A head larger than Morrigan swayed ponderously, then lowered. The mighty predator studied her; whether from curiosity or condescension, she couldn't tell. But instead of halting at a distance, it pressed its scaly brow to her forehead—scales rough as ancient bark. Taken aback, Morrigan froze, as though turned to ice.
Silence broke under a low voice that did not echo at all, as if it rose inside the witch's own skull. Sounds and words, reverberating in her bones and teeth, coalesced into coherent speech—yet carried an odd, drawn-out inflection she had never heard anywhere.
— Child… Have you come to us?
Blinking in surprise, Morrigan hesitated, scrabbling for an answer that fit:
— No. I seek what has been hidden here since antiquity. You are not my quarry.
The dragon didn't move in response to her disjointed reply in thought, resembling a statue more than a living creature. That ability to become utterly still made the witch wonder: how could such massive beings remain unseen, and strike without warning? Still receiving no answer, Morrigan caught herself. On a sudden hunch, she repeated the words aloud.
The dragon blinked—at last, a sign of reaction—and once more filled the witch's mind with its voice:
— Child… Because of the dead one…
This time Morrigan caught the strange intonation. It was as if the beast had expected something else—and made no effort to hide the surprise, the disappointment, that seeped through its veil of indifference. In that monstrous form, expressiveness now lived only in the eyes.
— I am not a child.
Silence hung between them. Morrigan mentally cursed her own sharpness, her curiosity.
— That is a strange thing to hear.
After a brief pause, the voice continued:
— For the wingless, each sunrise brings hurry and clamour. They die, are born, depart and arrive. To mark every single one would be wasteful. But your scent… is familiar. No mistake. You are the child of the one who once held out her hand for our protection.
Morrigan opened her mouth, questions already rushing to spill out—but reining herself in, she spoke far more calmly:
— Flemeth?
— That name is unknown to me. She of whom I speak fought for restraint, curbing the insatiable thirst of her own kind, yet was betrayed by them. She who aids the few of us who remain—Mital…
As if speaking with a voice not her own, Morrigan whispered in unison with the dragon's voice inside her head:
— 'Mother of the People'…
Fragments of memory from the day her troubles began still refused to form a whole. The gap between 'then' and 'now' remained unbridged. But at the mention of that unfamiliar name—so elven in sound—scattered pieces suddenly gathered into something meaningful. The recollection blinded her like sun-glare on a lake's surface, wrenching her violently from the 'here and now'. Emotions, sharp as glass shards, pierced her awareness and caught her off guard.
Early morning. Heavy clouds hung over the clearing where a time-warped house stood leaning. In its tiny windows—the ones that kept out winter's chill—darkness thickened as if alive. It seemed to fill that dwelling lost to obscurity, hiding there as night retreated, threatening to flood the surroundings again if disturbed. The forest around had fallen silent, like game gone still—waiting to learn where death would come from, and where safety lay… Suddenly the door creaked softly. A dishevelled, grey-haired woman appeared on the threshold in a worn woolen dress of spare cut. Her face was marked by many seasons. But most striking, on that pale face, were eyes that seemed to cut through the gloom with a pure blue glint—and for an instant, the blue seemed to shift toward deep amber. In the distance, a night bird took flight, leaving a branch swaying gently, its leaves rustling in rhythm with beating wings…
The silhouette of her mother stood out sharply in the doorway. Black against the night, it seemed part of the shadow itself, harbouring unknown danger. She tilted her head—barely—watching something at the forest's edge. With a slight gesture, the woman made it plain: stay back inside the house. For a moment, the mother cast a glance along the wall, and Morrigan caught her profile and expression… Surprise. Anxiety. Over everything loomed a stifling sense of danger, spilling across the familiar, well-trodden clearing.
The woman's eyes flashed blue once more, and two gazes finally locked. Neither flinched. And the dead silence proclaimed the inevitability of the approaching storm.
Her mother's back suddenly tensed; loose fingers clenched into fists. Morrigan's own heart seemed ready to sink into her heels, pounding wildly. The forest suddenly grew blurred… Often shrill and dripping venom, often haughty and cold, at times inflexibly demanding or foolishly overflowing with mirth—but now: quiet, familiar, strained and unspeakably sad, her mother's voice snapped:
— The back door… Run. Now. And don't look back.
Movement in the darkness behind the house's mistress—and the slam of the back door—shattered the fragile quiet. The unremarkable woman was already braced for a fight. And no language, living or dead, could accurately name that elusive moment when gathered light bleeds away—promising swift, devastating magic. Waiting for the set-piece finish would have been foolish.
The house fell behind, and only the prickle along Morrigan's skin hinted at what was happening there. Her mother was preparing to unleash something lethal, with no intention of toying with the unknown. The painful tension between her shoulder blades gave way to a deafening crack and a flash that not only illuminated the surroundings for an instant, but bleached every colour into a dull monochrome smear. Thunder, like a spiteful creature with a will of its own, rolled onward into the distance—again and again shaking the world with low, rumbling peals. Not turning around was impossible. In the clearing, fire was rising… tentative still. But despite the recent rains, the crackling grew, throwing more and more orange reflections over the tree trunks… Immediately, an invisible wave of force, akin to that used by Templars, enveloped the solitary dwelling—swallowing it from foundation to roof ridge. Even Templars pumped full of lyrium could not have matched it. But as she turned away, her eyes caught what lay ahead: a dozen paces on, hundreds of thin ribbons of bluish smoke coiling up from the ground—from runes burning with a steady blue glow at the surface. The amount of mana spent was shocking. The runes didn't merely seal off some patch of earth ahead. The chain stretched in an even band from right to left as far as the eye could see, forming a smooth arc that likely closed into a colossal circle with her home at its centre. It became clear: this barrier had been created to stop the runaway… Behind her, thunder crashed again, ringing in her ears. A glance thrown back caught shreds of smoking pine needles and wood chips flying apart—and the heavens, shedding all restraint, vengefully blinding, unleashed another jagged, branching cord of light.
The thunderbolts pierced the forest's edge, and the ceaseless roar made her ears bleed. Her lips cracked from waves of unbearable heat. Her vision clouded with afterimages and phantom trails from fleeting pillars of light. The air filled with deadly splinters of wood that clacked dully, ricocheting off her armour, while smoke from fires flaring up here and there stung her nose and eyes. The witch, who hadn't moved from the porch, cast spells like a stone statue—only her icy eyes tracked the target. Unfortunately, that wasn't enough… Deftly swung on a leather strap, a massive flask filled to the brim with crushed, refined lyrium arced through the air. Ten metres above the woman, the blast—rivaling the thunderstorm's roar—blossomed into a swelling fireball. The roof of the hut caught like dry kindling, and the tiny window glass blew inward all at once. Even the witch reacted: shielding herself from the heat with her arms and crouching low. Not letting her seize the initiative, another wave of force struck—scouring the living legend's mana and eating away at her protective wards. The grass blackened from the heat, leaves curled into tubes, and scarlet blood spattered the ground. The witch cried out, rising on trembling legs.
The chaos around her seemed unreal—as if the world were crumbling before her eyes. In mere seconds, her home was engulfed in flames, and lightning spikes continued to rain down into the clearing, an unprecedented cacophony, as if the heavens meant to loose all their accumulated wrath upon this patch of earth. But that wasn't enough: from individual tongues of flame erupted a whirlwind, howling as if born of the Fade itself. Nearby spruces, pines, aspens, and oaks flared up from bottom to top like dry tinder, literally cracking from the heat. With a weeping screech, an oak log tore free from the wall of the house. Hurled toward the clearing as if by an invisible giant, it flattened the burning underbrush with a wet, ugly crash. And still, straight from the heart of this madness, waves of force from an unprecedented Templar kept rolling forth—raising gooseflesh from head to toe even at this distance. Suddenly, from the right, behind trees not yet touched by fire, a dark object shot out. Falling in a graceful arc, it had been aimed—skillfully—at her mother. An instant before impact, an invisible force knocked the vessel aside. Tumbling now, erratic and graceless, it began to drift toward Morrigan… Even a desperate sprint couldn't fully save her from the deafening roar. An invisible blow struck her back, pinning her to the ground, and a searing wave consumed the scattered bushes around her, stealing her breath and washing over her spine with unbearable heat. It felt as though her hair would ignite at any moment.
Spells struck one after another, each with such power that no mortal could have withstood it. This frenzy promised death to anything clothed in flesh. But swift feet, a sharp mind, endurance, and the terrain gave her the edge to slip again and again from death's embrace, paying only in a little blood. From the heavens, as if weeping under the torment of spells, a wall of rain suddenly collapsed, hiding both the blazing house and the witch standing proudly beside it in a whitish haze. The natural curtain and steady white noise played to her advantage. And the crimson-tinged bubbles in the muddy water at her feet unmistakably revealed which part of the runic trap hid the inconspicuous runaway.
Raindrops mercilessly pounding her forehead and cheeks brought sensation back first—then sound, though her ears felt stuffed with thick felt. Even motionless, her back answered with burning pain. And behind the wall of rain, it was impossible to tell how the battle was going. But the blue runes, still burning and hissing angrily at every falling drop, offered a clue: nothing was over.
Though lightning no longer prowled among the trees framing the spacious clearing before the solitary house, it was replaced by a fan of fleeting lashes snaking along the forest's edge, unerringly indicating the spellcaster's position. Pops and hisses accompanied the magic like a mad percussion of drums and rattles. So much power—spent for the sole purpose of striking the enemy blind. The rain around the witch was visibly turning into a fine mist mixed with clouds of steam, completely cutting off visibility for both adversaries. As if beneath the downpour, a colossal figure was slowly rising in the clearing…
Shaking droplets from her lashes, Morrigan struggled to get her bearings. But through the fuzzy veil of scattered thoughts, a cry of animal instinct broke through, desperate and shrill. Danger was approaching. Yet even after she regained her footing, her eyes could see nothing through the rain's shroud. Still, the echoes of the battle hiding behind that white noise seemed to be drawing nearer.
A dash. A new cut in her failing flesh. Slick warmth running down her arm, fingers gone numb. Not far off, the opponent's faint, pained wheeze—blood boiling in their veins. A strike in that direction, burning mana. And again… Occasionally, in the repetitive monotony—like a stiletto hidden in cloth—a typical attack gave way to a spell that invisibly laid another runic trap around the witch. The true goal was close.
Among the shreds of mist beneath the slackening rain, the outline of a huge figure stirred. Something that couldn't possibly be there… And yet, stepping heavily on wet, churned soil that turned to mud beneath it, a shape gleaming with scales emerged from the milky fragments. A proud dragon. Black, with a deep green sheen flashing across its scales when it moved, it searched for something among the trees—only a few dozen paces from Morrigan's hiding place…
The target was so close her mind fogged with impatience, even as detached pain threatened to twist her disobedient body. Her long-familiar enemy had seen through the initial plan, discarding the disguise and assuming the most formidable form available. But in making that move, the witch had lost. A mere seven or eight steps remained when a branch crunched loudly beneath her unsteady feet…
Nearby, among a couple of trees and bushes, something cracked—sharp enough to make her flinch and nearly howl. With a short, noisy inhale that turned the drizzle to steam, a stream of white-hot fire from the dragon crashed down upon that same vegetation. Heat radiating from the dying grove in its death throes nearly knocked her off her feet, setting grass and leaves trembling. The flame among the trees roared and crackled like a hungry beast gnawing stone. And yet, through that overwhelming power, straight out of the fire, a man's broken cry burst forth—strangely deep:
— Mital! Sale elfi! A curse upon you and all you have known! Begone!
Beneath the dragon, dozens of runic glyphs hissed into existence, linked in rings that formed a larger circle. Each resembled a rare rune of banishment, once created specifically against shadow creatures that had penetrated the Veil without the aid of living flesh or inanimate objects. A flash of surprise seemed to cross the proud beast's eyes. Then the glyphs flared with a soft white light—the kind a full moon sometimes gives on a clear night—and the dragon's body began to dissolve amid an otherworldly wail of rage, pain, and longing that tore at the soul. Like fog at dawn, it thinned into the air, leaving behind only a dull thud.
The crunch of branches right beside her hiding place told Morrigan her mother's gambit had failed…
Silence rang in Morrigan's head—empty, endless. An eternity passed before her gaze focused on the dragon's snout above her. Hundreds of questions flooded in at once, blurring into one another. So she said:
— My mother could turn into a dragon?
— Turn? No, child. The truth is, Mital's wisdom allowed her to assume true forms—of flesh and blood, not illusory guises. At the same time, our kind became a second kin to your mother in times so ancient I was not yet in this world. And in her generosity, she, unfortunately, helped others—peers to the patroness—achieve the same…
The truth hammered at the witch's consciousness.
— So… the talk of my 'scent'? Because of my mother?
— In part… Just as your mother lacked true kinship with dragons, so you lack blood kinship with her. But you have our blood within you. For Mital never did anything for free. Not before, not after. Even when her own goals aligned with aid, the patroness still exacted a price. For protection from final extermination, our kin, every five dozen seasons, gave Mital an offspring—the youngest of the last brood. To my knowledge, only once in winters past has such a child come again under the eyes of my kind. With you—twice. Though locked in another form by the patroness's art…
Morrigan tried to order the facts crashing down one after another in her head. It was difficult; much not only contradicted what she knew, but also what she wanted to believe. And so she did not want to touch these topics here, despite cold logic urging her to fill the new gaps in her own past.
— Do you expect something from me?
The dragon paused, either weighing the answer or the meaning and significance of the question itself:
— No… None of us know the plans and motives behind Mital's actions. I speak out of curiosity—and out of respect for her, by whose goodwill our offspring here gained a chance. But also… out of fear. Dread of the changes to come.
— You mean… This… All of this here is my mother's doing?
— Again, no. This place has, since its founding, been dedicated to a single dead one. The two-legged—born and dying, replacing one another again and again—guard something here. The reasons are unknown and incomprehensible. But once… after Mital, instead of the final payment, demanded of the eldest of my brood that they ravage the western lands at the cost of their own lives. It was then the patroness suggested: if we appeared here in time and fulfilled each condition, we would be granted refuge, peace, and safety for many seasons. And so it happened.
— A mirage over a bare, rocky hill on a hot day, which weak minds chase… And if you learned that what I plan would shatter that peace?
— Though you smell almost like our kin, your true nature comes from your mother. If change is coming, then so be it. In the order of things, prosperity is finite. In other lands, your mother's designs saved dozens of pairs like ours from destruction. It would be foolish to resent it for one's own sake alone. You are the living symbol of the pact between our kin and Mital. In the absence of direct aggression—neither I nor my offspring will attack.
— Do you know what she intended? For me? For those like me?
After a brief silence, the dragon's ponderous voice filled the witch's head:
— No. The patroness hid nothing, save that she considered our kind exceptionally important to the vast world… Who are we to dispute such a thing?
— Such a recluse, hiding in the wilderness at the edge of the world… And yet others seem better informed about her than I am.
A long sigh—alien, mighty, fitting for the colossus before her—echoed in her skull.
— But you are here. Healthy. Strong. And a parent's duty is to send only healthy offspring into the world.
— From that point of view… Yes. And yet… But no matter. How are we communicating?
— My mate, fulfilling a number of Mital's conditions, spent the first two seasons observing the wingless very closely. As a hunter, she is far weaker than I, and so relies more on cunning than strength. That allowed her to note precisely the limitations of the two-legged's hearing. Some sounds we use for communication they cannot hear, feeling only pain. Others deafen the wingless, rendering them senseless for a time. Moreover, the language of the two-legged, though simple, is confined to a narrow range of sounds, which we cannot produce with the required frequency and subtlety. However, it turned out the wingless can perceive vibration keenly. Strange… since they do not produce it themselves. Our kind uses vibration to express affection within a pair. We touch each other, and what is said remains only between the two. With practice, it proved possible to make the two-legged 'hear' our 'voice'—speaking words in a language they understand.
The answer was exhaustive, but it reached her only peripherally. Without lifting her head from the dragon's jaws, Morrigan closed her eyes and slowly exhaled, subduing the conflicting emotions and thoughts darting uselessly about. Her strange companion knew much, and yet his knowledge brushed the intimate only in passing—skilfully sparking new doubts and new questions within the witch. At the centre of the newly revealed web was her mother, whose schemes seemed to span distance and time on an awe-inspiring scale. Had it not felt so much like the encounter with Zibenkek, she would have laughed bitterly.
Over the seasons they had lived together, Flemeth had appeared to the witch in many guises. The image of a mother. Of a mentor. Of an unattainable peak, a dangerous foe, a jailer and… All of it now seemed petty against the memory of that fateful day's battle—fresh as a splinter in her mind—and the truth of a different kind now revealed. But deeper still, as beneath murky water, lurked the truth: her childhood memories were a void… Trying to dig down to the source, she fished up fragmentary recollections of childhood: half-forgotten, faded images—or, conversely, vivid but unplaced emotions without context. And it seemed to Morrigan that her mother was… scarcely in them.
The ringing in her ears, the surge of fear and doubt—it all threatened to crush her. But in the end, cold, almost lifeless will and logic prevailed.
The facts echoed what she had heard during her first conversation with the Seeker. Only a fool—or a blind man—would dismiss such a coincidence as mere fabrication or conjecture. At worst—a possibility she had to consider, by her own severe judgment—it meant she was simultaneously a foundling, either stolen by Flemeth or given to her as payment for 'help', and… a dragon's whelp?
Morrigan's lips twitched. She clenched her fists, breathed deeply, suppressed nausea. She refused to dwell on this now. Chaos in her thoughts was dangerous. She drew a hard line between the image of the stranger-mother and her childhood memories. The new knowledge gave her mind something to chew on, but it could not change what had happened. For the child she had been, Flemeth had done much—perhaps too much. The secrets and motives behind the girl's childhood could only influence the witch's future. And when she looked to that future, Morrigan's fears, disgust, and regrets fell away—replaced by envy for the scale of her mother's designs, her possibilities and achievements. For the strength, talent, and ability to transform into a mighty creature like the one before her. Though, for even the faintest hope of such an achievement, the witch first needed to fully decipher her mother's spell.
Opening her eyes, Morrigan looked up at the patient dragon. Gold meeting molten amber. Among the options for continuing the dialogue, she chose the absurd one—to test the limits of this "friendly conversation":
— For the goal appointed to me, or rather—'forced upon me'—I need dragon's blood.
For the first time in the dialogue, instead of its usual blink, the huge lizard drew a translucent third eyelid across its eyes, and the response came into the witch's head:
— Then why wait? The blood already flowing in your veins will suffice.
The simple answer disconcerted Morrigan. The conclusion was obvious—logical. Paradoxically, Zibenkek's words—"the result will serve you as well"—suddenly took on new meaning. Those entities dwelling beyond the Veil clearly knew more about the witch than she did herself.
— Thank you for… the hint. I shall do just that. And see what comes of it. However, I must still overcome the guardians who are zealously waiting for our conversation to end.
— Harming them is not in the interest of our pair.
— Of course. That's why I myself seek to avoid bloodshed. I think it would be quite sufficient for the dragon to open those doors personally. An eloquent gesture. And enough to restrain hot heads from untimely impulses.
After a measured pause, the incredible interlocutor replied:
— It is hard to judge. The two-legged are brief and changeable, unreadable. But it sounds as though only a sliver of my time is required—and I have plenty of it. Why not…
Without haste, the dragon raised its head and, with the same deliberation, made its way toward the group of people. Uncertainty and fear roamed freely among them, and the only steadfast figure in the crowd remained the same warrior. The man watched only Morrigan intently, almost completely ignoring the presence of the immense predator. The lizard moved smoothly toward the doors. The dragon's movements seemed unhurried, but Morrigan could barely keep up without breaking into a run—and she could see the beast could move much faster.
As expected, as the towering, deadly wall of flesh drew near, a mix of animal instinct and new religious notions triumphed over duty and reason. The temple guards in identical garb scattered at once, sliding away from the centre like oil on water. The last to retreat was the warrior, who growled hoarsely in the girl's direction:
— I see you never intended to negotiate…
Morrigan threw back a reply without delay, not giving her opponent a chance to finish:
— And you, I suspect, meant to leave no part of me alive. Wait. Any outcome will likely satisfy you.
Without taking its watchful gaze from the two-legged gathered around the warrior, the dragon lowered its head and 'lightly' nudged one half of the massive gate with its snout. It swung open with a sharp hinge-screech and the grating of metal on stone, producing a strange, oppressive echo in the stone basin. The dragon cast one last glance at her and turned away. Without a second thought, Morrigan plunged into the darkness…
* * *
The stone beneath her feet was cold and damp. A hundred steps down into pitch darkness—and here she was. And then—a door. Ancient oak panels, yet strangely untouched by time. Morrigan pushed one panel; it opened silently, unlike the creaking gates above.
A bluish light from magical lamps struck her eyes. One sat atop each of the four columns in the square chamber. Each lamp was made of two bud-shaped copper pieces, showing no sign of age; between them hung two glass vessels, one nested inside the other, and at the center stood a lead-colored rod uniformly studded with dozens of blue "fireflies" of light. Only then did she make out that each firefly was an intricate rune. The chamber itself was austere—only smooth stone walls. Morrigan recognized the ancient Imperial style: these rooms had been carved directly into the rock by magic, without ever being touched by human hands. Otherwise, such geometric perfection was beyond mortal tools and mortal hands. From narrow slits cut into the floor, dozens of arrows protruded, each miraculously preserved with delicate fletching. They probably formed some pattern, but to Morrigan they looked scattered without any discernible order.
She had taken two steps toward the other doors leading onward when, from behind the far column on the right, a man emerged without a sound. Remarkable, given that he wore a full suit of plain silver-bright armor—rare silverite—chased with floral motifs. With the visor raised, the swarthy face of a dark-haired man showed, with a short beard. A native of the far north—Tevinter, perhaps. In the knight's hands rested a weathered, thick tome, as though he'd snapped it shut only moments before the guest's arrival; there was no sign of weapons at his belt or across his back. Genuine interest shone in his dark brown eyes. A deep, pleasant male voice announced:
— At last. A new seeker. A new arrow flying toward its mark. After a long interval, they have begun to fly again—one after another—and my lot is to greet each humbly and not complain. But before the doors beyond will open for you, I must pose a question.
— You must?!
Morrigan listened to how the phrase echoed off the walls of the empty stone vault. The contrast with her interlocutor was impossible to miss. Narrowing her eyes, the witch returned to the conversation with the stranger:
— If you're obliged… But for a creature from beyond the Veil, whatever it pretends to be, I have no intention of answering.
— I…
— I suppose it's a lack of proper practice. A handful of fanatics and 'chosen ones' of rather modest intellect are not known for attention to detail. The sound of footsteps, the ring of metal, the echo. Small things, but…
Ignoring the frowning entity pretending to be human, the girl confidently pushed the next set of doors. As Morrigan departed, the ghostly knight called after her:
— Daughter of Flemeth. From such seed, no other fruit could grow…
Morrigan half-turned sharply, her eyes flashing, and threw over her shoulder, as if not addressing him at all:
— If your intent is to boast of omniscience, even a small error betrays folly. 'Faith' means you're locked here, by someone's will or your own, for countless sunrises. Power devoid of wisdom.
Putting an end to the exchange, the witch entered the next hall.
This time the chamber was oval-shaped, spacious enough to hold four life-sized marble statues along each wall, right and left. Among the eight statues, three depicted women; the rest, men. Different attire, different status, different emotions on the stone faces. And again, the same lamps—this time dangling slightly on chains from the ceiling above each sculpture. From behind her, near the doors, the spirit's voice sounded again:
— Here they will weigh and assess your understanding of the events that paved the Bride's path. Either that understanding will prove sufficient, or you will overcome each obstacle in your way… or you will perish without a trace, turned to dust.
Without even turning, the girl tossed back:
— They will turn me to dust, but you will not?
— A guardian protects; the Temple guides the seeker through trials.
Turning her gaze back to the doors at the opposite end of the hall, the witch took a cautious step forward, then another, and a third. After five steps, Morrigan reached the first row of statues. And as if they had only been waiting for this, from each a semi-transparent ghost peeled away—like a sterile caricature of a restless soul that had supposedly slept in the stone until a moment ago. The effect was strong: Morrigan felt goosebumps race down her spine. And yet, from her mother she knew the true path of the dead lay deep within the Fade, and that detaining them on this side of the Veil was beyond any magic Morrigan had even heard of, let alone witnessed. So the witch assumed she was dealing with yet another counterfeit, created to continue the performance for some unknown, abstract purpose.
On the right stood the figure of a woman in the twilight of her years. A shock of wheat-colored hair, lightly threaded with gray, showed through, and a simple dress bore unfamiliar motifs—pale blue stripes on linen. The ghost's lips parted, and a voice filled with longing, yet devoid of echo, spoke:
— An echo of the realm of shadows and a whisper of what is yet to happen. A companion to intentions, free behind the night's veil, yet fleeing in fright at the first light.
Morrigan snorted contemptuously, but instantly composed herself, wiping all emotion from her face. Exhaling slowly, she spoke clearly:
— A dream.
The spirit—or some more primitive creature of the Fade—bowed its head and dissolved as if it had never been. At once, the woman on the left, middle-aged and in similar attire, intoned:
— Any little lark can make one—yet not every man can.
This time the witch betrayed no emotion, sinking into thought. Unconsciously touching her lips with her fingertips for a moment, she narrowed her eyes and cautiously uttered:
— Singing… A melody?
The creature bowed its head and vanished exactly like the first. Shaking her head with an expression of mild disbelief at the proceedings, the "seeker" added:
— The puzzle is linking this to Andraste… Even if these people once meant something on the 'Saint's' path—though it's all the same to me—how can childish riddles characterize their path, or the woman herself?… But why ask questions into the void.
The next pair were a clean-shaven elf, his face etched with wrinkles, wearing thick, sun-cracked leather armor of an old-fashioned cut, and a swarthy woman perhaps thirty winters old, her hair tightly pulled back, dressed in the rich attire of a noble lady of the old Empire. The elf spoke first, his voice cold and even:
— I shall be neither guest nor disturber of peace in that place which belongs to me as I belong to it.
This time the girl answered easily and without doubt:
— Home.
The elf vanished, only closing his eyes at the last moment. The woman immediately spoke, her voice melodious yet brimming with arrogant superiority:
— An eye for an eye. Blood for blood. Retribution is inevitable.
— Revenge… or retribution?
The woman tossed her chin contemptuously and vanished, turning away at the last moment.
Then the third pair stepped forward. On the left appeared a man well into his years, judging by the gray beard and the warrior's face partly hidden by the visor of an ornately carved helmet. The armor—strange to northerners and even Fereldans—reminded Morrigan of gear characteristic of Avvar chieftains. On the right stood a man no younger, completely clean-shaven and bald, dressed in modest, baggy clothes of coarse cloth, suggesting a wandering pauper.
The elderly warrior opened his mouth first, speaking without a trace of emotion:
— Poison that eats at the spirit. A cruel reflection of passion. Often born of love, but growing side by side with it, it strangles it, replacing the beauty of feeling with ugliness.
Morrigan frowned, surprised by the contrast between the meaning of the words and how they were delivered. The short monologue itself stood apart from what she had already heard, as if the warrior's figure wasn't even trying to imitate someone once alive. And the riddle made her brow furrow; in her view, it could be read more than one way. Deciding, the witch answered:
— Jealousy?
The warrior vanished without reacting. Then the other man spoke from the right, his voice touched with solemnity:
— The very bones of the earth stretch toward the heavens, like a bride swathed in white, toward her husband.
Snorting involuntarily, Morrigan answered without hesitation, her tone laden with mockery:
— Mountains.
The poor man bowed his head respectfully and retreated into the statue, blending into stone.
The final pair differed from each other as starkly as the previous one. This time, on the right stood a tall, dark-haired northerner in his prime, dressed in rich robes that evoked an ancient high-ranking magister of Tevinter. On the left was a broad-shouldered southerner, his features unmistakably Fereldan, wearing plain clothes but with a sheathed blade at his belt.
The Tevinter spoke first, his deep voice more proclamation than statement:
— Though its sword is broken, it stands with the true kings, shunning tyrants.
This time, Morrigan opened her mouth for another swift retort, but closed it again without uttering a sound. A deep furrow formed on her brow; her lips pressed into a thin line. She ran through possibilities, but could not determine what was implied. Neither the figure's appearance nor his manner of speech offered a clue. Unlike the earlier simple riddles, here both the words and the context mattered. What, in the view of a Tevinter magister, distinguished a true ruler from a tyrant? Morrigan was tempted to say intelligence or wisdom, but this was clearly no ordinary elite of the old Empire—and not a typical representative of modern Tevinter either. The figure placed here must have had some connection to Andraste—not merely as her killer or torturer, for such a one would hardly be honoured in this place, but more likely as a follower. Morrigan knew that in present-day Tevinter its own Chantry existed, and Andrastianism had long since prevailed over the old gods, dragon-worship, and other cults. Cursing herself—Leliana would have known the answer—Morrigan ventured a guess: a word a believer in the Chant of Light would prize.
— Mercy.
Touching the center of his forehead with his right index finger and giving a slight bow, the figure vanished. The last one remained and spoke at once, sternly:
— No one has seen it, yet everyone has felt it at times. Again and again it returns, making no distinctions and never disappearing forever. Born of the void, it can bring the mightiest armies and whole nations to their knees.
— It, not she… Armies and nations… Yet it touches everyone. Hunger?
The man bowed respectfully and disappeared. Turning sharply to the phantom knight in the doorway, Morrigan said in an icy voice:
— Is that all? Or is this another 'optional' part?
With feigned indifference, the guardian of this place replied:
— Both yes and no. But I suppose you would not appreciate the chance to speak with your mother.
— With my mother? Or with another phantom, from a murky well of half-truths?
Ignoring the venomous jab, the being silently pointed to the next pair of doors. Swinging the doors open, Morrigan found herself staring at a massive square pillar positioned directly in the doorway, as if someone had deliberately blocked the view straight through to the far side. Circling it, she soon saw the rest of the empty square hall, dimly lit by lamps hanging on the walls. In the center stood a lone figure—herself—meeting her gaze with attentive golden eyes.
Morrigan froze; her eyes slid over the familiar features but seemed to refuse to recognize them. An icy touch, like that of a nightmare she had fought her way out of, crawled up her spine. A thought cut into her mind like a red-hot blade: Is this a dream?! And immediately after, the swift shaping of a spell wrapped in a shout:
— Fríos!
The double's face twisted with surprise, pain, and anger—but before the copy could respond, without even taking a breath, Morrigan whispered almost inaudibly:
— Fríos…
Cold sweat beaded on her forehead, weakness gripped her body, and a throbbing pain pulsed in her temples. Too much mana lost in too short a time. But the copy slumped to its knees, barely keeping its trembling body upright; it was clear the double was about to vomit. The counterfeit had lost far more mana at once. Wiping the irritating sweat from her brow, Morrigan strode forward decisively. Her gait was unsteady, but she compensated with speed.
Stopping over her own kneeling form, the witch met a pair of burning golden eyes veiled with pain. Without pity or hesitation, Morrigan locked her hands around the double's throat and squeezed with all her strength, beginning to choke it… A wet gurgle—too much like a sound from her own throat—spittle bubbling at the lips, desperate convulsions, nails digging into flesh until blood welled. But the witch found within herself enough malice to break the other's struggles. With a strange, thinning triumph, she threw the now-lifeless body onto the stone floor. Alive a moment ago—now only a cold corpse.
Spitting on the stone and bracing her hands on her knees, Morrigan exhaled wearily:
— Now I see where all those experts on Andrastianism went… In whose sick fantasy was a test like this conceived?
Shifting her gaze to the guardian, who had stepped out from behind the massive pillar at the hall's entrance, the witch continued under her breath:
— Or was the leader of the armies that pushed back the old Empire not the merciful softling the Chantry has tried to convince us she was ever since?… Amusing, if true. As are the limits of the… Temple's power.
Straightening, the girl moved toward the next oak doors, beyond which opened a view of a circular hall largely devoid of a floor. A floor did exist—but far below, at the bottom of a pit about fifteen paces down. In the dim light of lamps set around the hall at eye level, it was hard to make out anything definite down there beyond bare stone. A narrow strip of flooring, made of large monolithic blocks, ran along the wall to the right and left only halfway around, offering no hope of leaping to the opposite side. But across the center of the void stretched a narrow bridge. Strangely, it seemed to be made of the same monolithic blocks, as if suspended in emptiness with no support at all. Crouching at the very start of the crossing and peering closely, Morrigan realized the bridge resembled a thin illusion—no, wait—her gaze could intermittently see through it to the far wall of the pit, even the floor below.
— The weary, if not half-dead, brave would step meekly forward, only to end their journey a few heartbeats later. Clever… And merciless.
Turning to the guardian, who once again stood not far behind her in the doorway, the girl asked:
— I wonder what ideal this trap is meant to reveal. A cunning, skilled warrior who anticipates treachery in every detail? Or a wise and mighty mage, able to decipher spells—and then force a path by power? Are only such worthy of touching the ashes of the 'Bride of the Maker'? I'll tell Leliana; the joke will be memorable. Just a guess, but beneath this complex lies a natural lyrium vein, doesn't it? That's why this place was chosen?
The being frowned, but finally nodded. The motion drew a smirk from the girl. Morrigan had caught the creature in a petty attempt to give an ambiguous answer—capitalizing on the questioner's misstep while not uttering a single lie. A trait characteristic of a principled spirit of "faith." Reading its own error in the open emotions of its interlocutor, the spirit grimaced and said:
— Yes. Beneath us lies an ancient and rich lyrium vein, rising from the depths and miraculously overlooked by the Stone-born in the distant past. All the enchantments here are sustained by its frozen radiance. Light, warmth, and more… You should focus on the obstacle, not on conversation.
Morrigan nodded, drawing the last lyrium concoction from her belt. Tipping the potion into her mouth and suppressing the urge to retch, she allowed herself a moment to catch her breath and, under the guardian's surprised gaze, began to remove her clothing, carefully tying her garments into a bundle. When she stood naked before the illusory crossing, she hissed softly through her teeth, imbuing the magic of transformation with mana.
The transformation passed quickly—the process had become almost routine for her, like a warrior worrying at a scab on an old, slow-healing wound. Near the end, awareness of what was happening once again washed over her with a bone-deep chill. But shaking off her unease, Morrigan picked up the clothing bundle with one of her hands and, using the others, began confidently traversing the circular wall toward the opposite exit of the hall. The whole time, as the claws on her hands scraped horribly against the stone, catching on the smallest cracks, the guardian's gaze burned into her back. Without turning, it was hard for the witch to tell whether hostility or surprise predominated in that stare…
A quarter of an hour later, having reached the opposite side, Morrigan pushed open the doors without once glancing back at the spirit. Instead of another stone-hewn hall, she was met by a long, dark corridor without illumination. Conserving her remaining mana, she kept her transformed body and stepped into the darkness. Stretching her upper pair of arms to the sides, she barely touched the walls with her claws to confirm—this was just darkness and a corridor, no trickery.
Sooner than she feared, she came upon another set of oak doors. Pushing them open, Morrigan entered a new oval hall. Unlike the previous chambers, it was filled not with the even pale light of unusual magical lamps, but with dancing glimmers from a crackling living flame. A broad band of fire divided the room in two, its tongues leaping as high as the girl's current stature. A careful look at the floor revealed that nothing fed the flame; it arose from the air three fingers above the stone. On the far side of the fire-wall, the base of a wide staircase was visible, converging at a modest platform at the opposite end of the hall, seen through the heat-shimmer above the flames. There, it was easy to make out a lone, massive, unadorned urn, as if cast from gold. The foot of the steps was guarded by two statues, impossible to discern clearly from this side, but Morrigan would have wagered they were large predatory cats—or similar beasts.
Without apparent harm or warning, the guardian of this place emerged from the wall of flame to the right—as the spirit had clumsily titled itself. Giving Morrigan's current form a strangely detached glance, the counterfeit knight uttered:
— I did not suppose the principles upon which this place is founded could be trampled—while not a single rule I swore to uphold was technically violated. What I see is abominable. It is within my power to show contempt, but not to hinder you, mad fruit born of mortal flesh wed to the endless embodiment of base craving. Let the Temple decide your fate. The flame is the final trial, separating the humble and pure from the rest.
Morrigan smiled unnervingly wide, baring countless narrow teeth like needles:
— How dram-a-tic. And the allegory with f-f-fire is a nice t-touch. Wasn't it in f-f-flames that the magis-s-sters burned Andras-s-ste? And the old Empire along with her… The irony is that the creations of 'dark' Tevinter still s-s-serve faithfully, s-s-centuries later, reminding us of their makers. Look at this place. S-s-so much effort poured into it. S-s-so much ingenuity and inspiration… And only fragments remember. Oblivion. That's how the Empire defeated you. In the minds of little people, it became woven with grandeur and eternity. Who remembers the oppression, the slavery, the violence, the death? You wait for a worthy one to return this place to the world and rekindle the flame of foolish faith. But the architects of this design could not foresee a war that cares nothing for faith. Could not imagine how the principles and ideas of its guardians would be distorted beyond recognition. Could not conceive of the countless ways to overcome the trials.
Leaving the bundle of clothing at the hall's entrance, Morrigan turned to the nearest wall and began a cautious ascent, intending to bypass the fiery barrier from above. After a minute's silence, the guardian spoke with open suspicion:
— You have no faith. Why did you come, then? What do you seek? The true essence of the Temple holds so little meaning for you, contains so little sense…
Not overly distracted by the spirit's sermonizing, and carefully choosing where to place a foot or one of her hands, the girl answered somewhat absently:
— Faith often demands blind obedience, a tremendous risk, but everything has its price. You are like that, spirit of 'faith.' That is why other possibilities are invisible to you. A treasure can seem interesting even to one whose faith isn't worth a copper.
The spirit said no more, glumly watching as the strange creature—a mockery of a human—moved spider-like along the wall almost to the ceiling before landing deftly on the other side of the fiery wall. Warily circling the two huge predatory cats that seemed too lifelike for mere sculptor's work, Morrigan climbed a dozen steps and found herself before an urn half a person's height, indeed wrought from the purest gold from base to lid. The flawlessly polished surface distorted Morrigan's already monstrous reflection. What she saw, in the girl's opinion, sat oddly with widespread notions of Andrastian modesty and temperance. Perhaps the original foundation of the faith, born of mercy and hope, did not presuppose such self-restraint and asceticism… Or perhaps whoever hid the ashes of the "Bride" here saw no vessel of lesser worth as her final resting place. Though Morrigan had another guess: gold was the only known material that endures time unchanged, however changeable the conditions.
From behind came the guardian's strained voice:
— One proven by the Temple, besides the knowledge gained, is permitted to take a pinch of the ashes, to carry away forever a part directly linked to the dawn of our faith. However…
Trailing off uncertainly, the spirit fell silent, leaving Morrigan alone with only the steady crackle of flame behind her. Morrigan bared her teeth, facing a difficult choice. She disliked how the guardian wavered, creeping ever closer to the line where open hostility began. At the same time, to revert to human form meant expending the last dregs of mana and risking a confrontation with a powerful spirit while naked. But even as she was, the girl remained without her own spells, armed only with claws and teeth.
Making her choice, the witch hooked a claw under the urn's lid and slowly lowered it to the floor beside her. The vessel's volume could have held the remains of ten people, no less—yet she was met with darkness and emptiness. A handful of ash at the bottom required her to plunge her arm into the gloom almost to the elbow. Still, nothing would make Morrigan believe that someone's mortal remains served as a conduit for gratuitous miracles. And so she saw no need for them.
Deciding not to tempt fate, the witch approached the true purpose of her visit: with a sharp motion of a claw, she opened the skin on one of her arms and let a thick, viscous fluid resembling blood drip from the wound into the golden vessel.
One drop, then another…
From behind came a cry trembling with suppressed rage:
— What are you doing?!
Turning, but not withdrawing her arm, Morrigan saw the guardian standing by the wall of flame—on this side now. The unchanging old tome in his right hand had been replaced by a long blade, its polished surface dancing with reflections of the fiery tongues, as if lit from within and mirroring the spirit of "faith's" mood. The guardian's face was twisted with disgust and fury, as if he beheld something unspeakably vile. She did not answer. A second drop. A third.
The altered creature continued to wait patiently for the outcome—exactly as if, having leapt from a cliff, she now, already in flight, awaited what would happen when she met the ground. Detecting this silent resolve in her posture—or having filled his own cup of patience to the brim—the spirit moved toward the girl, ascending the steps. He, too, deemed further words unnecessary. Morrigan saw in the guardian's gaze a promise of cruel retribution for the desecration of the relic he had once agreed to guard, no doubt impressed by the purity and boundlessness of Andraste's followers' faith.
And yet his relentless stride broke off halfway. The guardian stopped, radiating sincere bewilderment that momentarily washed away everything else. Her analytical mind immediately noted this peculiarity of Fade beings: even the powerful, always straining toward a single purpose, cannot hold many human emotions at once. Often they switch without nuance from one vivid expression to another. But inevitably, they return to embodying their personal goal and nature.
The spirit's unspoken question was answered by a third voice from behind Morrigan's shoulder, genderless yet full of restrained satisfaction:
— Insofar as you held sway over this place, it now belongs to us.
Turning, Morrigan saw behind the urn the figure of Zibenkek—as if sculpted from glossy blood, just as in that half-dream. Her hands rested on the urn. Only on closer look could one see the thin, bloody threads connecting the vessel to her fingers. Morrigan's blood… And hovering above the urn, seemingly already part of this place, was a motionless matte-black sphere. It looked pliant, but she had no desire to touch it—it radiated a familiar, soul-chilling revulsion…
— You are free to remain in the Temple's outer parts, but we understand it was precisely the urn that anchored you here. And, of course, the lyrium below. You could virtuously delude yourself about the contents of this vessel, as could those who brought it here. You are, after all, an embodiment of 'faith,' not 'truth.' But the truth is, the magisters never obtained the remains of the southern leader alone—exclusively. Simply… the others, in comparison and from the height of time, seemed insignificant and misplaced, as if their own deaths diminished the agony of the 'only one.' When the magisters staged that auto-da-fé, dozens of captives writhed in the flames—all burned alive. And afterward, when the weeping heavens mixed the common ashes with mud, those who came could never have recovered the ashes of the 'Bride.' The urn holds only dirt and ash—it's unlikely anything of Andraste herself remains. Only blind faith transformed the urn into something more than an object.
The Temple guardian took a slow step back, simultaneously descending one step. His face contorted with loathing:
— You… You have let THAT into the sanctuary?!
Zibenkek cut short the incipient tirade with a brief phrase:
— Leave or stay. But this rebuke is only for you. The seeds of anger will fall on barren soil.
Shifting his gaze to the urn, the guardian exhaled sharply; his expression abruptly changed to sorrow and suffering:
— You do not understand… Mortals need faith, an ideal, a higher purpose…
Here Morrigan could not restrain herself, cutting into the conversation:
— Maybe s-so, maybe not. More often an ex-c-cuse is needed than a path. Even more often, a means to control others. And you are a hypocrite, for you value faith as an abs-s-stract. I've met one like you before. But he found a more worthy occupation. To my mind, saving children from possession—that is closer to the Andras-s-stian ideal. Though there was no lyrium vein there.
The guardian froze, his empty stare boring into Morrigan. He seemed to have even stopped breathing. And then, in the blink of an eye, he vanished.
Zibenkek indifferently drew the line:
— One cannot deny your talent for making enemies…
* * *
Morrigan waited at least an hour—back on the far side of the fiery barrier—after returning to her familiar human form and dressing. Only then did Zibenkek, who had vanished without warning, reappear:
— Some are remarkably 'lucky.' Or, as they say, 'fortune favors you'?
— Why would you think so?
— Consider. You don't think we orchestrated every step that brought you to this moment, do you? Who could have supposed that pale, scaly imitation of the ancients would suddenly blaze with gratitude toward the so-called mother of a lone witch, and answer question after question without protest? And in doing so, offer a hint as to how to cut the path short…? Or that the spirit would be so disconcerted by your form that it would not hinder your progress to the very end? But I can see in your eyes that even this list of wonders is incomplete.
The witch, unsure whether it was irritation or weariness, ran her fingertips across her forehead. Dozens of caustic questions hung on the tip of her tongue, though the answers were already known. So, swallowing back the rest, the girl asked tersely:
— Is the deal still on?
— Of course.
— Was the condition met?
— Not entirely. We had little hope you would fulfill the exact terms. Still, since we're here, an explanation is in order. For us, it is more important to turn the corpse the Chantry's founders made into a symbol—and later used with the cunning characteristic of your mother—into something useful. And from this moment, that goal remains achievable.
Leaning against the cold stone wall, Morrigan let her gaze slide over the eerie effigy, which resembled a frozen wax cast of a forgotten deity. Skeptically shaking her head, the witch murmured:
— Turn a cult into a force… for what? For whom would it… No. That's foolish…
— Resistance is natural. But why should I persuade you? You yourself, as always, will sort everything out… and reach the conclusion you're meant to reach. It won't even take an hour. And then, even fighting your own impulses, you won't be able to resist the temptation to stand at the head of a crowd of fanatics hanging on your every word, ready to lay down their lives. Power. Your own reflection in the eyes of others. Opportunity.
Morrigan's lips pressed into a bloodless line, but she wasn't even sure she could catch the gaze of the creature that looked like a wax statue staring into the distance. Rage stormed within her, but her mind coldly acknowledged the truth—Zibenkek knew perfectly well which weaknesses to target. They were playing on her ambitions like harp strings—and she hated herself for how well the melody worked. Meanwhile, the "statue" continued:
— As for the goal… It is obvious.
— You want to add a new force to the one already gathering against the Blight?
Zibenkek snapped their fingers at the question:
— Excellent. Yes. Flemeth likely wished to achieve her aim differently. Relying on schemes, she counted on leaders from the states around the Waking Sea. Aiding from the shadows and nudging with care toward her goal, that deadly woman strove for a world where people stood firmly on their own feet. Not other races. And where they would look as far as possible beyond the horizon of their own limitations and short lives. The exception were the Dragons, whom she has nurtured and protected since time immemorial. But even they became bargaining chips when her original goal was at stake.
— We act differently. Usually. Without haste, like a diligent farmer. We sow. We reap. Discard enough cards, and a trump will turn up. Now both approaches are unsuitable. Instead of worthy leaders—there is disunity and paranoia everywhere, and no time remains for blind trial and error.
— My mother's approach seems productive. But it's not for me to judge. And one should judge by results… However… Can't you 'talk' this way with anyone? Wouldn't it be wiser to proceed like this with everyone, instead of waiting?
— Our first conversation happened because of the Seeker—an uncommon instrument, though not unique. And thanks to others' efforts, the Veil in that fortress was already weakened. Even so, you are a witness to the price paid. Here you did something similar, thinning the Veil. The rest is simply evidence of our interest. But chiefly, the role of 'god' holds little appeal for us. In the past there were enough who dallied with such things; not one of them failed to overplay their hand in the end. Each met a sorrowful fate.
Drawing a deep breath to restrain her temper, Morrigan said:
— This is all very interesting, but far from the original deal.
— You are mistaken. Everything we've said—
— No, no, and no. I understand perfectly well that I have placed myself in the eye of a storm of my own making. As in our first conversation, you dangle bait, luring me farther and farther from familiar shores. And I have no power to demand. But I can certainly refuse. My life still belongs to me. You've already gained a breach in the Veil. That is worth something and…
Zibenkek raised a hand, cutting off the witch's flow of words. With a light gesture toward the black sphere above the urn, they said:
— This is here precisely so the Temple guardian would not kill you in retaliation for your act. Keeping anyone else from passing costs power. For beings like us, who do not sow chaos without cause, it is a burden. However, what is said requires no proof, only faith. Very well—let us proceed step by step. You desired a pact…
Morrigan sharply interrupted, objecting fervently:
— Not only—and not chiefly. If I get answers, that will outweigh any power flowing from a pact.
— Yes, as in our first conversation, you value knowledge above power. And your questions are countless. About the past. And about trifles, such as how that spirit could exist on this side of the Veil. Or how it created your double. Of course—thanks to the lyrium and this urn, which became the spirit's… anchor. That is why it 'left' so easily. But the point is, a pact is too dangerous a bond even for us. You will not receive it.
Slapping her palm loudly against the stone as if trying to crush it, Morrigan exhaled:
— You… But why?
— We do not wish to be bound to one such as you. Not every door is worth opening. You may complain of deceit, but you will not. The agreement was risky from start to finish. Yet we will give some answers—on condition that you, as the Seeker said, voluntarily slip the leash.
— Some…?
— We will share what will not harm our plans.
After a short pause, Morrigan narrowed her eyes and clarified:
— Does it all come down to me being a valuable tool?
— Of course. While the daughter remained in Flemeth's hands, her value was negligible—due to the necessity of direct conflict with that one. And even free, albeit tainted, you hardly resembled an attractive prize. Time and distance in this world matter. As you now know, the hammer fell right on the nail. And it no longer matters where the hammer came from, or who forged that nail—what matters is the path that opened. I don't know what purpose Flemeth was preparing her daughter for. Her designs are clear to us only to the extent we could observe from afar. But here, now, with some aid and the work already done, you will fill the void in these people's hearts. Their faith was built from ancient days around the image of a mortal maiden chosen by the 'Maker,' and much later, thanks to clever substitution, became linked with the image of a dragon. She could hardly have done better, yet it still turned out imperfect. Unspoken questions arose—misconceptions, internal strife. Now you can prove you passed the Temple's test, appealing to the foundations of these people's faith. You can give them a symbol to cling to—the urn. You have already shown that dragons acknowledge you. You are the thread that will stitch the tears in the fabric. It only takes a slight push, and the avalanche will begin. And if the moment is not missed, events will unfold to your advantage.
— The Chantry's army?
— Yes. The political games and the paths that will open for seeking new forces I leave to you and the Seeker. For us it is important that others—engaged in their own game beyond the Veil on that same side—will see in you not a nuisance, but something of substance. Given the situation and the facts, that will push many, if not most, to unite against a single enemy. One nail driven at the right moment…
Morrigan's lips trembled, as if she were torn between fury and cold calculation. In the end, she only nodded, as if accepting the inevitable:
— …like the first stone cast down a mountain. What happened that fateful day, when I was separated from my mother?
Zibenkek remained silent longer than usual before opening their mouth:
— Something… unforeseen. Possibly… It was another stone, dislodged from a summit where no one expected it. And we inadvertently played a key role in it… as a tool. Chance events. But linked, as it turned out, in a common chain—like an arrow gathering unseen speed, aimed at Flemeth's heart. She spent eons to properly assume flesh in this world, and now the ancient player has been thrown back so far… Searching for that one beyond the Veil would require effort disproportionate to the benefit she could bring us. And without help, the ancient kin is lost, as if forever.
— Kin?
— Our origin springs from the same source. But the rivers' courses diverged so far that only pitiful shreds of memory, not yet sunk into oblivion, still connect us.
— So, someone wanted my mother dead?
— To remove an obstacle. The prize was the daughter. Beyond that, we will tell you nothing more.
Morrigan grimaced, mastering her irritation, and, coolly accepting such an answer, switched to another topic:
— Very well. But how did I survive?
— To that question we have no answer at all.
— Splendid… What, then, was my mother's design for me?
— A cunning question. Assumptions are like shadows on a cave wall. But if you must… Flemeth saw the gravest threat to the world if the dragon-kin were exterminated. And so she sought a way not only to preserve them, but also to devise a method to bestow upon people the gift of the winged ones—what makes dragons exceptional.
— What gift?
— The gift to strengthen the Veil through one's very existence. Likely, the daughter became for Flemeth another stepping stone toward that goal.
— And you considered this ironic before? Why?
— Templars.
— They have the same gift?
— Precisely. And it manifested without any involvement from Flemeth. The long path simultaneously justified itself and… led nowhere. It is difficult for us to imagine what we would feel, were we to encounter such a dead end on our own journey—one that forces a reevaluation of every step taken and every sacrifice made.
— What, exactly, must we do now?
— A good way to say 'yes' without uttering the word itself. We will implant the 'Whisper of the Maker' into the mind of everyone involved in the blood rituals that have miraculously flourished here. That is already a significant contribution. Beyond that, we will give a few hints—sufficient to convincingly play the role of the chosen one. After that, it will only be a matter of not blundering, and leading the newly formed force back to the Seeker. Your task is to create and command a force so that it does not remain useless or unpredictable. What follows depends on your free will.
— I'll pretend those last words didn't sound like mockery. If my mother arranged everything here so that people, in their own delusion about dragons, would care for them—where do the blood rituals come from?
— The faith of this splinter of Andrastianism contained the idea of the miraculous properties of the ashes of the 'Bride of the Maker.' An inseparable bond. Flemeth took advantage of the fading of faith over so many generations and granted a miracle. Dragons inspire not only terror, but—given time, or proper guidance—also awe. And the idea of rebirth stirs the minds of mortals, whose span is so brief, from the very beginning. And so: a living embodiment of faith. But if the miracles of the dead were contained in ashes, what now shall serve as the conduit? Dragon's blood. Or… any blood. The dragons, in turn, used human invention—marking with blood those who served faithfully, so as to distinguish the 'wingless' by their scent. That, in turn, opened a path for us and our gifts, turning an invention into genuine miracles wherever we saw use.
Morrigan clenched her fists, lowering her eyes:
— Clever…
— Envy?
— Perhaps. Where do I look for new answers about myself?
Zibenkek's stone-like face suddenly came alive—the lips twisted into a smirk, like a cat seeing a mouse:
— To close the circle without our involvement, you must reach Aeonar.