, who still withheld his name. The latter didn't even grant the witch a sidelong glance. The squad leader, however, nodded and gave her another once-over. Beating him to the punch by a heartbeat, the girl spoke first:
— No obvious questions about health, state, or well-being. Did you find the lyrium?
— Yes. We can haul out the chest.
— Did you occupy yourselves?
— Moved a few crates to stash the raw lyrium deeper inside and set up a latrine. Petty revenge, just our style. And natural needs don't wait.
Morrigan tilted her chin skeptically, marveling at how the man before her clung to practicality and composure, busying himself with anything useful rather than crumbling or losing his mind under the weight of numbing anticipation and endless self-flagellation.
— Plan.
The word made the mage raise his brows and finally drew the secretive partner's attention to the witch's presence. Gesturing for Lida to join them, Morrigan began her explanation.
— Simple in essence. Built on conjecture. So it's open to critique—but only the kind that carries thought. Save the empty chatter. As you've all noticed, a demon guarded the stairs to the fourth floor. Laziness or Idleness. No reason the stretch between the fourth and fifth would differ. But of course, the demon here will be several times stronger. Fits the idea that the closer we get to the Veil's rupture at the peak, and the farther from the tower's base, the more intelligent and powerful the demons become. Nearing the Veil's breach brings other risks, too—like heightened madness. From this, I infer Pride hasn't moved. And won't. Otherwise, we'd already be dead. Two goals follow: overcome the stair guard, then topple the tower's master. And let's be clear—no one but the First Enchanter can bear witness to the crisis's end. Not my words.
Valinsi smirked grimly:
— Gregor?
— The Knight-Commander, yes. So. Lyrium will help us achieve both goals. By coincidence, we've no one left who's skilled in strong fire spells. Valinsi, you know the formulas to ignite things.
The mage nodded openly, waiting for her to continue.
— We'll drag flammable items to the central hall's entrances. Light fires. The more smoke, the better. Smoke the creature out. It'll die, flee, or chase us. Either way, it's off the stairs.
The second mage asked, suspicion lacing his voice:
— What makes you think whatever's there won't charge at us immediately?
— The best guards—the ones who won't wander the floors—are born of laziness and idleness. Just like on the third floor. To the fires. We'll light another by the stairs. More smoke. But this time, everything containing lyrium goes into the flames.
All three mages paled. The nameless squad member spoke first, voicing what troubled the rest:
— When vaporized, lyrium rapidly reverts to its unbound state, regaining its toxic qualities. Rising with the smoke as fine particles, it'll poison anyone with the talent.
Lida snorted and added tensely:
— It's not just poison for mages. But... yes, mages will die first. Agonizingly.
Morrigan shrugged, dismissing the implication of excess cruelty:
— Remember? Open to suggestions. But ask yourselves—how do you measure up to the one who started this nightmare?
A heavy silence fell. Lida broke it first, nervously biting her lower lip:
— There must be other ways... We could try...
The nameless mage cut her off sharply:
— Like what? Run? We already tried. Hide? Nowhere left. Wait for help? We've been written off.
His tone was uncharacteristically fervent, and Valinsi silenced him with a look. Then the leader made a suggestion, as if grasping at straws:
— Niall?
Morrigan shook her head:
— If he'd had anything practical besides blood magic... He'd still be dead. Just not like this.— The witch fixed them all with a hard stare.— That hope is empty. Like all the others.
The nameless mage inhaled sharply, fists clenched, but said nothing. Lida covered her face with her hands. Valinsi stood motionless, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the fury of his thoughts. At last, Morrigan spoke, shattering the silence:
— The plan's as sharp as a blade's edge. So are our chances. The idea is the poison will drive the demon away. Maybe before its victims die. In the worst-case victory, we cleanse the Hold—but the First Enchanter dies. And negotiating with the Knight-Commander falls to you.
Valinsi nodded, accepting each point, but his tone was grimly focused as he clarified another aspect:
— Beyond the... cruelty, something else troubles me. Lyrium dust... There's a Chantry law forbidding its use like this against mages. On one hand, it's meant to pacify the Circles and prevent large-scale lyrium weaponization by nations and free cities. On the other—far more critical—it's a cornerstone of a political deal with Tevinter, averting inevitable conflict between a mage-ruled state and a religious order bent on controlling mages. There's only one exception to this ban, enacted after the Nevarran Incident in the Age of Glory: the Right of Annihilation. Everyone here must understand. This isn't just compromising principles—it's a grave crime in the eyes of the Chantry's hierarchy. Far worse than apostasy, public blood magic, or similar trifles. This is about politics and precedent. Everyone stays silent. And not just for themselves. The Chantry would sooner vanish an entire Circle, already compromised by mass possession, than confront the source of dangerous rumors. And while my comrades grasp the weight of this... I can't say the same for you, Morrigan.
The witch's face split into a sly grin, which twisted into a pained grimace as she attempted a mocking bow—a jab at the squad leader's monologue:
— This brings us to terms.
— To the fact that your word is worthless currency.
— You've nothing better. Be objective. Now that you're warned, to even hint at this... I'm no suicide. Or is it something else you fear? A stranger who holds the Circle's lives in her fist? Even at the cost of her own skin.
—Obviously.
The girl looked at him as if he were a fool and shrugged:
— Well, we could do nothing. But wait... Can we? Seems we've had this talk before...
The three Circle members exchanged glances. Lida winced but nodded. The second mage, staring gloomily at his boots, muttered:
— No choice exists in a hopeless situation.
Valinsi fixed Morrigan with a heavy gaze:
— What are your terms?
— Any doubts about me—keep them to yourselves. No matter what.
— That's all?
— Too little?
— Not at all. No. Fine. I'll speak for everyone. But let there be reciprocity. If we catch your tongue too loose, we'll handle it as we see fit. And by we, I mean any of us who can justify their suspicions to the others.
Morrigan nodded slowly, weighing the unpredictability and far-reaching consequences of such an agreement. Still, she shook the offered hand, knowing full well there was no other path. Only empty chatter remained.
— Details settled. Time to begin.
* * *
The initial stages of Morrigan's plan unfolded, to the surprise of the severely diminished group, without major deviations—gathering flammable materials, erecting barricades, preparing lyrium concoctions. It seemed fate itself granted them respite. Even the sheer volume of preparatory work, far greater than anticipated, proved no insurmountable obstacle.
Their greatest luck was the complete absence of demons and the possessed in the corridors—nothing hindered their movements, nothing attacked from the shadows. The dangerous creatures had truly retreated beyond the Veil, just as Morrigan predicted.
The central hall of the fourth floor had two alcoves leading from the outer corridor, opposite each other. Inside, conditions mirrored the storage room: not a clear boundary of the Fade's encroaching mutability, but an impenetrable blackness, a result of the tower's master's influence. It took two hours to drag all flammable, smoky materials into place—bedding, clothing, leather goods, hides, parchment, and the like. With the barricades complete, Valinsi committed the first in a series of necessary violations of Circle law: he deliberately set the fires.
The flames ignited reluctantly, as if hindered by some will. Watching, Morrigan whispered:
— He's here... Restraining the fire.
Lida shivered, glancing around:
— Why doesn't he attack?
— The simplest answer is closest to the truth. He can't...
But judicious use of magic and ample lyrium potions kept the flames alive. Soon, two roaring pyres spewed choking smoke, filling the hall with stifling heat and stench. The smoke seeped into the corridor too, forcing them to fashion face wraps and sweat through the labor of directing it upward. How this looked from the fifth floor or outside was anyone's guess, but the awaited reaction took a grueling, nausea-inducing hour and a half. Each minute brought headaches, dizziness, and nosebleeds—compounded by exhaustion, hunger, and thirst.
Of Morrigan's three predicted outcomes, the third came to pass. A guttural roar echoed through the hall as a pile of burning debris shifted, revealing the silhouette of a Bereskarn—a southern bear twisted by the Blight, now demon-possessed. Or perhaps a demon had chosen this form deliberately. The group didn't linger to find out, bolting for the opposite passage. Each carried salvaged crates of Templar lyrium concoctions and broken furniture for fuel. The only challenge was dismantling the smoldering barricade—a task solved by layering five winter blankets into a makeshift bridge.
Events accelerated. While the "stair guard" lumbered through the corridor seeking its tormentors, they hauled wood through the darkness to the lower steps, lit another pyre, and—hands trembling—began emptying bottles stamped with the Corps' insignia into the flames, wary of inhaling the billowing smoke. The hardest part: repeating the motions until the demon maintaining the Veil's rupture abandoned its host. Too soon, and they'd risk the Bereskarn's wrath; too late, and—
The quartet worked monotonously, ears straining—visibility was nil. Their labor's fruit: plumes of black-and-cobalt smoke curling into the stairwell's maw. At some point—time had blurred—the most reticent of them broke the silence:
— What if the demon vents the fifth floor? What good are our efforts then?
Valinsi scowled, soot streaking his brow, but Morrigan countered:
— The one below won't allow it. This isn't subtlety. He's contained the Veil's rupture. Neither has acted independently since. They're locked in a stalemate—figuratively clawing at each other.
The man coughed, a wet, ugly sound, then grimaced:
— You hope.
— I calculate. There's a difference. Better question: why does everyone guard your name so fiercely?
Valinsi answered for him:
— No mystery. Our comrade's a paranoid, and recent events haven't softened that. Besides—
— Val!
The leader wiped his nose—soot or blood?—and snapped:
— Drop it. What does it matter now?
— There's always—Maker! Do what you want.
Lida, stepping back to remove her wrap and gasp for air, smiled faintly with blackened lips. Valinsi nodded grimly and continued:
— Jehan. That's his name. And beyond paranoia, Jehan finds his origins... inconvenient. Shameful, even.
— Orlesian?
— Occupation.
Morrigan shook her head, mildly baffled but withholding judgment. After all, she knew nothing of her own father.
Suddenly, Lida rasped a cry, pointing a shaking hand at the alcove behind them. The group whirled, braced to flee—but instead of an enemy, a pale stripe of daylight from a nearby window stretched across the corridor floor. The light wasn't triumphant, but its warmth melted the knot of dread in each of them.
Jehan was first to shake off the stupor, shoving Valinsi's shoulder. Wordlessly, the men began dismantling the pyre, scattering embers across the hall. The flames cast lively glows on the austere walls—more akin to a Templar drill yard than a Circle tower's heart.
The darkness now clung only to the corners, and shadows regained their familiar edges. Every detail was returning to normal. After repeating the ritual of lyrium potions—for those whose bodies could still endure the toxic mineral—the quartet began their final ascent on unsteady legs. The stairs held no surprises, no horrors. It was absurdly mundane.
And then, the sight awaiting them at the top struck each differently. The Circle mages had been here before, but for Morrigan, it was a first.
The hall consumed the entire fifth floor—vast, soaring, oppressive in its grandeur. The ceiling arched dizzyingly upward, painted a celestial azure that could pass for a cloudless sky. Walls between narrow window frames—ten meters tall, their glass paned in small squares—bulged inward with semicircular columns, as if squeezing sunlight inside. No other supports. The floor was a mosaic of worn Imperial symbols, once sacred. But beyond the architectural marvels, darker details emerged.
First, the cracks. Most perimeter windows were fractured, glass resisting some unseen pressure. Chips marred the columns, as if lashed by invisible whips. Then came the dry crunch underfoot and the familiar nausea—lyrium particles, fallen from the cooled smoke. Mages shouldn't linger here.
Finally, their eyes fixed on the bodies. Fifteen figures.
Approaching cautiously, the mages halted before the semicircle of corpses. Lida dragged a hand down her face, smearing grime—wiping fatigue or checking if this was a dream. Jehan's knuckles whitened, but his expression stayed stone; too much loss had numbed him. Even Valinsi, usually eloquent, just breathed heavily, staring at the dead mentors.
Morrigan watched with cold curiosity. These were just names to her, but Lida's trembling fingers, Valinsi avoiding one elder's face—these people had shaped their lives.
Lida finally rasped:
— Creepy...
That one word carried the weight of days.
The upper echelon of Kinloch Hold's Circle lay here, bearing mild possession marks. Perhaps Uldred's radical speech had caught them mid-council. Perhaps they'd chosen to fight, buying time for others. Now they were just quiet dead, united by one trait: blood seeping from noses, eyes, mouths, ears—lyrium poisoning. The possessed had inhaled the settling dust without caution.
At the center knelt three figures. Left: a sorceress past fifty winters. Right: an elderly man in the First Enchanter's robes. Both encased in translucent mana-woven spheres—a spellwork Morrigan couldn't place. The third figure, central, was a bald man with no possession marks.
— Uldred.
Lida's bitter murmur answered the obvious.
As the trio hesitated, Morrigan snatched Valinsi's dagger and hurled a spell at the corpse:
— Tua vita mea est.
The spell fizzled. Dead. Unmoving.
She shoved the body aside, revealing six eyes—all crimson from burst vessels—on his altered face. A mask of calm superiority, mismatching his kneeling pose. Suddenly, all six pupils focused on her. A whisper escaped his lungs:
— I'll remember.
Then the eyes rolled back, leaving only reddened whites.
Lida shuddered:
— Creepy...
Jehan nodded:
— And tragic. The Circle's beheaded. We're not far from ruin.
Valinsi shook his head, glowering:
— One saved life matters. We saved more. Hard times ahead, but we'll face them.
Morrigan frowned, unsettled by the corpse's behavior, but conceded:
— Simplistic. But agreed. Now... what of these?
She gestured at the spheres.
Valinsi smeared soot on his cheek, murmuring:
— Two years ago, in Val Royeaux... I saw this. "Absolute Forcefield". First Enchanter Irving and Senior Enchanter Ines Arancia must've mastered it. And how to sustain it unconscious. High art.— He hesitated— Blood magic was likely involved. These spheres... They block external forces—and trap the mage inside. Probably shielded them from lyrium dust. But why only these two? Alive, yes, but... it raises questions. I feel... disappointed.
— Your shining knight's armor tarnished?
He didn't rise to her taunt, just clenched his fists. Morrigan smirked, then relented:
— We're no paragons either. But the question stands.
Lida licked her lips, grimaced, and spat. Her gaze swept the hall—spheres, corpses, cracked windows, lyrium dust. Her voice held exhaustion and odd relief:
— If the demon couldn't breach this...— She exhaled— We're done here. Irony is, we need the Templars now. Before the spells drain these two dry.
The silence hung heavier than smoke. Even Jehan just rubbed his brow. Valinsi crossed his arms, trembling—from fatigue or the thought it might've all been futile.
Morrigan shook her head sharply, dispelling tension:
— Then we descend. Let them witness this. Play the rescuers; it might soften the Maker's warriors. We've done all we can.
Valinsi nodded, wiping his face—only smearing soot and sweat. He clung to willpower, numbed by compromises and horrors. Even Lida and Jehan looked fresher. Morrigan herself ached for dreamless sleep beyond the Hold's walls. A proper bath—a cold lake would do. Real food. And, she reminded herself, the library. Even now.
* * *
On the second floor, the group was met with restrained jubilation. The Circle members who were still capable of emotion held back, saving their celebration for when they stood under the open sky. As everyone had hoped, the barrier separating the first floor from the second had also vanished. The few surviving adult mages found themselves facing the healers, who were largely unharmed. The healers immediately rushed to aid their friends and colleagues, ignoring the warnings of an elderly woman standing at the forefront. It seemed she had been the one maintaining order here until now.
Morrigan observed with interest from within the thinning crowd as Valinsi's grim gaze—starkly different from the others—locked with the steely eyes of an aged but poised woman with a neat hairstyle. The contrast between them was sharp, as if they embodied incompatible ideals: a battle-worn victor, stained and compromised, and a representative of the old guard, outwardly unblemished yet unlikely to claim credit for the lives she had preserved. It was clear there had never been warmth between these two, and the weight of fresh suspicions would not change that. The mage gave a curt nod, received an equally reserved response, and moved past her toward the exit. Without sparing the pensive stranger another thought, Morrigan slipped after Valinsi, unnoticed.
As they neared the massive double doors—resembling fortress gates and serving as the only entrance and exit for the entire building—the clamor of the apprentices grew louder. The doors were slightly ajar, but only enough for one moderately slender mage to slip through sideways. Beyond them, the glint of Templar armor caught the fading evening light. Pushing carefully through the crowd of youths, the leader of the group edged toward the exit. Over the noise, Morrigan couldn't make out his words, so she began scanning the room.
Children teetered on the brink of tears. The faces of the adolescents reflected a volatile mix of burgeoning hope and stubborn fear. Everyone was talking, even if no one was listening, their voices rising in chaotic waves of unchecked debate. With the exception of Morrigan's group, the instructors were busy aiding survivors near the stairs, leaving the apprentices to their own devices. The scene resembled a gathering storm, and Morrigan instinctively sensed how close this fragile state was to disaster—how easily panic could ignite like dry grass catching flame.
Turning, she searched for familiar faces and soon spotted Naire, tense and focused, making her way through the crowd. When their eyes met, Naire smiled with unmistakable relief. Morrigan noted, with some surprise, how much this unguarded empathy soothed her own frayed nerves. Attempting a half-smile in return, she suddenly wondered what Bethany or Leliana would advise in this moment.
As she glanced around again, she caught the shift in Valinsi's tone—calm giving way to urgency. Wrinkling her nose, Morrigan raised a fist, instantly drawing the attention of those nearby. Without wasting the initiative, she spoke loudly and clearly:
— Who wants out?
A disjointed chorus of hesitant voices answered. She repeated the question, sharper this time:
— Who wants out? Louder!
This time, the response was a near-unified shout, startling Valinsi, who had missed her first call.
— You're afraid. Pointlessly! Beyond those doors are your protectors—and they're far more afraid of you. That's the only reason the doors are still shut. Yes, today they're cowards! Just like you and I have been at times. But cowards have sharp swords and sturdy armor. What do you have? Nothing? Wrong! Numbers. Youth. Hands unbloodied, souls untainted. That's power. Enough to outweigh fear and steel. Because cowards swore oaths. Their world is built on them. A single Templar might be a bastard, but together? The Order's doctrines and the Chantry's laws are unbreakable under daylight and the eyes of their brothers. Without orders from above, raising a sword against the innocent becomes a hundredfold harder. But there's another reason you're still on this side of the door. No one wants to be the first. Anyone but me. Right? Because the first one to move gets trampled—by friend and foe alike. Why risk your neck for strangers? But without the first stone, there's no avalanche.
She surveyed the chastened teens, their wary eyes flicking toward the doors. Valinsi, wide-eyed, gestured furiously for her to stop, but the damage was done. Another voice rang out, sealing the point of no return:
— I'm not afraid to go first!
Morrigan whirled toward the familiar voice, meeting Naire's steady gaze. Limping but resolute, the elf strode toward the doors in the sudden silence, the crowd parting for her. She was no leader, no mighty mage—and that, more than anything, struck the apprentices. From beyond the doors, irritated shouts flew at Valinsi's back, but the man stared at the petite elf as if spellbound, even unnerved. Standing before him, she issued a simple command:
— Move.
The mage opened his mouth as if to speak, then snapped it shut, stepped aside, and bowed his head wearily. Naire slipped through the gap as effortlessly as if it were an ordinary doorway, then drew a deep breath and announced with all the force her small lungs could muster:
— There are wounded and children here. We are leaving. Whether you stain your blades with blood or show mercy is your choice before the Maker. But not one of us will spend another second in this cursed Hold.
The sound of drawn steel and distant, indistinct shouts followed. The scrape of Naire's footsteps worked better than any spell. The apprentices roared and surged forward as one, pressing against the doors. Caught off guard, Valinsi was flattened against the right door, which groaned in protest and began to move. Clearly, the other side lacked a proper barricade—only stacked stones or some makeshift obstruction. Near the edge, a ten-year-old boy in a torn doublet clutched a tattered primer of magical theory to his chest, sobbing into the skirt of an older apprentice. She absently stroked his hair, her own terrified gaze fixed on the doors.
As the passage widened, a triumphant cry rang out, and the human tide spilled forth—not mindlessly, not in a frenzy of desperation. Naire's example had kindled something noble, however fleeting, in their young minds. The smallest were carried first—on backs, in arms, passed like precious cargo. Older teens formed protective clusters, shielding the younger ones with their bodies as if expecting a blow from behind. A tall youth with a bloodied bandage across his forehead shouted orders somewhere in the middle of the crowd, but his voice drowned in the chaos. Next came the protesting girls, pushed ahead by the tide, followed by the older boys.
The sight of children weeping at their first glimpse of the sky struck the Templars like a physical blow. With no explicit orders to attack, their resolve wavered. Before their hesitation could tip into irreversible action, a sharp command cut through the noise:
— Sheathe your blades!
A minute later, Morrigan and the other adults were swept outside into the cool evening air, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. The scents of forest, straw, campfires, food, and even latrines were intoxicating. The faintest brush of wind, the rustle of leaves—all felt like miracles. Ignoring the tension still balanced on a knife's edge, the crowd erupted in smiles and laughter. The fully armored Templars struggled to contain the flow, but behind their visors, their eyes were confused, unsettled—perhaps even a little afraid—devoid of hatred.
Morrigan quickly spotted Naire standing apart from the throng and rushed to her, crashing into an open embrace. Both exhaled shakily. The elf laughed; Morrigan allowed herself the ghost of a smile, this time untainted by irony.
The apprentices were followed by the adults, led by the same woman who had greeted them at the first-floor landing. Squinting against the sun, she smiled warmly. At that moment, heavy footsteps approached rapidly from behind. Morrigan turned to face the Knight-Commander of the Corps, flanked by veterans and the brooding figure of Alim. The six Templars halted a few paces away. Morrigan smirked.
— Did the gamble pay off? The result's far from ideal, but such is reality. As for the First Enchanter—
Four blades flashed free, their edges resting with lethal precision against her throat, the steel still humming. Gregor ran a slow hand over his sword's hilt, his eyes as cold as its edge:
— You understand you can't simply walk away. Not after all that's happened.— He paused, surveying the crowd— Accusations of maleficarum. The murder of our warriors...— His grip tightened— For apostasy, maleficarum, the murder of the Maker's warriors, and suspected possession, you are remanded into custody pending investigation!
The crowd scattered like water hissing off hot stones. Only Naire remained, unmoving, blinking in confusion. Morrigan's expression emptied as she shifted her gaze from the tense Knight-Commander to Alim:
— You?
The elf's silence was answer enough. Ignoring Morrigan, he spoke to his sister:
— Naire, come here. Please.
— But she saved me, Alim! I don't understand—
Alim's fists clenched until his knuckles whitened. His eyes darted between Naire and Morrigan, searching for some flaw in his suspicions. But the woman before him was undeniably Morrigan. Regret, pain, and irritation warred in his voice:
— This is... the right way. For everyone.
He stepped forward:
— I waited by those doors from dawn till dusk, sister. Every hour could've been your last. And you know what kept me there? The thought that if you survived... it'd likely be because of her.— His gaze flicked to Morrigan— But that doesn't mean I can overlook the rest.
Morrigan laughed bitterly and nudged Naire toward him:
— Go to him. He'll spin you a tale or two. Might even forget who saved his hide.
Then she focused entirely on Gregor:
— Should've left you to die back then.
The Knight-Commander didn't flinch:
— No. This is no ordinary situation. Given what you may have done... Perhaps. First, I'll ascertain the facts. Then we'll scour the Hold. Reinforcements are coming—someone skilled in detecting possession. Only then will the survivors' fates be decided. And I'll gladly place yours in his hands.
— A clear conscience? How quaint. A bit late for that, no?
— In your place, I'd relish the reprieve, not mock it. But then, I'm not in your place.
— Fair. You'd have doomed everyone. Best tend to the First Enchanter while he still breathes.
As Gregor moved to give the order, Valinsi stepped forward:
— Knight-Commander. She saved dozens.
Gregor's reply was ice:
— And slew as many.
— No proof. Only hearsay.
Morrigan snorted:
— Oh, spare me. You didn't trust me either.
Valinsi held Gregor's gaze:
— I didn't. But I know—without her, we'd be dead.
His voice carried not just conviction, but near desperation, as if defending the last shreds of his own honor. Morrigan cut in:
— Our deal stands while I live. Tell these fools about Irving.
To the Templars, she added:
— Will my belongings be returned?
— They're with the Chantry sister who accompanied you.
— Do what you must...
The hollow permission felt like a petty victory, nothing more. Gregor gestured, and the four veterans escorted Morrigan toward a nearby building, blades still drawn. The Knight-Commander turned to Valinsi. The last thing Morrigan saw was Alim and Naire arguing under the watchful eyes of two Templars, their voices rising in strained confrontation.