Chapter 16 - Chapter 16 - "Bitter"

Pain. Why does it sometimes come tinged with colors? Black shot through with red… Throbbing. As if something living had taken root inside her skull. Scratching behind her eyes, behind her eyelids. Sending waves of nausea rolling through her. Morrigan drew a hoarse breath and exhaled with a soft moan. She was afraid to open her eyes, as if something alive lurked behind her lids, ready to burst free. Although, of course, the greater fear was the light—a source of exquisite torture. But the illusory darkness couldn't save her from reality. The light filtering through the vent grating pierced her eyelids like thin blades. Still, it could have been worse… Taking her time, wary of the dizziness any sudden movement might bring, the witch looked around.

Still in the cell. This constancy was, strangely, reassuring. The sound of breathing made Morrigan flinch instinctively, despite her caution. The price was a surge of nausea from prolonged hunger, rising in her throat. Only by squeezing her eyes shut and breathing rapidly did she manage to force back the bile. Trying again, more carefully, she saw Valinsi sitting in the corner, at the head of the bench. The man had his arms crossed over his chest in an attempt to keep warm, and he was asleep.

The scene seemed so unreal that Morrigan blinked, as if trying to shake off a stupor. But Valinsi remained in the corner, arms crossed. The vision didn't fade. Ten minutes of struggling with her own body—and finally she managed to sit up, bracing herself with effort. Setting those questions aside for later, Morrigan turned her attention to more pressing matters. Recalling what she had resolved to keep under close watch, she began methodically reviewing them, one by one.

Memory. Despite her hopes, there was no improvement here. Not a single new fact about that day. And the scattered recollections—or rather, vague fragments—hadn't vanished, hadn't assembled into a coherent mosaic, and hadn't revealed anything new.

Raising a hand to her face, where a plain band of gold had once rested, the witch frowned. Like her other personal effects, it had remained at the foot of the Tower before the ascent began. She could only hope the bundle had truly passed into Leliana's hands with minimal loss. Morrigan harbored no illusions that the Templars would have ignored the personal belongings of a "witch." Still, what mattered was different. She concluded just how little she now cared for the value of personal possessions—not just jewels—given that she hadn't even thought to ask Leliana about their fate. And… beyond that, nothing had changed. The fuss over valuables seemed trivial to the witch, meaningful only as a means to secure wealth. But she saw no personal use for it. Now, if wealth were required to acquire knowledge…

She clenched her fist, feeling her nails dig into her palm. Uncurling her fingers, she turned her thoughts to the next puzzle. Perception. Here, too, at first glance, there was nothing worth mentioning. The witch still felt that strange detachment when thinking about her own body. As if it were a tool to be kept ready, like a blade one intends to wield in battle.

Morrigan gave a weak snort. It was futile to expect everything to return to normal in an instant. She'd understood that from the start. Disappointment and swirling doubts had to be restrained like a wild beast on a leash. Changes had already happened. They would remain. Unless something new overwrote them. She could only hope the changes to come would be gentler. Without violence to her mind. Without alien hands breaking her from within. And, most importantly, that relief from the exhausting nightmares would come. That would take time. For now, she had to patiently endure at least one more night.

Wincing, she turned toward her "cellmate," only to find him in the same position but now studying her profile with attentive eyes, no trace of sleepiness in them. Arching a brow—and immediately regretting it—Morrigan asked in a raspy voice:

— You… how did you get here?

Valinsi sighed, coughed, and straightened up with effort, as if every movement came with pain. His neck cracked; he let out a pained groan through clenched teeth, followed by a sigh of relief, then calmly deflected the question:

— Well now, and here I was hoping for a warm welcome. Does prison etiquette really prescribe starting with an interrogation?

Genuinely surprised and making no effort to hide it, Morrigan repeated:

— What?

The corners of his lips quirking slightly, the man squared his shoulders, rolling them, twisting first one way, then the other.

— Seeing you so disconcerted… a small but pleasant surprise. I wonder how often that expression visits your face. Sorry. I suppose my flat jokes are missing the mark more than ever. Judging by your twitching eyelid and dilated pupils… three days without food, and the first thing you ask about isn't breakfast. Clearly, you didn't wake in the best state.

— Three… days?

Her voice came out as a croak. Her tongue slid over her cracked lips, and the pain—sharp and sudden—made her flinch. She hadn't even noticed they'd grown so parched. Half-expecting the mage to announce it was a joke, she shook her head in disbelief. But the man only nodded affirmatively and continued:

— Let's lay things out in order. After the spell took effect… Ah, of course you want to ask how we knew it worked?

— Precisely.

— Well then. First, you immediately showed signs of sudden and complete mana exhaustion. Loss of consciousness, point one. Incidentally, it looked more like lethargy. A cold sweat, point two. Slowed breathing and heartbeat, point three—though I confirmed the latter only afterward. Second, there was almost no lyrium left in the bucket. That, by the way, is impressive. So, when the spell took effect, naturally, Ser Templar reacted to the event… unfavorably. Harman… right? No matter. Suffice it to say your interlocutor acted foolishly in that moment. He let the warrior in him take over. Well, he could have doused me a few times with Smite, laying Bethany and me out beside you. No harm to you, or to us. But pride boiled in my veins. Try explaining to a steel-clad fanatic that he's an idiot without using magic. Surprisingly, my argument didn't impress him. To be fair, Harman showed considerable patience—he could have broken my nose and knocked out a few teeth. Leliana… You know, your friend curses exquisitely. Virtuosically. Long story short, they roughed me up. And I managed to land a punch on the Templar's eye. Don't look at me like that—I hadn't lost so much control as to use magic against him. Or use magic at all… And then Leliana cooled our mutual fervor. In the end, Gregor didn't let it slide. I suspect with Irving's silent approval, reasoning that locking me up for a couple of days was an excellent way to cool the head of his future "right hand." Irving, of course, is a saint: instead of the stocks, he slipped me into a cell with you. And that's the whole story.

Morrigan licked her lips again.

— How…

— That's my line. So… how do you feel? And no excuses.

— My head is splitting. Or maybe it's already split.

— No. I mean something else.

The witch slowly, deliberately, shook her head after considering her next words.

— I don't know yet. It doesn't seem like a full recovery. But it hasn't gotten worse, either. Perhaps the best is yet to come? The next night, or the one after, will tell. Or the Seeker will make a decision.

— Well… the latter is more likely than the former.

Morrigan turned her head slightly.

— Is he here already? Though… yes. Three days.

— He arrived last night, threw the Hold into an uproar. Must have had a fair wind in his sails.

His voice held an irritation masked by feigned lightness. But in the girl's opinion, it was more likely the result of being confined in an unfamiliar space. Perhaps the lack of conversation or any means to influence events played a part, too. Valinsi continued:

— By this hour, the Seeker has surely begun inspecting the Tower. Or the survivors. The sun is at its zenith. The weather seems to favor the Seeker—after two days of downpour, with thunder crashing as if heralding disaster. Only without strong gusts of wind. And today… quiet, sunny, calm…

Glancing sideways at the witch, Valinsi added thoughtfully:

— As if the darkness itself passed us by, and now the world is catching its breath.

She ran her fingers over her temples, as if trying to push her thoughts back into place.

— Fine… Food wouldn't go amiss.

— We'll see. Perhaps something can be done about that. In the meantime… I'd like to know more about this so-called "possession." No hedging or innuendo.

Morrigan twisted her lips, holding back both a sharp retort and any sudden movement of her head.

— First, tell me more convincingly about that improvised scuffle with the Templar.

Valinsi rose to his full height, pressing his lips together and tilting his head with mild bewilderment in his eyes.

— Why?

— My question exactly.

— Bargaining? So be it.

He clenched his teeth and began:

— For the first second, I thought Harman would finish you off. That's all. No hidden depths. But then… To be honest, I weighed the options and pictured the moment you woke up…

— Oh? So you didn't even doubt I'd wake up?

The man looked up at the ceiling, as if the question had caught him off guard. But after a moment's pause, he nodded and went on:

— Almost. So. If what you said about the "possession" holds any truth, how much truth is there? Who or what would wake up? Who did we strike a deal with in that case? We did something that could cast a long, dark shadow. So many lives would be swallowed in that darkness… To take that lightly… I don't have the right disposition for it. And in the end, it all came down to needing clear answers, even if I don't really believe in "possession."

The girl winced painfully and clarified:

— An uncertain statement. That's not a full denial. So, a drop of faith is hidden somewhere?

He gave an ambiguous jerk of his head, neither denying nor agreeing, and the mage picked up where he left off.

— After all this, I'd sooner believe in a grand deception than a miracle. But here's the question—why would anyone stage such a spectacle? Motive? Reasons? The logic of this "performance" eludes me. That doesn't mean it isn't there. But… Fine. I'll admit, there was a personal motive, too. If you'd died down here in the dungeon, and I hadn't even tried to understand why… that's a mistake even cowards don't forgive themselves. So, while we're alone, is our deal still on?

Morrigan narrowed her eyes, her gaze sliding over Valinsi's form. Tense shoulders, a posture like a drawn bowstring. Only his fingers weren't clenched into fists, but even so, they trembled with tension. The unprovoked tremor seemed threatening. She swallowed slowly, realizing her throat had long gone dry. In the end, more quietly than she intended, she said:

— You're barely holding back, as if poised on the edge of an abyss. This conversation isn't just about possession. Maybe it's about something else entirely. Let me guess… A name is involved. Tomara. You were close, weren't you?

A clenched jaw, sharply defined facial muscles—in profile, his tension looked almost grotesque. Closing his eyes, he answered with no emotion in his voice:

— Not in the way you imply. We always stopped a step short of the line. Colleagues. Friends. Nothing more. Companions since our youth. We were constants in each other's lives.

The girl nodded.

— Irreplaceable. And how can I compensate for that? Muffle the grief with anger? Or…

— Start by answering the question.

— Yes.

— And that's…?

— The answer to the question.

The mage blinked uncertainly and muttered, more to himself than to her:

— Just like that…

— Depends on your perspective.

— I suppose… Now it's your turn. No tricks…

Fixing him with a heavy look, the girl turned away, stating dryly:

— Is there any point?

— Of course there is. We're not strolling in a garden—we're sitting in a prison. So begin.

— Hm… I've never tried to condense what I've been through into a few clear phrases. Perhaps such experience could be useful. It started a month ago. We were attacked. Defeating Flemeth is no easy task. I woke up an hour's walk from home. With no memory. Soon I noticed changes in my habits, my character. From trifles to frighteningly comprehensive things. But the main "new" thing is the nightmares. Actually, one specific one, over and over. In which I'm not alone each time.

— Succinct. — He grimaced and added: — At least it's without lyricism.

— All to the point. Did you require a report on the background?

— And this went on… a month?

Morrigan gave a faint nod, adding:

— Now you know not just the "why," but also the "what." Did it give you much?

Drawing a tired, deep breath and exhaling slowly, Valinsi visibly relaxed, shaking his head. His face twisted into a grimace mingling bitterness and vexation.

— Yes. Yes… Of course, it's more a matter of faith and trust than understanding. Condemning you is the easiest thing. But proving innocence… You understand. At least, without the Seeker's miracles. But thank you for your frankness. Perhaps it was more important whether I'd get a clear answer or just a foggy half-truth.

Morrigan curled her lip and retorted:

— The point… is that you're fighting your anger. That's what needs talking about. With someone, certainly.

— Not with you?

— I'm a stranger to you. That's somewhat appealing, simplifying everything for someone like you. But I'm not sure that path…

The man snorted, muttering:

— All you southern girls let your emotions run away with you, but you… you're a special case.

— And far stranger than I seem. Truthfully, I'm not in a state to… Fine. One straight talk about what's in your head, in exchange for food. You're right. My head can ache from hunger, too. And with the pounding, you can't even feel the hunger itself.

— Is that a deal?

— What, don't you believe in my generosity already?

Valinsi nodded and approached the air vent to say loudly and clearly:

— Petr, still there?

Immediately, from above, came a distorted but clear young voice, a boy who'd barely seen a dozen winters:

— Of course, Senior Enchanter. But…

By the end of his words, enthusiasm was overtaken by uncertainty mixed with slight fear. Valinsi tensed immediately, clarifying:

— What's happened?

— The Templars are gathering everyone by the Tower. In front of the main entrance. From the eldest to the youngest.

The boy's voice trembled:

— They'll take me, too.

— I see.

Closing his eyes for a moment, the mage began giving his young accomplice instructions:

— Run as fast as you can to the gallery leading to these cells. If anyone you meet asks questions, say: urgent mage business. Don't go into details and don't stop, so they have no reason to press further. If there are Templars at the stairs, you have a message from the First Enchanter for the Senior Enchanter named Valinsi regarding the start of the Seeker's inspection. I'll cover for you later; worst case, it'll mean a caning. At the cell, repeat your story and play the stubborn dullard. The main thing is to make the guards think it's easier to open the cell and hear the details as they go than to argue. Understood?

— Of course! I'm running.

The sound of footsteps faded into the distance. Valinsi met Morrigan's gaze—her eyes, dulled by pain, still burned with curiosity.

— What…?

* * *

About five minutes later came a familiar scraping sound as the stone doors creaked open. But on the other side weren't Templars, but a single curly, fair-haired youth, who could be called rather pretty, if short. He was flushed from running and, breathing heavily, bowed his head respectfully.

— Senior Enchanter...

Waving a hand irritably, cutting off the greeting, Valinsi peered out into the gallery and his expression darkened.

— No one on the stairs?

— Empty. If you hadn't told me how—

— Shhh... You know nothing, I told you nothing. And no other way. No proud tales or hints. Understood?

Valinsi fell silent, thinking. Petr was desperately trying to look straight ahead, though his gaze kept sliding involuntarily toward the "Savior of the Circle" sitting in the depths of the cell.

— The Seeker recalled the Templars from their posts. Without consulting anyone. Neither the Knight-Commander nor Irving had time to object. Ironic and dangerous. Then we do this differently, as this could end not with a caning, but with Tranquility. Run from here as fast as you can, but don't get spotted. Lose yourself in the crowd. Take up any little job. Pretend you've been doing it for a long time and not too diligently. Even if it's an obvious reason to scold you. Run!

A pause ensued. Valinsi clicked his tongue angrily:

— Shoo!

The lad shot off and quickly disappeared toward the stairs.

— We'll have trouble with food...

— Is that... concern from you? Forgive my surprise.

— Petr is a good lad. Obedient. Composed. And while that's balanced by a taste for adventure, this time I'm the one who dragged him into one. For personal interests. Besides... you're right, not long ago I would have treated the boy much more harshly.

Morrigan sighed quietly. She thought she'd heard something similar recently. But the thought slipped away, and focusing on anything was agonizingly difficult. Though one conclusion was simple enough to pierce even the fog of nausea and pain.

— We need to get to where the Seeker is. The fact there are no guards is actually good.

Valinsi spun around sharply.

— Where did that thought come from, all of a sudden?

The witch squeezed her eyes shut, imagining how many words she'd have to force out to formulate an explanation clearly. Licking her lips again, she tried to be concise:

— I already said Irving was interested in my crude method of curing possession. Not an idle interest. The First Enchanter is certain there are other possessed mages. Whether it's personal paranoia or facts doesn't matter. But think for a moment. I mentioned earlier in the Tower that two entities took hold in the Hold. One kept the other from running wild. One was forced to leave. Where is the second?

The mage visibly paled, drawing in on himself, and tried to object:

— But... I thought the second one wasn't interested in anything except hindering the first. It even protected the children. As soon as the first one left, the protection was lifted.

— And thus it cleverly drew your attention away. Think, there isn't a single reason not to suspect something. That's blindness imposed by your own weary mind.

— Bloody Void... But the Seeker is there, surely he... Oh... The Seeker will run into the possessed and...

— And if Irving has done nothing, it will happen in the middle of a crowd of children. And a crowd of Templars. A Seeker and a demon of that strength. I might not care. But you? Besides, Bethany is there, Leliana, and... Naire.

— Can you prevent it?

Morrigan hissed—pain and irritation woven into a single sound:

— You are too cautious. You hesitate too much. The last thing I want is to wait out a storm here. Either way, the winner is clear. The remaining Templars will definitely conduct a purge after this. And I'll be first on the list.

Valinsi swore hoarsely and shook his head sharply. Stepping closer, he helped the girl to her feet. Her legs barely held her, but the mage's strong arms managed to hold her up. His help angered her—it reminded her of her weakness. But something about it... was strangely calming...

— Would be nice to run into some food on the way...

The mage only shook his head grimly.

* * *

A faint breeze, gently brushing her face, carried the scents of damp forest and wet fallen leaves. The foliage, sharply yellowed by the cold nights and the moist forest air, seemed to announce autumn's sudden arrival. Still, the sun in the cloudless sky playfully bestowed its warmth, as if hinting at the summer days now past. Morrigan could hardly claim any speed, moving forward only thanks to Valinsi. How quickly her body had betrayed her, squandering its last reserves of strength—that realization left a bitter taste.

Pushing back the encroaching gloom, Morrigan asked her companion:

— So you expected to end up locked up?

— Hm?

The man frowned, trying to grasp the question's point, then smirked.

— You mean about Petr. Not exactly. But you must agree, given everything going on here, what could one expect from joining in a murky ritual with unauthorized lyrium, and doing it in the cell of a prisoner already all but declared a maleficar? Of course, when I went to get the lyrium, I tried to be reasonably careful.

— Forcing the lad to sit camped by the air vent day in and day out, waiting?

— What a heartless tyrant. No. Knowing his nature, I proposed a deal: he helps me now, and I'll become his mentor after his Harrowing. Though, I wouldn't be wrong to assume the "adventure" itself tempted him more than vague promises. Of course, if Petr had sat day and night by the only occupied cells in the Tower, he'd have earned a caning long ago and more than once. Petr has good ears. All that was needed was for him to be nearby around the same time each day.

The witch gasped as she stumbled but, held upright by the mage's hands, straightened and asked:

— But if you thought the scheme was "murky" and dangerous… why?

— A good question… Ask me again in a couple of seasons, if the Maker allows me to live that long. Right now… it's hard to say. I haven't had the chance to speak with Leliana properly to understand her motivations. Naire, as you might have noticed at our first meeting, is prone to impulses that go against any sense of self-preservation. Emotions, idealism, and obligations. Bethany… After speaking with her, I understood that a strong bond formed in your short acquaintance. It's easy to imagine that girl doing dangerous foolishness for you, believing she has solid reason. Two weeks ago, I wouldn't have taken such a risk. But now… Back then, I had clear goals. A clear path, understandable duties, rules devoid of ambiguity. In exchange, I got restless sleep, the dirty underbelly of our reality, and a grim duty to the Circle. That and… some other complications. Let's just say, offering harmless help to someone who has already helped me and, likely, even saved me, seemed at that moment the least dubious course of action. Along with a dash of defiance against rules and fate.

— Nihilism and anarchism are growing in you.

Valinsi coughed and shook his head in surprise, exclaiming in bewilderment:

— Your tongue and knowledge… often leave me baffled.

Furrowing her brow, Morrigan squeezed her eyes shut for a moment against a surge of pain, a worm wandering inside her skull.

— You're not the only one. And it's not about erudition. It's hard to convey what it's like. I remember that until I opened my mouth, I didn't know these words. And yet I clearly understand the meaning behind them. Are they fragments of others' memories, or am I lost in my own past? What I fear most is that this knowledge doesn't come from me. That its source… is not me.

Valinsi raised his eyebrows and concluded with feigned optimism in his voice:

— How timely of you to remind me that you might be possessed. Right before meeting the Seeker.

— You're always welcome.

Around the Tower's corner, a scene awaited them: a formation of Templars, closed ranks around the remnants of the Circle… A few youngsters were being led from the building, while three more, under close watch, hurried from the outer wall gates. Judging by the number of children and adults shifting from foot to foot on the grounds, all the few survivors were gathered here. The usual hum of a crowd was absent. Instead—an oppressive silence, saturated with fear and nervous anticipation. Morrigan noted: the children clung together, holding onto each other. The older mages seemed to have already written them off. Her gaze immediately picked out eight key figures among the children. And one—an older witch. The one who had taken up the reins of leadership on the Tower's first floor during the Veil's rupture. Flanking her were two other women, vaguely reminiscent of the healers who had also taken refuge on the first floor then. Together, they had gathered the youngest around them. Distancing themselves from this trio, yet standing near despite everything, were the distinct figures of Alim and Naire. Around this pair clustered older youths. Bethany and Leliana, standing at the crowd's right edge, seemed as if they had accidentally found themselves in the midst of it all. And Jean. The man, judging by his expression, would rather be anywhere but here. And yet he chose to stand out among the children rather than join the other mages. The group of senior enchanters was led by Irving. And among the other faces lined up behind the First Enchanter, her gaze also caught Lida. Judging by Valinsi's twisted lips, he too had spotted the woman with his eyes, not at all pleased with the state in which his beloved Circle was presenting itself to her.

The three nearest Templars—their faces seemed vaguely familiar to Morrigan—turned simultaneously towards the unusual pair, automatically reaching for their weapons. But they didn't hurry to draw their blades, instead exchanging grim looks with the Senior Enchanter of the Circle, who was supporting the pale girl from falling. The nearest teenagers also looked back, immediately focusing their attention on the witch's feverishly bright, dark-gold eyes. A stunned whisper arose, prompting new heads to turn. Again and again. It was like fire racing through dry grass—the whisper spread from person to person. Valinsi shook his head and whispered almost soundlessly right into her ear:

— Your friend is something else. It would seem she did nothing malicious, merely answering questions without drawing attention to herself. But each time she turned the conversation so that instead of one curious person, there were two. Rumors, like mist. And while neither Irving nor Gregor has any illusions about what's happening, or who's to blame, by the time they noticed, acting harshly on the eve of the Seeker's arrival became… inconvenient. Especially considering the source of the rumors spends a good deal of time praying at the statue of Andraste in the chapel.

Morrigan glanced at Leliana. She noticed the crowd's reaction and also found the girl's eyes, giving her an eloquent nod. Meanwhile, some movement began on the opposite edge. Behind the group of mages, it was hard at first to see what was happening, until a figure appeared accompanied by Gregor. The Seeker. A man in his forties—younger than the Knight-Commander, but older than most present. No armor, only practical traveling clothes, not only lacking any insignia but also not overly fresh. A grim face, all sharp angles. Sharp cheekbones, a nose with a bump, a narrow chin—a face as if carved from stone. Unshaven cheeks only emphasized this angularity. A straw-blond with a simple, short haircut any barber could manage. And a gaze as sharp as daggers from grey eyes with a hint of sky-blue. As soon as the stranger pointed a finger to a spot beside him and said something quietly, the First Enchanter stepped forward readily, and the Knight-Commander gripped his weapon's hilt, frowning intently at his old acquaintance, with whom he'd shared a lifetime of duty managing the Circle. There was no doubt—this man was in command here, and Gregor was merely obeying.

With a precise movement and without a hint of hesitation, the Seeker drew a narrow stiletto, fitting for a "mercy blade," from beneath his clothes, pricked the center of his left palm—held cup-shaped—and deftly returned the weapon to its hidden sheath. Dipping the index finger of his right hand into the welling blood, the man, wasting no time on needless theatrics, placed a red dot between Irving's brows. The First Enchanter seemed slightly disconcerted, and even from this distance, experienced eyes noticed how much effort he exerted to stand silent and still. Something flickered before Morrigan's eyes… Something perceptible yet incomprehensible—like the fleeting shadow of a passing bird. A hint of magic, and nothing more. Then the Seeker nodded and pointed to the next person. The strange ritual repeated, again and again, until it became routine. The tension began to ebb, but fear still hung in the air—heavy and cloying. In truth, nothing remarkable was happening at all. But each time, it seemed to Morrigan that the Seeker's seemingly simple actions summoned a presence onto the sunlit grounds, hiding in plain sight, just at the edge of vision, no matter how hard she tried to catch this elusive sensation.

When the main group of adults was finished, Valinsi asked quietly:

— You think it's hiding among the children? That would be… sad. Perhaps you and Irving were mistaken?

The witch gave a weak smirk, torn between the strange tension, her headache, and the nausea promising a swift bout of retching on an empty stomach.

— That would be wonderful… But I don't think so.

Morrigan's eyes turned to the remaining adult figures standing apart.

The Seeker, meanwhile, shifted his gaze to the healers and with the same indifferent gesture pointed to the spot beside him. The women, with quiet, soothing words, disentangled themselves from the younger children's clinging embraces to undergo the check one by one. First red dot, then the second… And the man's hand faltered for the first time. Morrigan fancied she heard a quiet, angry hiss reaching the far corners of the open space, and then the red mark on the forehead of the woman, whose attention had seemed unsettling from the start, vanished…

A stunned Valinsi breathed an uncertain question near her ear:

— Wynne?..

The woman's face remained impassive—a mask of cold superiority. But her eyes… her eyes held something inhuman. Minor details: a gaze too fixed, lashes that never fluttered, a posture utterly rigid. It felt familiar to Morrigan, like a scent recognizable in itself, yet unmoored from any memory of when, or what, had smelled that way. A nagging sensation, forcing her to dig through her own mind for a clue. The Seeker suffered no such torments; without visible preparation, he lashed out at the creature before him with a force akin to the Templars' Smite. To his credit, he performed the feat—one Templars usually accompany with vigorous movements and shouts—without so much as a blink. Gregor's face twisted, and he began to draw his blade. Then, the same motion spread like a ripple to the rest of the Templar line. Irving hunched his shoulders and, to any observer, squeezed his eyes shut as if in pain.

Without warning, a fragment of memory struck Morrigan, thrown into her mind like a stone skipping across water. A dark tunnel with a heavy ceiling that seemed to press down on both her head and her thoughts. The only source of light: an oil lamp in her left hand. Its warm, yellowish glow fought the hungry darkness encroaching from front and back, reclaiming only the greenish muck underfoot and ancient stone walls glistening with moisture. Her nose was filled with a stench: old, sweet rot mingled with stagnant water. Each step added a new stink, one overwhelming the last. Ahead—sweat-matted straw-colored curls and the broad back of a reliable partner to whom she could entrust her life and honor without a second thought. Tristan. Behind—hours of travel through monotonous gloom. Somewhere here hid an unbearably elusive answer. One that mocked her, forever slipping from her grasp. But the persistent streak of bad luck didn't trouble her as much as it once had. Her thoughts were already wholly occupied by another question… Another… For the first time, Morrigan was no passive observer but consciously trying to hold the kaleidoscope of images in focus, to glean more than just another vague hint. But it was futile. The memory dissolved as it had arisen: elusive. It left behind a filthy residue of doubts, questions, and fears revived with new force. Amidst it all, strangely harmonizing with the nauseating pain swirling behind her eye sockets, she found a couple of answers. First and foremost—the name of the Seeker standing across the crowd. And furthermore, a hint at the nature and guise of the foe hiding within the mage named "Wynne." Too much for the girl's cramped skull, and far too timely to foolishly chalk it up to chance.

Like a cruel, elaborate joke, the situation offered no spare moments for contemplation or inaction. The heavy silence hanging over the crowd—the stretched-out moments before violence—was torn by Morrigan's hoarse, broken cry:

— By the living, Tristan! It's the thing that freed your light! You can't…

On the last phrase, a tight ring of horror constricted the girl's throat at the ill-considered words that had escaped as if of their own volition. Like a powerful spell, they riveted the Seeker's maddened gaze upon the mage. And the only face in the sea of expressions that remained indifferent was "Wynne's." The woman's stare remained fixed on Tristan, silently acting as his impartial judge. Returning his attention to his "opponent," the man stopped Gregor with an authoritative gesture, though Morrigan didn't miss the blond man's barely perceptible fear. Then came the man's voice, muted yet unexpectedly deep and firm, devoid of any trace of agitation:

— If you are what the woman implies, you should know this: truth requires proof. How long has this servant of the Maker stood his vigil?

Without changing her posture or expression, "Wynne" replied evenly, almost relaxed, and without a trace of emotion:

— Thirty-two sunrises.

Tristan visibly paled, but the only gesture he permitted himself was a short nod. "Wynne," after a pause, continued:

— The servant's sleep is tainted. It should be ended. There is no other threat nearby.

The Seeker's jaw tightened. His lips soundlessly formed the word:

— Nearby…

Nevertheless, he nodded again, quietly giving Gregor another short command. The Knight-Commander repeated it disbelievingly, his gaze never leaving "Wynne," but he received only confirmation. The last thing Morrigan's consciousness registered as it sank into encroaching darkness: Valinsi's strong hands, not releasing her for an instant, and the Seeker's sharp gaze, trying to pierce the mysterious essence of the stranger who had intervened…

* * *

Waking to the cool touch of a damp cloth on her face, Morrigan's eyes snapped open and she flung off the linen compress. The movement was sharp and clumsy. She sat upright on instinct, surprised to find no headache or dizziness from the sudden motion.

The mage found herself lying on a cot, fully dressed atop a blanket, in a modest room with a typical small Fereldan window. This was clearly not part of the ancient Tower dating back to the old Empire. It was more likely a Templar building, one of those scattered along the outer wall. Seated in a plain wooden chair against the opposite wall was Tristan. The man was intently studying the contents of a handwritten journal, methodically turning page after page. Without looking up from the text, the Seeker addressed his sole companion:

— Welcome back from the realm of dreams. A fainting spell from hunger is an unpleasant method of getting there. While you were… not exactly present, I ordered a good dose of a healing concoction poured into you: two parts warm chamomile infusion, one part honey, and a tot of wine. Now we can finally talk.

Deftly folding down a corner of the page, he slowly closed the journal and set it aside on the dresser. A bared short blade already lay there. Crossing his arms over his chest, the Seeker, for the first time since she had woken, surveyed her with a keen gaze. Even Morrigan, inexperienced in such matters, couldn't miss the predatory glint in his eyes—the look of a creature that knows its own power. And the fact that the man was sitting alone in a room with a mage declared a maleficar spoke volumes about his confidence in his own superiority.

— Let's skip the ritual of introductions. I know your name, and what the Templars of the Kinloch Circle wrung from your companions. And also what the Circle mage named Alim deigned to tell. Of course, some details were provided by other mages of the Hold as well. You, it turns out, also know my name. And who knows what else besides.

Morrigan shook her head in mild surprise, using the momentary pause to look around. An ascetic setting. Judging by the room and the Seeker himself, this could be his personal quarters. The only exit was blocked by a massive oak door—not an obstacle for magic, but a clear signal: you are not invited to leave. And the Seeker, the great unknown in the equation, made the situation thoroughly precarious.

— It seems the rules of this conversation have eluded me.

— There are no rules. I hold your life in my hands. And your phylactery, too. The lives of your companions are in my power. And even this Circle depends on my will. Major decisions in this world often meet with surprises. But you are merely a firefly against a blaze. Is that clear?

— Painfully clear…

— I suppose you are comparing me to the Templars. Oaths, vows, a clear conscience, high moral principles. That is a mistake. None of that applies to me. So. To the questions. How do you know my name?

The mage winced and sighed. A seemingly simple question demanded a straightforward answer. Which, frankly, doesn't exist.

— The answer isn't obvious. In short—I don't know. If you interrogated Alim a second time, you're aware of my condition and the… peculiarities that accompany it. Shreds of memory that don't belong to me are a typical feature. And back there, in the clearing, one such memory concerned you.

When Morrigan echoed his informal address, the Seeker gave a dissatisfied grunt but otherwise listened to the girl with full attention.

— What was in the vision?

— An unusual jump straight to the point.

Raising her eyes to the ceiling, the witch tried to convey as thoroughly as possible the vague fragments of what had once been a bright, vivid memory. Throughout the recounting, Tristan offered no comment or clarifying question, uttering only a single word under his breath at the end:

— Kirkwall…

He shifted his gaze to the window and absently ran a hand over his now smoothly shaven chin:

— This is… peculiar. Let us assume your vision contained truth. My name is a fact. But how did it get into your head? And then there's the nature of what penetrated the Circle mage. The Seekers' principle is to rely on facts and seek the truth based on the worst assumptions. The worst. A certain "amusing ritual" you recently performed—was it not supposed to decisively solve your "problem"?

— Amusing?

— Not my characterization. The mage who carried you… Valinsi, with a fair dose of skepticism, described the event precisely as such.

— I suppose the intonation concerned "amusing" more than "ritual".

— Answer.

— Yes, the ritual was meant to help. But it's too early to tell. Although… you're not speaking to me as if I were "something". But as if I were "someone". Which means you've already performed the test while I was unconscious. That's… actually, that's good. Very good.

Morrigan's lips twitched in a faint smile. Strangely, this simple conclusion brought such relief.

— Don't rejoice prematurely. My testing method is not foolproof. Especially with such… non-standard cases. It is more of a specialized tool in which I've had no reason to doubt in traditional circumstances. But you are anything but a typical case. The picture that emerges when we look at you is anything but normal. Starting with your origin and ending with recent events. And furthermore, since "foreign" memory fragments, by your own description, continue to appear even after the ritual, and in suspiciously convenient circumstances, I see no reason for false self-assurance. Formally—you are clean. But not safe. Before we continue, remember this: absolutely everything concerning the entity inside Wynne, from the moment you leave this room, is not up for discussion. Ever, with anyone. In a normal situation, the mere presence of this knowledge in your head would mean immediate execution.

The traces of the smile vanished. Morrigan narrowed her eyes angrily.

— A strange threat. If I'm already condemned—why say it? If you need me alive—all the more so.

— For clarity. The truth. You are needed alive for now, despite the problems trailing you.

Morrigan retorted sarcastically:

— Thanks for the hope. But the whole Circle saw what happened. What about them?

— Nothing. Irving considers me a vulture who has flown in to coldly pick out the eyes and heart of his child. Historically—that is a justified fear. But the current First Enchanter is not strong in politics…

— He mentioned that. Strange, how he interweaves truth and half-truth.

Tristan clicked his tongue, narrowed his eyes, and said firmly:

— Never interrupt me.

Then the man continued the dialogue in a much calmer tone:

— In other circumstances, the Circle would simply be relocated. Irving can think what he wants—for the Chantry, magical affairs are more important than local politics. Given the current outcome, where thanks to the "guest's" intervention so many gifted children were saved, even without a Seeker's arrival, annihilation would never have been on the table. It is surprising that your presence has twice determined the Circle's fate, reducing everything to the only possible path. Fortunately, Kinloch is an island. Therefore, through the efforts of two Templar Corps, a quarantine will be declared here for the next decade. And the Hold itself will transform from a full-fledged Circle into a Templar fortress.

Morrigan leaned back, biting her lip in astonishment, then voiced a cautious assumption:

— You… are quite flexible in your statements… And you are being disingenuous. How many Templars remain in Ferelden if the Chantry sent a full Corps here? Scarcely any? Against a backdrop of political instability and the threat of the "Blight", the most capable military order in the country is gathering its own forces on a well-defended island. A place that finds it easier than others to receive reinforcements from Orlais and weapons from Orzammar.

Tristan's lips stretched into a smile—like a wolf scenting blood.

— So much of interest in that head. And you try to pass for a wild southerner?

— You underestimate my mother.

— No, no. You are fundamentally mistaken. Unlike the Ham-ovniks, I know what "Flemeth" is. Asha'Bellanar—"Woman of Many Years" in translation from Elven. Her first appearance in historical records considered documentary dates back to the "Age of Towers". Nearly seven hundred years ago. She features in the legend of Ferelden's founder—Calenhad the Great. There are dozens of accounts of the "legendary witch" meddling in this country's politics. Sometimes in the most unobvious places. The consequences of such actions are sometimes swift, but often affect events far beyond the lifespan allotted to most mortals. For instance, organizing raids by the Hasind tribes. Or making deals directly with the rulers of Ferelden. Your mother is anything but a mere savage. And the "daughters" of this being have left no less noticeable marks. My Order knows this. So, of the two of us, it is you who believes the half-truth.

Morrigan suppressed her shock. These facts—some too precise, others contradicting her own knowledge—had crashed down on her like an avalanche. It was impossible to determine which part was a bluff. Nevertheless, the mage had a parry ready:

— I find it hard to digest how a southerner's minimal understanding of your northern kingdom is so astonishing. You know from Alim that a trade ship brought us here. Besides the fact that the ship's hold happened to be carrying a cargo of weapons from Orzammar, the ship's logs, ledgers, and the captain's records told many fascinating tales. The capacity for learning, of course, is the secret magic of witches.

— I do not deny your wit. Your guesses hit the mark. Indeed. I was pulled from my own investigation and tasked, on the eve of the approaching darkness, with organizing a Templar stronghold here. The request for reinforcements from Kinloch Hold came at just the right time to serve as a convenient pretext to divert the Commander's attention. Let's see… So, your main motive for reaching the nearest Circle was suspicion of your own possession. If we juxtapose the facts and the test results, it looks like a form of subtle manipulation. You retain your own "self," but…

He paused.

— Something is guiding you. Feeding your fears, sending nightmares and visions. If that were all, the mosaic of events would fit together wonderfully. Almost too well. A puppet arriving on the scene just in time to put a definitive end to the performance orchestrated by some entity from beyond the Veil. But there are inconsistencies. Too many coincidences… Too convenient…

Tristan fell silent. His gaze—sharp as a blade—pierced Morrigan. Only a slight twitch of his eyelid betrayed his irritation. Morrigan, pondering what she had heard, couldn't help but note the persuasiveness of the sketch, roughly outlined by the Seeker. It resonated strangely with Leliana's visions, squeezing her with the hopelessness of predestination. Unclenching her fists, the girl cautiously inquired:

— It doesn't add up. You were interested in me before arriving on the island. So, there's something else besides what happened here.

The Seeker nodded absently, tossing back:

— So that's how it is. If we remove Gregor from the board, Irving remains. The First Enchanter decided to share the contents of confidential correspondence. People backed into a corner are dangerous, as they cast aside the rules that restrain them. This detail clarifies the events unfolding within the Circle since my arrival. Back to the questions. What happened to Flemeth? How did that creature allow one of its "daughters" to venture into the world under such strange circumstances?

Morrigan's cheek twitched. She turned away toward the door, answering with silence. At first. The girl had no desire whatsoever to discuss the moment that had set all subsequent events in motion. Especially when there wasn't even a hint of trust. But her emotional aversion to the situation certainly wouldn't help. Pressing a palm to her cheek, the witch exhaled irritably and began to speak:

— To tell the truth… I don't know.

The man raised his right eyebrow, and the girl, acknowledging the silently expressed disbelief, nodded.

— I simply don't remember. That day, when something happened, is gone from my memory. And nothing of what was lost has returned so far. I know that a stranger came to my mother. Perhaps there was a battle. And then… I woke up far from home. I've been on the road ever since. My mother's condition or whereabouts are unknown to me.

— It's hard to imagine Flemeth orchestrating this. She has not previously collaborated with other shadow-creatures. At least, not in any way the Seekers' Order knows of. And her "daughters" have never been bargaining chips for her. Too important as "property."

— "Property"? But…

— The origin of the "daughters" is a mystery that interests few. Most likely, she steals children. Although… although who knows the truth. But their purpose is known—the daughters' bodies serve Flemeth as vessels to extend her life. Who attacked you? I need details.

Stunned, Morrigan blinked and forced out:

— A man. Perhaps a knight. Nothing more definite…

Tristan slowly narrowed his eyes, drawing out his words:

— A knight… Too good for a coincidence. So, before me stands the living end of a long chain of difficult-to-explain events. And expectations have been surprisingly well met.

— A chain?.. May I know the details?

— Of course not. How else did your possession manifest, besides nightmares and memory oddities?

— Alim already…

— Of course. And yet.

— Changes in habits. In behavior.

— You forgot to mention the spells.

— Elven bastard… Yes. And oddities with magic.

— I suspect all the peculiarities with spells are still in place. Without a mage skilled in dream-walking or a brute-force intrusion into the Fade, there is no way to detect and sever the manipulator's threads reaching from beyond the Veil. And judging by the description of the work done, it's something on the same scale as the entity in Wynne.

Morrigan's lips twisted into a grim smirk.

— So, I'm evidence. A bloody knife.

Her voice turned icy:

— Except the knife might still be in the murderer's hand.

Tapping a finger on his knee, he considered her words, then nodded.

— Not badly formulated. What were the earlier foreign memories about?

Frowning, the mage concentrated, trying to gather the vague sensations, emotions, and smells into a clear answer.

— Actually, often it's just words, individual concepts. Frequently in other languages I didn't know. Mostly Orlesian. Sometimes an imprint of a place and the emotions associated with it, scents. There's little coherence. I suppose the last memory was the most complex… intricate… and prolonged I've experienced.

— Granted.

— What will happen to me?

Tristan sighed heavily, gathering his thoughts before answering.

— There are clear instructions for similar cases. If you represented only an ambiguous threat, the answer would be quite simple. Given your value—however vague—you should be sent to Aeonar. A prison for exceptionally dangerous subjects, and first and foremost—for mages. But circumstances are strangely aligning in your favor. Aeonar is currently… Unavailable. — He paused. — Moreover, I cannot remain on the island. Before sailing from Calenhad port, I received orders to deal with a crisis at Redcliffe Fort. As soon as the situation here is… stabilized. Grim news, indirectly pointing to the presence of a demon. Again.

The Seeker measured Morrigan with a grim look and slowly nodded to his own thoughts before continuing.

— You will come with me. Better to keep such a thing on a short leash and watch closely what happens next. Your phylactery will serve as an excellent leash. With my knowledge, it will prove a more effective tool than in the Circle's dusty storeroom. We'll take your companions too. Especially the bard—she's been stirring the waters far too much here. Who would have thought.

Her face expressed pure cynicism:

— One leash isn't enough for you?

— I prefer to achieve the maximum with minimal effort.

— So… You, me, and…

— Of course, a couple of Templars as well. And a couple of Circle mages. Let's see who volunteers to fly from this ruined nest despite the risks.

The man rose smoothly, easily picking up the blade and the journal from the dresser. Both items looked as if they belonged in the Seeker's hands, allowing one to imagine him both as a "bookworm" and in the thick of battle. Half-turning towards the exit, Tristan added:

— The letters from the King and the Empress. Why?

— It seemed to me… Mmm… Imagine this. You're in an unknown forest. And suddenly you find a sharpened stick at hand. Why not take it with you?

— Interesting… The ship departs tomorrow afternoon. Until that moment, consider yourself free. Both Templar Corps are fully aware of the situation. A few hours until sunset, the night, and the morning. Be wise in how you use this treasure.

The door yielded easily. Tristan left without a farewell—he clearly had more important matters to attend to…

* * *

Morrigan left the building where she had spoken with the Seeker without difficulty. The outside world greeted the girl with a cool wind that crept under her clothes, reminding her that autumn had taken hold, and kept trying to tousle her black hair. The sun was sinking toward the horizon, breaking through the ragged clouds racing to meet it. The sky was still a piercing blue, but the day was already departing to the west, while in the east a night still barely perceptible was rising. Taking a deep breath of the scents of fallen leaves and hearth-smoke from nearby houses, the witch smirked faintly. The Templar standing by the exit kept his right hand near his blade and glanced sideways at the girl. But that was all.

A quick glance was enough to feel the truth of the Seeker's words. The space between the Tower and the outer wall was filled with Templars. Not all of them were in shining armor. Most, in mundane clothing, were busy setting up camp or hurrying on other business. Faded wool shades, bleached linen, and cheap leather. But the scabbards at their belts or nearby clearly stated—these were all warriors. And, of course, they all had coarse Fereldan features.

She felt slightly dizzy, but Morrigan descended with all the dignity she could still muster. For some reason, the girl was burning with the need to show those around her how different she was. Her movements became a weapon—with every gesture, she threw down a challenge. Even if, in the end, her own gait felt unsteady… The confusion in the men's eyes spoke louder than any words—her performance had succeeded. Could a mage, so recently a prisoner, carry herself with such arrogance through a Templar camp? The dubious victory was momentary, but it still brought the girl joy.

At the Tower entrance, her gaze immediately picked out Leliana and Valinsi. The man was explaining something in a coaxing tone to three apprentices. But the mage didn't seem particularly keen on it. It wasn't hard to see he was merely killing time, unable to neglect his duties as "Senior Enchanter". Leliana, wrapped in a woolen shawl, stood apart, leaning against the Tower's ancient wall and thoughtfully watching the northern horizon. The girl immediately headed for the group of young men. The young men were the first to notice the mage's approach, their faces changing. Surprise, a shadow of fear, embarrassment?.. After a quick exchange of glances, they sincerely thanked the Senior Enchanter and beat a retreat into the Tower. And Valinsi found the guest beside him.

— They let you go?..

— You told him everything?

The exchange happened simultaneously, causing a pause of confusion from the man. But, quickly getting his bearings, he grunted and shook his head.

— Of course. Did you expect me to sit there mute in the face of the Seeker's questions? That would have looked foolish. And ultimately, it would have achieved nothing. He asked, I answered. Precisely as much as he wanted to hear, and nothing more. Mostly he asked about your... condition. Nothing unexpected. Ah, no... There was something I said on my own initiative. I tried to mention saving the Circle. He just brushed it off. Either the Seeker doesn't care about the Circle's fate. Or the others... Lida and Jeann, have already been interrogated. And also, the Seeker inquired about your behavior in recent days.

— Hm... The "amusing ritual"?

Valinsi rubbed his chin in mild irritation and drawled noncommittally:

— Ah, that...

Morrigan just shook her head, not pressing further. Casting a glance at the clouds turning scarlet, the girl cautiously murmured:

— Wouldn't mind some food. Finally.

Her companion nodded readily, gesturing for her to follow him. The girl exchanged a look with Leliana, who hadn't even attempted to approach. Leliana's face showed relief, but a sly smirk hid in the corners of her lips. As if what she had just seen had already answered questions not yet asked. The witch mouthed a single word: "tomorrow," and the red mane of hair gave a slight shake, confirming that Leliana had seen and understood.

The first floor was crowded with young people. The second floor... Here it was clean. Fresh doors, washed floors. In the past few days, the Tower had been restored close to its original state.

— Clean...

Valinsi turned around in surprise, halting in the middle of the corridor, and nodded in agreement.

— The Tranquil. Thanks to us saving so many, many things are easier. In organizing and performing work requiring patience and a lack of squeamishness, they have no equal.

Morrigan shuddered—she knew all too well who these "Tranquil" had been before. But the mage had already turned away and didn't see the girl's emotions. And after one turn, the man opened the door to a common room for a dozen people, which now looked empty and abandoned. Morrigan remembered visiting Naire in a similar room. But back then, it was filled with darkness, shadows, and despair. Now, the evening light streamed freely from the narrow windows, creating a deceptive sense of peace. Valinsi easily added a couple of fresh, thick candles to the illumination. After seating the girl on a bed, the man soon spread a lace-trimmed kerchief beside her and laid out a couple of generous slices of slightly stale bread, two fresh apples smelling of departed summer, and a crock of flower honey with a wooden spoon.

— Water?

Morrigan nodded, biting into the flesh of the still-juicy fruit, and Valinsi left briefly, soon returning with a pitcher full of cool, clean water. Handing it to the girl, the mage sat down opposite her:

— So, things went... all right with the Seeker? He followed you into the Tower so purposefully. And judging by Irving's absence—who should have been the first to meet you—those two had something to talk about.

After chewing her food thoroughly, the witch shrugged.

— You're right. The Circle's fate is not the Seeker's priority. But there's no threat to the survivors. Although the second Templar Corps will remain here. And... a quarantine will be declared. For a decade.

Valinsi's face contorted for a moment, but he immediately composed himself and muttered quietly:

— So that's how it is... I wondered why the Templars brought so many supplies with them. So, no field practice for those who've just passed their Harrowings outside the islands. And no influx of new young mages. What about you?

— A short leash. They'd get rid of me without a twinge of conscience. But it seems I'm a piece of some puzzle the Seeker is trying to solve. Is that good news? More yes than no... He also tested me, and I'm clean. That's encouraging. True, right after, the Seeker convincingly demonstrated that what's happening to me could be a subtle form of external manipulation. And that outcome rather spoils the good news. And my phylactery... did you create it?

Valinsi grunted, running a hand through his hair and unconsciously rubbing the ring braided into the end of his plait.

— No... When would I have learned? All I know that's connected to that dark art is the method for inscribing a barrier against demons. By process of elimination, it seems Irving himself did it. Piecing together what I knew before all this and what the First Enchanter told me afterward, it turns out that the others in the Circle who had any connection to that blood magic... perished. So, I'll have to learn, either from books hidden from prying eyes, or from the First Enchanter himself.

— How practical... and cynical...

The mage raised his eyebrows questioningly, and the girl, licking honey from the spoon, explained:

— The First Enchanter possesses the blood magic spells necessary for the Circle. And yet, he still needs someone new for the dirty work.

— You mean that...

The man frowned and nodded slowly, and the girl continued:

— As long as the phylactery exists, the most I can do is foolishly risk several lives in an attempt to break free. What the Seeker hopes to find might also be useful to me. But I won't agree to live on a chain forever. One way or another, I will break free.

— A bold statement.

— Did you notice what the Seeker's testing method suspiciously resembles?

Looking out the window, where dusk was already gathering, Valinsi grimaced before formulating his own thoughts.

— Something related to blood magic. Irving, judging by his expression, also saw something then he wasn't mentally prepared for. But even if some signs are on the surface...

The Senior Enchanter shook his head, denying it:

— Still, to assume such a thing... is absurd. A mage, heading the Templars' overseers?

Morrigan finished the second apple, concluding her meal, and, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, objected:

— Is there a clear definition of what the Seekers are? Or a requirement that blood magic works only in the hands of the gifted?

— Dry logic suggests it's extremely unlikely that a gifted individual would be among the overseers of those who guard mages. Beyond that, I'm not well-versed enough in the matter to debate freely. Ask your bard or the First Enchanter. As for blood magic... The little I know says the only difference is this: for blood magic spells, it's not mana that's required, but life force, drawn through fresh blood. Working on a different principle, it sometimes allows for unusual results. For instance, creating a phylactery cannot be replicated using mana. However, in both cases, the primary step remains the formation of the spell from runes. One could memorize the runes and their combinations. But to become skilled at mentally constructing spell formulae without having mana to check the result for errors... that's hard to imagine. This is my personal opinion, but what does a hill know of mountains?

Morrigan smiled readily in response to his attempt at a jest and gave the mage a measured look. Valinsi looked slightly weary, but not physically. It was more the result of relentless psychological pressure and inner doubts that were wearing him down. Watching his eyes slowly drift from the candles to the window and back again, he seemed at times lost in his own thoughts, barely holding onto the thread of their conversation. And the fact that his gaze inevitably returned to the girl's figure spoke of something else. The mage was free to be anywhere at that moment, occupied with a dozen other tasks. Yet instead, without any compelling reason, he was entertaining the witch with conversation and a modest meal. Suddenly resolving something within herself and catching her companion off guard, Morrigan rose and took a step toward Valinsi, sinking her slender fingers into his hair.

— Suppose what stands before me is a mirage… Convince me I am mistaken, taking truth for fiction. Desire, interest, resentment, anger, disappointment, and emptiness. All are tangled within you. But like any other fool, duty holds you in a firm grip. And with the best of intentions, you build your own cages.

Leaning close to the man's lips, from which emanated the faintest scent of soap, ink, and smoke, the girl added more softly:

— Here and now, what do you want? Revenge? Warmth? Power over me? Mere flesh? Or is your mind driven by a thick, fiery mixture of all the above?

— Don't play games…

— Decisions and consequences. I am not naive, and I know what I am playing with. I am not the one on the edge. A step forward? Or back?

For five heartbeats, silence enveloped them like a shroud. His gaze locked onto her eyes—dark gold, reflecting the candle's flame. From the way his fists clenched and his back tensed, it was obvious he was resisting desperately. Doubt warred in his grey eyes—until desire burned it all to ashes.

Rising, Valinsi pulled the girl to him. The kiss was greedy, like that of a dying man finding water at last. Gasping for air, they began undressing each other simultaneously. Tearing their mouths apart only when necessary, the Circle robes were cast aside in turn. Valinsi's gaze, like a setting sun, inevitably dropped to the girl's bare breasts, proudly rising to meet him with each breath. His fingers dug into her soft flesh until it turned white. In response came an angry hiss. Like an infuriated cat, she did not pause for a single heartbeat in her attempts to unlace the mage's trousers. Rolling her hardened nipples between his fingers, Valinsi found her scarlet lips again, pressing the witch forcefully against the nearest wall. In a series of abrupt movements more akin to a struggle than caresses, the two mages were stripped of their trousers, shoes, and smallclothes. Ignoring the cold stone floor and the frigid air, two bodies pressed together, crushing burning flesh between them.

Taking advantage of the weakness still lingering in the witch and his own superiority in brute strength, Valinsi abruptly hooked his hands under the girl's shapely thighs and lifted her into the air all at once. Morrigan willingly wrapped her legs around his torso. The pressure on his ribs forced a surprised exhale from him. A moment later, it was the girl's breath that hitched as his scorching manhood slid along her slick heat, seeking its desired goal with one sharp thrust. Showing no smugness at the failed attempt, Morrigan braced her back against the wall and arched to the right, reaching with her hand to find her partner's rigid shaft. With a self-satisfied smile, she made a couple of measured, gliding motions along his flesh, guiding it true.

This time he did not hurry, lowering her slowly, savoring the contrast between her softness and the fierce golden fire of her piercing eyes. In the end, both lost their silent duel. But she broke the silence first—a moan torn from between clenched teeth. A low, masculine growl followed, a symbol of his defeat before the strength of the witch's inner muscles. Buried to the hilt, Valinsi thrust his hips sharply. Then again, and again, listening to her equally sharp exhalations. Pinning the witch against the wall once more, the mage quickened the pace of his wet thrusts. With a mix of surprise and delight, Morrigan found the last vestiges of the composed man yielding to animal passion. But what followed still took her by surprise. The mage bent to gently kiss the pale skin of the witch's slender neck, gleaming in the candlelight. Then he roughly seized her by the throat, his eyes searching for Morrigan's, wide open to their limit. There was no caress or playfulness in this motion. The accompanying rhythmic thrusts became sharp, aggressive. This shift caused a fleeting confusion in her, quickly drowned by a wave of sensation. Even when his fingers tightened on her throat, cutting off her air, she felt no fear—only sank deeper into the sensations. The mage, breathless from the pace and mind-rending emotions, rasped:

— They… all died because of you…

Morrigan did not react to the unexpected surge of fury, riding her own wave of heightened sensation and losing, drop by drop, the ability to hold onto even a single coherent thought.

— And… at the same time… Void! You're a demon! Bright, sharp, clever… of all I've ever experienced!!!

With a low, guttural roar, he convulsively withdrew from the girl's scorching core, spilling his seed against the wall behind her. But Morrigan didn't even notice, her thighs clenched to the point of pain, her nails drawing blood from her partner's flesh as she was overcome by a flash of ecstasy that blotted out the world. Throwing her head back, she made a sound—hoarse, primal, far removed from anything human. Only on the far side of the peak, slowly relaxing, did she go limp in the tender masculine embrace that still held her aloft.

Desperately trying to regain their ragged breath, both lingered under the moment's influence in a strange state. Neither could deny they had experienced something new and indelible. Pleasure receded, leaving behind only weariness, cold, and… surprise. At herself. At him. At everything…

Sinking softly onto the bed, Valinsi lowered Morrigan onto his lap. Despite the strange mix of emotions, the man's gaze remained fixed on the girl, admiring the elegant line of her brows, her half-lidded eyes of that memorable hue, her scarlet lips, all framed by disheveled black hair. She studied him in return, her whole aspect posing a silent question. Morrigan wanted to better understand what had happened between them. But, at the same time, the witch honestly admitted she was enjoying the masculine attention focused solely on her. For the first time in her life, she felt such power—intoxicating, all-consuming. And now she wasn't sure if she could ever do without it again. Running her fingers through the mage's hair, the witch said hoarsely:

— It's chilly. Shall we share the bed?

— Of course.

The girl gave a throaty chuckle and added:

— That was… intense.

— I…

Clearly, Valinsi had returned to his old self, beginning to feel inexorable guilt for his outburst of aggression, and was about to explain himself. Tapping his forehead with her knuckle, the girl said:

— Enough fretting. You're not dealing with someone who'll lie out of politeness.

He gave an embarrassed snort, shaking his head—too late for regrets. Touching his fingertips to the girl's cheek and tracing a line to her cheekbone and then to her earlobe, the man carefully moved her onto the bed beside him. Rising and not in the least ashamed of his nudity under her probing gaze, the sole occupant of the vast bedroom began to straighten the bedding. Watching the mage's broad back, the witch crossed her legs and quietly voiced some thoughts:

— There is another matter. Concerning what lies ahead. The Seeker departs tomorrow. Which means I go with him.

Valinsi froze for an instant, then continued methodically folding the coverlet. Unable to see his face, it was hard to tell what was on his mind. But Morrigan continued:

— The Seeker is taking a few Templars with him. A modest troop. My companions as well. According to him, Leliana has no place in the Circle. And Bethany… In this case, I don't fully understand his motives yet. Furthermore, the Seeker will take several volunteers from the Circle.

Having finished with the bed, Valinsi turned, solicitously scooping the girl into his arms. Not hiding his gaze as it openly roamed the witch's curves, the man carried her to the prepared couch and sat down beside her.

— You understand, surely…

— I know. I know what you truly want. It's not hard to guess what you're choosing between, either. But the choice is yours alone.

— It is…

Lying down beside her and embracing the girl, the mage repeated, barely audible:

— And it isn't…

* * *

The first thing that occurred to Morrigan was that she didn't remember her dream. That in itself meant nothing significant. Lately, this had been happening more often. Still, oblivion was better than nightmares. Especially when it came to one particular nightmare. Despite the Seeker's categorical verdict, Morrigan still clung to the hope that the horrific dreams were in the past.

Leaving the man's steady breathing behind, the witch slipped from the cozy bed and studied the sky through the windows. Heavy, moisture-laden clouds hung over the Hold, but glimpses of blue sky and sun still flashed in the gaps. Still feeling the foreign warmth on her skin, the witch wrapped her arms around herself, trying to fully grasp the unusual mix of emotions. Valinsi wasn't the first man. But she had never before lingered in a partner's bed until morning, much less allowed herself to fall asleep beside him. This had it all: the unfamiliar closeness, the danger, and something else—intangible yet burning, like the echo of a forgotten spell. Shaking her head, Morrigan stretched and flowed from a simple bend into a series of complex exercises, like water flowing from one form into another. Just at that moment, a voice came from behind:

— There's something... unreal about this.

— About what?

— Seeing you like this... bathed in the dawn light, defenseless and... incredibly alive.

Morrigan snorted, throwing a sharp glance over her shoulder with a flicker of curiosity, and began to put on her clothes. As she did, she remarked:

— Will you clean up this mess?

Casting a glance at the rumpled sheet, the scattered clothes, and the stains on the wall—mute witnesses to last night's passion—she deftly gathered her hair into a tight bun, as if trying to bring order not only to it but to her own thoughts as well.

— Probably...

Valinsi's uncertain answer made Morrigan raise her eyebrows questioningly. Seeing her silent query, the mage looked around the room and explained:

— Usually, the Tranquil handled cleaning for the senior mages.

Pursing her lips, the witch let out a remark with more venom than was necessary:

— How practical.

— Perhaps. But they have plenty of work as it is.

Nodding in reply, Morrigan walked to the door, pausing only for a moment to say without turning around:

— Don't delay your decision.

Quietly closing the door behind her, the witch noticed Leliana standing a few steps to the left, leaning against the wall. Gazing into the distance, the "sister" smiled with just the corners of her lips and nodded in greeting. But Morrigan was the first to speak:

— Long?

— Non. Not really. Is this serious?

After a glance at the door behind her, the girl strode decisively towards the staircase down. Only after moving six or seven steps away did she voice her answer:

— Time will tell.

The redheaded companion walking behind her shook her head skeptically and tossed into the air, as if thinking aloud:

— There is something of the bard in you.

— Is that a compliment?

— Non. Just an observation.

Morrigan made a faint gesture, brushing aside her companion's concern, and asked:

— Bethany?

— Downstairs.

— Good...

Leliana seized her wrist, forcing her to freeze in place. Her fingers dug into Morrigan's skin like the claws of a bird of prey unwilling to release its quarry:

— Do you understand what is happening now? I am not one to drift with the current like a fallen leaf. I wish to have my bearings. But... that is sentiment. After the "possession check," the Circle shattered into a thousand fragments, like a fragile vase dropped on the floor. Mages have always been divided into several ideologically disparate movements, besides smaller cliques and "special interests," and under poor leadership, they coexist within the Circles like spiders in a jar. But there are too few survivors left for these "games." By acting with some finesse, I managed to unite most of the adolescents around simple ideas, making the "Saviour of the Circle" and Naire key figures. Wynne also remained a focal point for the children. And the few adult mages rallied under Irving's hand. With rare exceptions... But now... Though Wynne tries to carry on as before, everything has changed—and returning to how things were is impossible. Everyone knows the truth. The woman is almost completely isolated and has accepted it stoically, without scenes or displays of emotion. As if she knew about her own condition. Many sensed this no worse than I, which added to the gossip. The Seeker needed to take immediate action, but he removed himself. Last evening, he and the First Enchanter had a conversation. Reading the Seeker is as difficult as discerning the features of a face hidden behind a thick mask by touch. Afterwards, Irving preferred not to appear in public at all. What awaits us? What awaits you?

Morrigan winced and freed her hand—slowly, deliberately, as if distancing herself not only from the touch but from the intrusive concern. Meeting the gaze of the green eyes firmly, she replied:

— First of all, the Seeker appreciated your work.

The "sister" smiled sadly.

— My skills are not what they once were. We are two sides of the same coin, called "the Game." A bard and a Seeker—nothing could be more opposite. Little wonder he understood.

— Hm... He departs today. Someone else might be pulling his leash. I find it hard to grasp this hierarchy all at once. What's important is that the Seeker knows something about me... something that perhaps even I do not know. Or he wields your skills masterfully, juggling truth and half-truths deftly. And there's no way to catch the Seeker red-handed. But my leash is in his fist. For now. So we depart with him. Bethany... the Seeker is taking her too.

— That is for the best.

— For the best?

Morrigan knit her brows in puzzlement, and Leliana hurried to explain:

— For Bethany... She would prefer to be near familiar faces, and more than anyone, near you. What we spoke of on the ship. I suppose I...

— You broke her. And now what could have become trust looks more like a painful dependency. She only feels safe when she's near me?

— Oui. A very accurate formulation. Ruthlessly accurate. I am surprised. Besides Naire, she hasn't grown close to anyone here.

Morrigan nodded, and the "sister" hastened to clarify:

— And we are heading to...

— Redcliffe Fort.

— House Guerrin...

Biting her lip, Leliana nodded, clearly trying to recall everything she had ever heard or read about that noble house.

At the Tower exit, the original trio of travelers was reunited. Bethany sat on the edge of a chair, as if afraid to take up too much space. Her gaze was fixed on the cracked toes of her boots—as if they held the answers to all her questions. The young mage seemed both lonely and lost in thought—though the latter at least somewhat alleviated the former. Hearing the approaching footsteps, she reflexively looked up and smiled openly. Morrigan returned the smile, though hers was far less sincere and warm. But the witch immediately corrected the misstep:

— A simple human warmth, but also an art, one in which I have much to learn from you. Why are you sitting here alone, idling?

— I'm not... I... Morrigan?

Leliana interjected, seeing Bethany was struggling and couldn't quickly find a worthy response.

— Pay no attention. Our golden-eyed witch is practicing her barbs, trying to snap you out of your pensiveness in the most radical way.

Bethany relaxed and shot her mentor a look of mild reproach. Morrigan merely shrugged and continued:

— Nevertheless. That look is familiar to me from personal experience. Don't give free rein to those thoughts that love to run in circles. Endless circular contemplation is a waste of time. Books at least provide knowledge. That's why I sent you to the local library, after all.

The three of them leisurely left the building, emerging into the fresh autumn air, which held the dampness of approaching rain. But the wind was weak, and in the distance, there was not the slightest sign of thunder or a grey shroud connecting the clouds to the horizon. Bethany took a deep breath, as if gathering courage, and cautiously objected:

— All books are not the same. Sometimes it's worth thinking. About different things...

— Thinking... Foolishness. One should contemplate what is essential. Set a goal, then seek the means to achieve it. Of course, doubts can be overwhelming too. But they are not an end in themselves. As for books... That's a misconception. Even my mother, though she advocated for the value of personal experience, held books in high esteem as a valuable tool. A pity there were fewer of them in our home than you could count on one hand.

— Alright. But how will a tome on theology, or half-forgotten practices and outdated spells, help me, for instance, become stronger? You became stronger without that.

Morrigan threw a wry glance at Leliana, who averted her eyes, and snorted.

— Power... Our friend here can tell you more about that than I. As she has seen more of it. It seems you are confused about what you desire. The difference between a battlemage and a Magister of magic is substantial. The former is like a blade in hand. Only sharpness matters, and how many times the arm can swing. In that case, it's more about the "well." Or rather, about mana. What matters is only how quickly and how many times you can repeat the most lethal or effective spell. The latter... is a master whose abilities are applicable everywhere. Whatever the situation, he has an answer. Even with little mana, the breadth of his repertoire of spells is what counts. Not everyone can memorize dozens of complex formulae. And for that, one must train not only cleverness and imagination but also memory. Reading is one way to work toward that goal.

Bethany blinked in surprise, trying to process what had been said.

— That's... interesting. I'll think about it.

Leliana suppressed a chuckle, addressing Morrigan more than Bethany:

— It seems your pupil needs not only to read but to think—and that is far more difficult.

Ignoring the hidden jab, Bethany produced a new question:

— I was thinking... This is perhaps just a personal misconception... You demonstrate a mastery of magic far deeper and more substantive than anything I knew or know about it. And I discovered, to my surprise, that on many subjects, the mages in the Circle are inferior to you by nearly the same degree. I don't understand what that says more about. But... You fight as if every movement has been honed for years. And you know so much, as if you've read every book in the world. I thought in the south they only learned to fight—but you... you are different.

Morrigan closed her eyes briefly before giving her pupil an appraising look and replying:

— In short... I do not teach you to win. I teach you to survive—and that is far more difficult. And to survive, you need to know more. Be capable of more. For instance, brute strength is useless against cold, hunger, or sickness. And those kill more often than a sharp blade or magic.

Chastened but thoughtfully absorbing the meaning of the words, Bethany nodded. And then the girl unexpectedly and openly asked:

— What now, when you, at least, are not locked in a cell?

Covering her face with her hand as if from a headache, Morrigan hid a flash of irritation:

— The details are with Leliana. We await the Seeker…

* * *

The Seeker emerged from the Templar quarters only an hour later, but he appeared composed and ready to set out immediately. Morrigan suspected this impression was not far from the truth. No doubt the ship at the docks had been prepared to sail since the first rays of sun in the east. His demeanor—taut as a drawn bowstring—made them straighten up involuntarily. None of them possessed such discipline—either in deeds or in thoughts.

Tristan was followed by three Templars. The warriors wore no heavy plate, only practical attire, chainmail, and, over it, warm cloaks. The symbol of the Order adorned their clothing—impossible to mistake them for mercenaries. The trio were not much different in age and, as the witch's intuition suggested, each belonged to the corps the Seeker had brought with him from Denerim.

With a nod in their direction, Tristan made it clear they were to follow. This elicited a wry smile from Leliana. Morrigan only snorted almost imperceptibly and noted to herself how a single gesture could be more effective than a dozen words. Then began the endless climb up the stairs—it soon became clear where the Seeker was leading them. As if sensing the movement of a dangerous predator, the Tower's sparse inhabitants vanished from sight. Only the occasional Tranquil remained on the path, and they seemed utterly indifferent to any presence, diligently performing their own duties. Morrigan felt a measure of relief that the children were absent. There was no need for them to experience anxieties that would teach them nothing. Besides, the current proceedings no longer concerned them directly.

Throughout the journey, the three men ignored the women as if they were thin air. And on the fifth floor, the small contingent of adult mages of the Circle awaited them—dozens of eyes, cold or curious. Irving stood in the center, the others crowding around him like shadows. Morrigan immediately noted that Wynne stood apart from everyone. It would be foolish to assume the adult humans and elves had deliberately retreated a couple of steps from her. So, the senior enchantress was maintaining distance on her own initiative. Her face expressed stoic resignation—if it was a mask, it was flawless. And even with a rough idea of what lay hidden inside, Morrigan didn't understand the desire to stay as far from the healer as possible. It stemmed not from fear, but rather from a complex mixture of rejection and a sense of latent threat.

The others simply waited for whatever this was to be over so they could disperse. Almost all... As her gaze swept the room, her dark-gold eyes met Alim's steady gaze. The elf maintained a neutral expression, but his eyes betrayed him. They held too many emotions to decipher without Leliana's help. Gathering her will, Morrigan forced herself to turn her head and move to the next face. Naire's warm smile drew an answering smile from the frozen witch so naturally that she didn't even realize how it happened. Among the rest, Valinsi and Irving stood out, their shoulders tense, their gazes cautious, as if expecting a stab in the back at any moment. However much the witch tried to catch the broad-shouldered mage's eye, his attention remained fixed solely on the Seeker's figure. And only then did Morrigan realize that the three Templars who had arrived with them were the only representatives of the Order in the spacious chamber.

As if long weary of theatrics, Tristan took a couple of simple steps forward and addressed the audience in a clear, resonant voice that echoed off the walls of the vast space:

— The Circle of Kinloch Hold is clean.

At these words, dozens of pairs of eyes turned to Wynne, but not a single objection followed, and the Seeker continued:

— But this does not mean things will return to how they were. By the authority of the Chantry, a quarantine of ten years' duration is declared effective today on the islands belonging to the Hold. Two Corps of Templars will ensure this decree is strictly enforced. According to the Nevarran Accord, the Circle answers first to the Cumberland Council, the decisions of the reigning Grand Enchanter, and the will of the Chantry, conveyed through the Templar Order, of which I am currently the agent. Only then do regional laws hold sway. No mage shall leave the islands before the quarantine's end without a special dispensation from the Order, under penalty of a death sentence. No one, without the Order's knowledge, will be permitted to dock at the islands. Outgoing correspondence is forbidden. Carrier birds will be killed. Incoming correspondence will be inspected by the Order, without exception. However, the Circle retains the right to appeal the Chantry's decision by sending a petition to the Grand Enchanter, Fiona of Cumberland. In light of impending trials and considering the state of the Circle, this measure is deemed necessary. The current candidacy for First Enchanter of the Circle of Kinloch Hold is not subject to discussion. The Circle's internal affairs will continue to be managed according to standard procedure. For the duration of the quarantine, Knight-Commander Gregor will command both Corps stationed here. My work here is concluded. However...

A pause hung in the air as everyone unaware of the proceedings digested what they had heard. The few who were informed tensed, snagging on the Seeker's last word. Tristan, meanwhile, directed his gaze to the azure vault overhead and looked as if he were counting seconds in his head before continuing:

— To fulfill a new assignment for the Chantry, I have been granted the right to recruit a limited number of volunteers from the Circle. We depart the Hold today. Let me be clear: no one will be able to return to this Circle until the quarantine is lifted. Accompanying a Seeker is a dangerous undertaking. Do not expect amusement or idle pastimes. The selection is simple. The first three who step forward. There is no time to weigh, ponder, or confer. The decision must be made here and now.

Immediately after the Seeker's words, Wynne stepped forward. Many gazes converged again on the woman's stern figure, in whose eyes a hint of sorrow appeared for the first time. Tristan's lip twitched in mild irritation, but he nodded in assent and closed his eyes, awaiting the next candidates. Morrigan, against her will, tensed, realizing who or what she would have to share the road with. But now, after Wynne, only two spots remained—and the time to decide was rapidly dwindling. Involuntarily, her dark-gold eyes returned to Valinsi, his fists clenched white, his gaze fixed on the stone floor tiles. Out of the corner of her eye, the witch saw Irving lean on his staff, for the first time so openly displaying signs of physical weakness. But the man's face showed no pain, only a strange mix of relief and... shame.

Suddenly, the murmurs and heated whispers merging into a hum were torn apart by a familiar, clear voice that soared to the very vaults:

— I will go!

Naire stepped forward from the crowd. The girl was flushed, having just put a stop to a heated argument with Alim. The young witch stared rigidly ahead, focusing on nothing but standing straight. Behind her, the pale elf gasped for air, immediately shooting a look at Morrigan. This time, the emotion reigning in him was crystal clear. Fury. There was no doubt whom the mage blamed for this. The blow struck true—Alim, always so confident, now stood as if stunned. Duty to his sister versus duty to the Circle—this internal conflict of Alim's would have amused Morrigan, were it not for the consequences. Irving openly tensed, trying to assess what was happening right under his nose. But most importantly, Valinsi finally raised his head to meet Morrigan's gaze, allowing her to see the full depth of his uncertainty. The mage was taking an unforgivably long time to decide. Her eyes, usually golden, now resembled molten metal—dark red, like blood at sunset. Clenching his jaw, the man took a slow step forward, causing a look of shocked realization on the First Enchanter's face. And at the same moment, the heel of another boot clicked on the stone floor. The two mages sharply turned towards each other, as if crossing blades, and the Seeker's quiet voice, his eyes still closed, announced:

— The mage named Alim was first. So be it. Wynne, Naire, and Alim.

Morrigan exhaled sharply, as if a knife had been plunged into her chest. Her eyelids closed of their own accord, and then—an unexpected warmth: Bethany cautiously touched her shoulder, as if afraid of being burned. By contrast, the girl realized how frozen she had become. And she did not see Valinsi pale, realizing immediately that through his own fault, by hesitating for a moment, he had made two grave mistakes. He had betrayed the fragile trust of the one he wished to be with but now could not. And he had betrayed the trust of the one he did not wish to stay with, but with whom he must now coexist. Irving's gaze shifted from shock to grim realization, pain, and anger. Yet another man in this hall was silently, unequivocally blaming a certain witch. Another victory, bitter as ashes.

A whisper from Leliana reached Morrigan's ear, barely audible, as if addressed to a shadow on the wall:

— A bard's curse, to cause suffering and suffer oneself.

For the witch, the casual barb struck home.

Tristan did not wait. His gesture—sharp as a dagger's thrust—made the Templars close ranks around the three. Wynne walked first, head held high. Naire, pale but unflinching, cast a glance at her brother. Alim looked at no one but Morrigan. His eyes spoke more clearly than words.

— We depart within the hour. The ship is ready. These gentlemen will ensure you do not delay and that you are not hindered.

* * *

Morrigan stood at the ship's prow, staring at the grey shroud of rain spread out to the south until her eyes ached. Like a symbol of the impending unknown, the shroud merged the leaden sky and the lake's black waters into one, erasing the boundaries between them. The wind tore at her loose hair—black as pitch—as if trying to lay bare the face frozen in stony calm.

The last hour had been filled with bitterness, silent reproaches, and farewells that sounded like verdicts. Naire shone like a torch in the darkness, hastily gathering her belongings and sweeping Bethany along with her—like a hurricane catching up a fallen leaf. Alim hovered on the periphery, rapidly coming to terms with the new reality. The mage had confirmed it once more: Naire remained the one thing that truly mattered to him. Irving was painfully struggling with the betrayal of two individuals on whom he had planned to rebuild the "edifice" of the Circle. But outwardly, the mage played the official role of the one seeing them off flawlessly. And only once, finding himself near Morrigan, did he, with cold, distilled vindictiveness, wish that she might never again visit the islands of Kinloch. Valinsi... He did not avoid the girl, apologizing sincerely. As if that could change anything. Later, she mentally chastised herself: a clean break—even a painful one—is better than endless ambiguity. If only because it leaves a chance to heal. His embrace had been stiff, like the farewell itself. Then—only a fleeting warmth, an unfamiliar bitterness of regret, and a book she should not have been holding. She noted the paradox with bitter irony: he could not take the one necessary step, but had transgressed a dozen other prohibitions without hesitation.

Another mistake... Her fingers dug into the wooden gunwale, whitening from the strain. Her thoughts, like the waves under the keel, fell into clear order: only the goal, only calculation. She must not relinquish control. Maintain vigilance. Not lose her humanity. And prepare to sever the Seeker's invisible leash. To break this noose, she needed to study Tristan: his motives, the limits of his capabilities... and surpass them.