Chapter 24 - Chapter 24 - "Unfurling Wings"

A piercing shriek ricocheted off the bare walls of the empty chambers as Morrigan strained to drag the golden urn along the floor. The mage felt as if it contained the 'Bride of the Maker' herself—however blasphemous that might sound to an Andrastian. The heavy, sacred object answered with a thick, dull ache that crawled from her forearms up between her shoulder blades. And deep inside, a wary gratitude stirred for the silent, mocking Zibenkek, who had met her again at the "bridge of faith." Of course, getting past that obstacle with this burden—without a "miracle"—would have been impossible. She got the message in the unexpected meeting: without Zibenkek, she wouldn't get far. She should have seen it coming. On the other hand, if she had abandoned the urn there, Zibenkek could no longer have counted on the plan succeeding in full. And who benefited more, in the mage's opinion, was still an open question. So she chose to think of the "help" as a trade—clean and reciprocal. No strings. She very much wanted to believe that…

Through the narrow crack between the gate leaves, Morrigan slipped out into the open. Cold air hit her face, biting at sweat-slick skin. Each breath seared her lungs; every heavy exhale spilled into a plume of steam, and her wet clothes stiffened almost at once like armor. The grey morning wasn't deep-freeze cold, yet the chill, almost alive, tightened around her as if trying to break her. Wincing, the mage scanned what remained of the spectators. During her absence, the crowd had scattered—who would stand here freezing with no guarantee the foreigner would return? Beneath the low, dreary clouds, a guard of five remained. And at Morrigan's appearance, one of the spearmen bolted toward the opposite exit, straight into the chantry, leaving his comrades to gape at the marvel.

Either way: she was the first would-be seeker to return alive—and not empty-handed. By the time the mage could catch her breath and gather her scattered thoughts, a dozen "Templars" had lined up before her. Fewer than had "escorted" her, but still enough to spear her where she stood. At the head of the squad, of course, was the ill-fated warrior with his axe looped through his belt. The others wore their emotions written all over their faces: confusion and hope. Too much hope, to Morrigan's taste. And she liked the confusion even less. The warrior's cold, focused gaze, boring into her human form, embodied a mistrust that was rising with every heartbeat. She knew perfectly well: hope would wither. Mistrust would only harden.

Buying herself a few more seconds, Morrigan lifted her eyes to the cliffs—and startled to find herself under the gaze of enormous lizards. They watched lazily, without so much as turning their heads, but the amber fire in their eyes stood out in the morning gloom like a light in a window on a moonless night. Morrigan's lips tugged into a half-smile. She could wonder endlessly how Zibenkek would worm their way into the minds of everyone present. Or, like the spectators, she could cling to hope for a kinder outcome. But Morrigan preferred to make her own openings—and take them by her own strength. If no harm was done, why fret over chances not taken?

Holding an invisible thread—reddish gold to molten amber—the girl flung her hand up, clenching her fist, white with cold, to hide the tremor of fatigue. Moments were measured in heartbeats. Then the male dragon's head shifted slightly. The enormous body stirred. And a low roar hit her and the others at once, echoing off the cliffs around the basin and vibrating mercilessly under their ribs—like the rumble of a mountain's depths.

Morrigan's gaze slid over the crowd. Awe had driven everything else from their faces. One exception: the warrior. The moment's power had pierced him, but it hadn't drowned his doubts. Morrigan could only curse inwardly. This man did not lead these hunters for nothing; he'd dirtied his hands with politics no true fanatic should stomach.

Catching the grey-eyed man's stare, the mage addressed him directly:

— As promised. The sepulcher is open, and the relic lies at your feet—taken from beneath the wing of the spirit that guarded it and placed straight into the hands of men faithful, for generations, to their fathers' oaths. And the northern serpent that crept into your ranks is dead.

Pursing his lips—he understood exactly where her quick thrusts were aimed—the warrior asked coldly:

— And who are you to make such claims?

Behind the smile, she bared her teeth. Morrigan answered with the brightest, sunniest smile she could dredge up from some forgotten dark corner of memory:

— I stand between the spirit and you. The only worthy one. Accepted by the first Andraste, and by Andraste reborn. Come from outside to show the way. Morrigan.

Whatever her words did inside the modest crowd, every face blanched to match the surrounding snow, eyes widening. Even the warrior flinched, as if something unseen had brushed him. Morrigan narrowed her eyes—now she understood. These were not merely fighters; these were men who had undergone a bloody initiation. Their eyes burned with fanatical faith, and that was… convenient. For Zibenkek, there were no closed "doors" here.

Awe—as inexorably as seasons turn—gave way to feverish admiration. Morrigan watched with cold curiosity as her words, like a plague, worked into the crowd, skirting one man only. But for the warrior to concede the moment, a couple of quick glances to either side were enough. Heroes weren't judged like ordinary men: before victory, they were expected, first and foremost, to survive.

* * *

Morrigan opened her eyes with effort, wincing at the nauseating headache that hit at once, along with the uneven flicker of dying firelight trembling across the stone ceiling. She could have blamed the lyrium, the strain, or the cold, but it was probably the altitude. The only cure was to get back to the lowlands—fast.

Memory supplied her with scraps of recollection right up to the moment when irresistible fatigue had finally overwhelmed her. Once the morning formalities in the chill were done, Morrigan had been burning to achieve something real—tangible. But it was not to be. The highlanders weren't planning festivities that might slow her… and still, she'd felt a heady rush at the way they "hung on her every word," waiting for "pronouncements," if not prophecies… until everything was spoiled at once by the locals' practical turn of mind, steeped in backward Andrastian habits. The inhabitants of the Refuge resembled thick tar—pliable in small matters, but impenetrable on essentials. This puzzle would take a clear head, coolness, patience. Instead, she'd simmered for hours, furious at how little control she truly had, despite all her efforts. Every new "why?" set her teeth on edge.

Still, as scraps of the Chant of Light rose unbidden to her tongue, she managed one crucial thing: she convinced the warrior named Kolgrim and the handful of onlookers that within the next few days the urn must be moved to the Refuge. Otherwise it would be "a sign of contemptible sloth and cowardice." She made it clear that the vessel said to hold the remains of the Bride of the Maker belonged to the faithful as a whole, equally—and that those who lived in the Light ought to help, not rest on their laurels.

Suppressing a pained groan, Morrigan pushed the warm pelt blanket off her chest and sat up. Squinting, she first checked her wrists—unbound. When her legs had given way without warning, she had simply asked for a corner to rest, and, unexpectedly, that plainness had earned restrained approval. More importantly, no one had taken advantage of the "chosen one's" moment of weakness. Still, Morrigan had no doubt that in the hours since, Kolgrim had been methodically reasserting his authority, piece by piece.

She adjusted her clothes, yanked her hair into a tight braid, and swept her gaze around this stone prison. So this was how these people lived—in darkness, cold, and blind faith, guarding ruins no one needed. The pungent smell of tanned leather clung to her skin. A brazier full of coals barely glowed, throwing uneven shadows on the walls. The sleeping places looked made up with military neatness, untouched. Everywhere: extreme tidiness. Morrigan wondered, acidly, who had been deprived of their usual corner so that six men could be crammed in here. And yet the "chosen one" felt a reluctant gratitude for the heated brazier. Warmth here was a luxury. The nearest trees grew hours away over rough terrain—how much firewood could one haul in a single trip?

The rest of the stone sack held clay bottles of oil—or perhaps water—and neat rows of old, greyed oak logs that served in daily life as both stools and tables. "Personal" belongings were almost absent, and the few that caught the eye carried a religious cast.

Steeling herself, she stretched, working the stiffness out of her muscles, and stepped forward. Ahead waited icy corridors, silence, gloom, and black gaps leading to other empty halls—just like the first time… only now she began in the inhabited wing of these man-made caves.

Meeting neither fire nor Templars, Morrigan paused briefly on the threshold of the empty main hall. Beyond it, the open space before the cliffs was alive with bustle. Some four dozen men were tying tight bundles, drawing water from the glacial stream, sharpening spearheads and checking arrow fletching. A few tended what remained of the livestock that had been brought out and checked a thick hide-wrapped bundle that surely held the sacred urn. Kolgrim moved among the people, and wherever he went, eyes followed him.

It took less than a minute for them to notice the "chosen one." A couple of quiet calls, and heads turned in unison toward the solitary figure on the rise. For a moment, everything froze. Morrigan kept her eyes on Kolgrim, and the corners of her lips trembled in a barely perceptible, venomous smile.

Descending, the witch threw herself into Leliana's element. People were drawn to the "chosen one," but few could overcome habit—reserve, distrust, religious awe—enough to sustain a conversation. So Morrigan kept a tight grip on herself, ensuring the slow dance of words and hints never lost its hypnotic rhythm. To hear everyone. To note the great and the small. To show, at the right moment, detachment or engagement as needed—cautious curiosity, restrained severity. And, above all, she fought down the urge to give direct orders, to hurry someone, or to sting with a caustic remark. She skirted such moments like rocks lurking under river rapids. She seeded the right thoughts so they seemed to have occurred to the men themselves. And she invariably sent them to Kolgrim for the final decision. Morrigan expected the inevitable clash with the local leader, but she didn't rush it.

By the time the last warm items and supplies were taken from the chantry, Morrigan had confirmed that most men here, regardless of age, were experienced hunters. By local tradition, after coming of age, they would disappear one by one for months into the foothills—alone with the merciless, captivating nature of these lands. Most opportune. A simple talk about familiar trifles and the hard turns awaiting a lone hunter quickly blurred boundaries. Here Morrigan felt confident: she offered apt observations and advice almost effortlessly, and learned new things with genuine interest.

An hour later, the troop set out—along a path Morrigan had not yet trodden, away from the valley of the glacial stream.

* * *

Not much time passed—perhaps an hour—and the Templars split into two groups. A smaller contingent of herdsmen departed with the livestock to the north, taking the circuitous road toward gentler slopes. The rest, once farewells were done, quickened their pace, earning a flicker of respect from Morrigan. The remaining column moved in orderly fashion straight down toward the thin dark line of trees. Leaden clouds, fresh snow promising drifts, and icy gusts of wind—all of it seemed to matter little to these people. They walked with purpose, in silent formation, breathing evenly. Only those posted by Kolgrim glanced to the sides. Yet as the first snowflakes of the day settled on broad shoulders, many stony faces—half-hidden behind thick stubble or beards—wore sarcastic smiles.

The forest was no obstacle for hardened mountaineers. What surprised the witch was the complete absence of talk—not even a casual remark. Quickening her pace, Morrigan, with feigned ease, overtook the column from the side, inevitably drawing attention. Catching her breath to hide her fatigue, she came up beside Kolgrim, who kept the head of the column to himself. After a pause she badly needed, the witch said quietly:

— I see discontent. We rarely get what we want without reservations. More often, it never reaches our hands at all.

At first the warrior gave no sign he had heard her. Then he started to glance back—only to cut the motion short. The moment of weakness did not escape the girl's notice. Yet she also noted his self-control, his choice to preserve the look of a confident leader. There were more than enough curious eyes boring into the backs of the strange pair. After a long pause, the man finally forced out a muted reply:

— Suppose so. And?

— If we don't speak—plainly, without pretense—this ends with one of us dead before long. It's the stone sack again.

Shaking his head in mild bemusement, Kolgrim said:

— You want me to name you a rival in front of everyone? To let you draw me into an argument with a hundred eyes on us? No. I don't stoop to that. If it came to conflict, I could find a dozen skilled men, unafraid of death, who would carry out my order even now. But that would be folly. And besides… the men behind me aren't clever where magic is concerned. It is what it is. They can't grasp this: you don't bother to hide your weapon—and it's pointed at every one of us. I, however, have read the sacred texts with care, and perhaps… I've seen a thing or two. You're a master of sweet speech, but you alone keep the "blade" at our throats in mind, and honey turns to gall. In this confrontation, only my status protects me. You—your role. You act like a serpent, so… my power will diminish with every breath, and yours will grow. That is Andraste's choice. Not a pleasant one, but who am I to dispute the higher will? Andraste has decided which of us is unworthy. There's no return to that "stone sack."

Morrigan fell silent, realizing how her own cynicism—her contemptuous habit of rationalizing and devaluing believers' motives—had backed her into a corner. Kolgrim might still have been a skilled actor, but something told her that, however flexible he was compared to the locals, he would never become like Leliana. It seemed she ought to fear not an imminent clash, but the risk of driving the situation into a dead end with an unpredictable outcome. The discovery boded ill. Morrigan changed the subject sharply:

— Then how do you weigh what you just named? The Chantry's army, soon to appear on the Highway. The unrest in Ferelden—call it a prelude to chaos… or an opportunity. A game where we're pebbles in someone's fist—or already on the board.

This time Kolgrim answered much faster:

— Well… they say trouble never comes singly. How do I weigh it? The mountains seem unchanging—especially to outsiders. Perhaps even to locals: year after year, the same view from the window. Grandfathers, fathers, sons—each trod the same slope. Grandsons will perish, and the ridges will remain as they were. Yet an experienced hunter, stepping over the threshold, knows a new trail is always waiting. Change hangs over us like a heavy crown of snow after a blizzard, treacherously hiding the sheet that glittered on the slopes just last evening. One way or another, an avalanche will come down, sparing no one. And people… people want a fair day. They turn away from hardship that feels excessive, hide in the everyday. That is why my search began: I needed a way to rouse the Refuge from its long slumber before it's too late. In every chance that came my way, I saw the Bride's favor. But Andraste, in her wisdom, it seems, sent only trials. And then the answer came in the form of you. What lies ahead—that is the Maker's will. Whether I, my kin, and you can endure what comes—time will tell.

— I didn't expect such eloquence.

Kolgrim gave a sullen grunt and muttered:

— Yes. Either way, a strange choice…

Morrigan frowned; his words hung in the air like smoke in frost.

— What choice?

— You march in step, but still lag behind. Like a hunter lost in a new forest. It seems to you this conversation is between Morrigan and Kolgrim. But here there is only the maiden who emerged from the chantry marked by Andraste—and a humble servant of Her will, however much authority sits in my hands.

Morrigan clenched her teeth, but she couldn't stop herself from asking:

— Then explain: how does your faith square with you and your men being "anointed with blood"? How, exactly? Or is it all—"trials," mixed with necessity?

The man's brows drew together, though his face had been stern—almost grim—from the start. He did not answer at once. He seemed to weigh what his interlocutor knew, and how to respond. At last, measuredly, almost chant-like—smoothly, as if rehearsed—he said:

— Turn it over any way you like, it's hard to stray that far by accident. True, you're testing me. There's a difference between what is yours from birth and what comes from outside. The Bride, in our hour of need, awakened what was already there. Power is in our nature. There is no other way. Andraste does not strike bargains; she grants hope.

It seemed she might laugh, contempt bright on her tongue. Instead her brows twitched in surprise, and she murmured:

— Power… as nature. An interesting idea. But—back to the beginning. What stood between you and your goal? And still stands. I'd rather know it ahead of time—before we get there, not by learning the hard way.

Kolgrim dropped a brief glance toward her and replied more quietly than before:

— Rigidity of mind. Some principles are foundation. To change them is to betray yourself. Others are ornamentation. In an hour of need, such things can—and should—be cast aside. But when habit, stubbornness, power, and personal convenience grow through them… people begin to think they're unshakable too. Like the foundation. Or stronger.

— Mm. I'd like to hear you phrase that after a suddenly bloodied nose. So—let me guess. There's someone above you. And whoever it is feels quite at home here, drawing strength from fear and hatred of the wider world.

Kolgrim let out a short sigh and nodded.

After a pause, Morrigan went on:

— You're surprisingly good at the game of "perhaps." Perhaps the obstacle is gone. What then?

— A dangerous game.

— During, or after? I thought grown men don't play other games. Foolish pastime, trifling prize—except what's at stake is glory, freedom, or life… or better yet, all at once.

For the first time, a faint smirk hinted at amusement. Still, Kolgrim objected:

— Doesn't change the essence.

— Come now. This isn't a call to action. Just talk. Smoke and shadows.

— You dissemble. Between us there can be no simple talk. To agree to consider what's been said is to accept the outcome as possible. That's like leaping into an abyss—thinking on it too early only harms. The time will come, and I'll make the decision standing at the cliff's edge.

— I won't argue. If before you couldn't overcome this mysterious figure… then you hope to overcome them with your new… acquisitions. And if not to restrain the figure itself, then at least to pull the locals out from under it.

— No. Attempts are pointless. It will be either victory—or the end.

Morrigan snapped her fingers and smiled, seizing on a thought:

— You were exiled to the chantry, away from ears, eyes, hearts.

— An honorable duty.

— And an impossible task.

— Wordplay.

— Dangerous? Words can kill as surely as steel. One simply must know how to wield them.

Kolgrim's face twisted in a grimace, as if from a sharp pain, but he nodded silently. Morrigan inclined her head in turn:

— Then that move was unwise. You should've been buried in rites and mysteries. Or in reading. Anything but this. But the past doesn't matter now.

At that, the man gave an almost imperceptible jerk of his chin and objected flatly:

— Nothing is more important than the past…

Morrigan cut in at once:

— Naturally. You're stuck in the past like a man in a bog. Little can compare to that—except, perhaps, the present. And besides military might, regalia, and a symbol, there are new pieces on the board this time.

The warrior cast her a long, thoughtful look before concluding:

— So you are not alone after all.

— Nor are you. Think on it.

Leaving the last word to herself, Morrigan deliberately slowed. Soon she found herself off to one side of the middle of the briskly marching column of heavily laden spearmen, deftly brushing their weapons away from branches bowed under fresh snow.

This exchange made one thing clear: Kolgrim was neither a blind fanatic nor a cold pragmatist. He balanced somewhere between—and that made him dangerous. Her past experience with the truly devout had been limited: hunting Templars, and Leliana, who could be reasoned with. And it seemed no one expected the "chosen one" to negotiate at all. Morrigan was meant—literally—to remain above the fray and "guide." Yet she feared giving orders. She knew her handicaps: "outsider," "witch," "woman." All of it limited the reach of her direct influence. For now.

Another thought lodged stubbornly in her mind like a splinter: Kolgrim's attitude toward the abilities granted by Zibenkek—or rather, his lack of any settled opinion about them. Perhaps if she shook this anthill properly, she could find something beneath faith hardened since childhood. The girl was certain: without a sharp mind to match his other talents, the man would not be leading this armed column.

That small observation became a bridge to a new, uglier guess—one that forced her to look at herself without prejudice, as if for the first time. What if she was just as blind about the source of her own power as Kolgrim was? After all, both believed without proof or explanation. Doubts she had shoved aside—along with hints and other people's words—began to align into a single picture.

Magic.

Marching with purpose, the witch repeated the word in silence, again and again, as if testing its weight. If magic truly was a gift from some higher power, then the logic of Zibenkek's actions grew clearer. And her guess answered another question too: how could a few runes exert such a massive influence on the world? The "powers" Zibenkek granted worked only when it suited that being—through direct intervention from beyond the Veil. And payment was exacted in a way elusive, incomprehensible. One moment a campfire; the next, a forest blaze. "Magic" could have a "patron."

The word, with its northern flavor, rose on its own. And if such a patron existed, then all the prized talent, knowledge, power, and cunning of mages… could be reduced to blind, toothless pride. The thought was dark—yet it drew her, like a moth to flame. The "art," swathed in fear and mysticism, became a tool at a snap: simpler, cleaner in principle than the endless tangle of runes. Behind the façade of cold reasoning, something else began to ripen—triumph, shaded and ugly. Because if she was right, then by sheer force of mind she had touched an underside that not many even suspected existed. And that made her an exception. At least, she wanted to believe it did.

But settling for little when everything might be within reach—that was not her way. Now she was consumed by the need to test the guess, to understand the hidden laws—and, why not, to learn to use the "tool" by her own judgment, rather than meekly waiting for results from an unknown will. From two conversations with Zibenkek and her own inferences, she reasoned thus: so long as momentary intrigues did not touch the whole picture—like the Blight—the Fade's inhabitants were not troubled by an individual schemer applying granted power to whatever petty task their wits allowed. Ambitions and antics were too small. And, as she judged coldly, the ill repute of blood mages only fed Zibenkek's strength. If that was true, then scaling her thoughts up to encompass "magic" as a whole at once, she could hardly imagine what might stir the true source of such power.

Thoughts spun through her head like snow in a gust. She sifted familiar runes by habit, automatically matching her step to the rhythm of the tireless Templars. Her body moved on its own while her mind wandered a maze of guesses. Yet with each brief halt her fatigue deepened, and her thoughts grew thin and hollow. By midday the girl was dragged under by a heavy, hour-long sleep. After that, until dark, Morrigan marched with an emptied head, concentrating only on not stumbling. Stubbornness and will let her save face, and she reached the night camp without incident. She barely swallowed the meager supper, then plunged into darkness at once, leaving herself no chance—again—to find anything like comfort.

* * *

The next day greeted Morrigan with a dull ache at the base of her skull, fog behind her eyes, and joints that protested with every shift. It was as if old age had paid her a brief call, bony fingers brushing her and moving on.

Nevertheless, she dragged herself out of sleep as the camp stirred. Ignoring curious sidelong glances—astonished, wary—the girl silently tidied her bedroll. Again, someone had put things in order after she had passed out. Then she shed her warm outerwear and, pink-cheeked in the morning frost in nothing but a long shirt hanging loose, began a deliberate, vigorous set of stretches, settling into a flowing rhythm of movement like an unbroken dance.

By the time the column was ready to resume its march, Morrigan—dressed again, collected—stood apart, watching the last flickers of activity in the camp. Exhaling white plumes slowly, she listened to the quiet, clipped phrases the locals exchanged with visible reluctance. Their expressions and gestures spoke louder than words. Her thoughts ran ahead of her, leaping from one thing to the next. What was Leliana doing? Where was the Chantry army now? How would the dragons finally act? What of Alim—and the women with him? And more besides—starting with the road ahead. By her estimate, at yesterday's pace the column should reach the Refuge by sunset.

Within fifteen minutes they were already marching briskly across thin, untouched snow, which still gave way now and then to bare ground between closely packed trees. The guardians held their direction with confidence amid the low firs, navigating, it seemed, by the subtlest signs. Today all of Morrigan's thoughts were taken up by the trial waiting at the end of the road. She felt like a banner—a symbol carried with honour, one that must not be dropped: held carefully, displayed for allies and enemies alike. But what had come easily among warriors who had seen her victory—and the relic in her hands—turned slippery on the tongue of a practiced speaker, one who had spent many winters gripping power in a settlement of free hunters surviving in backwoods isolation and the shackles of religion.

After the break she felt her strength ebb again. Every step took effort, as if her legs had turned to lead. And yet she noticed, with surprise, that the men shortened their stride until it became bearable for her. Without fuss, she came up alongside Kolgrim and kept pace in silence, waiting. He snorted—more grunt than laugh. Then, through the steady crunch of footsteps, his caustic remark cut in:

— Like a wife who meets you on the threshold before dawn without a word. You don't want to, but you end up confessing your sins. And all she does is lift a brow.

— Ah. So that's the sort of union you're proposing…

Kolgrim pursed his lips, as if scolding himself for a careless image.

— No.

— But the way you said it… sounds like ample experience. Don't worry. Your honour is safe with me at night.

He couldn't help himself and snapped:

— That would be something to fear. A lifeless body is hardly a threat.

— So that's who deserves thanks for the concern. Did I hear disappointment?

He ignored the bait and returned to the point:

— At the Refuge, the Chosen One must stand firm on her feet. She must yield to neither woman nor man. Even if only in appearance. We're judged by our clothes first; only later do they remember we are all one in the Maker's eyes. Even if you carry night on your shoulders, you couldn't keep yesterday's pace.

— Interesting…

— What?

— How you square a sober view of my limits with your talk of chosenness.

— The Maker once fashioned His Bride from the same flesh and blood. She never turned into a miraculous creature before the end of her days—she lived out her allotted span as was proper. Great good and great evil can be wrought by the calloused hands of an unremarkable man… or even a maid.

Before answering, Morrigan fixed him with a stare, as if trying to see straight through him.

— On rare occasions, I'm surprised to hear intelligent thoughts from someone like you. I'll have to be on my guard. And yet—I haven't said thank you.

— Yes. I know.

— Then I thank you. Although… let's be honest. A different kind of concern stirred in you—not worry for an exhausted girl. How do you see our return?

Kolgrim's brows rose, the warrior caught between thanks and spite. In the end he parried, almost offhand:

— Simply.

Morrigan nodded and let the silence hold. With a quiet sigh, he went on:

— Nothing tricky. We're just going home. Father already suspects what happened at the Temple—because of that messenger questioning hunters about outsiders. Or perhaps those who were with you enlightened him. Our arrival won't catch Father unprepared. The residents—that's another matter. But before things settle, we'll be able to show many the Bride's final resting place. In that, you speak true. Everyone deserves to touch that mystery.

— Noble. And everyone will see with their own eyes from whose hands this "mystery" comes. "Father," then… Like a shard of Tevinter that bowed to the new faith, yet kept one last thing for itself: a man at the head of the Chantry. Or perhaps the opposite is true. Laughable, really. But if so, it explains why only men froze themselves in that icy Temple. You were waiting for a Chosen One—and you got a Chosen woman. That's why you scowl. You understand, but you refuse to think it through. Your "Father" will welcome you with open arms, gently chide you, and plant doubt in everything you've done. But if you don't bow your head before everyone, he'll wipe his feet on you—having used me neatly. Every achievement becomes disgrace. And you won't withstand it. And once I'm dragged into the vortex, I'll draw the line in blood. Dangerous game or not—if you accept me, be ready for the rest.

* * *

Night lowered its heavy veil under low-hanging clouds as the detachment finished its ascent up the last gentle slope. On the other side lay a scattering of some three dozen houses, snow-covered sheds, gardens bare as dead skeletons, and empty vegetable patches—all of it haphazardly strung along a single street. And the street, coiling like a snake, wound between sparse pools of windowlight toward the neighboring slope, where the only solid stone structure perched: the chantry. It looked drab even beside its counterpart in Lothering, and yet it rose proudly over the settlement, serving as the Refuge's central symbol. The chantry was visible from every corner of the village, a constant presence from birth to death. Morrigan's keen eyes found no graveyard. Either it lay at a distance, to avoid drawing extra beasts toward the settlement, or the locals, paying homage to Andraste, burned their dead on pyres. After recent events, the witch saw a hard practicality in the latter. Meanwhile, at this late hour, judging by the scatter of firefly-bright points drifting in the night's gloom around the chantry's dark outline, no fewer than a dozen residents had gathered.

As she approached the fence line at a measured pace—torchlight already shifting beyond it—the girl couldn't shake thoughts that served no useful purpose. Before her lay a village caught in the grip of a religious leader who, in Morrigan's opinion, had long been feeding his flock the sweet poison of lies. She wondered whether a single fanatic existed who was not steeped in falsehood. And so, in league with the night, into this forgotten corner marched a pack of chained hounds in sheep's clothing: warriors who sincerely believed in personal freedom, yet blindly ignored the collar and the fresh blood on the fangs. The men's hands gripped a prize woven from deceit—and a desire to believe in it. At their head—a warrior for the "common good," flirting dangerously with half-truths. And, of course, a witch as well, who had stolen the fate of the "chosen" through another's cunning. Why, even the witch's own power might be nothing but an illusion. Morrigan saw before her a tapestry of lies and warped reflections, in which there was no longer room for yet another deception. No less astonishing was how the "warped masks" marching beside her, despite all this, sincerely played the roles assigned to them.

The village was ringed by a tall palisade—protection from wolves, but not from human treachery. Here they were already waiting: four men in hunter's garb, grey in their beards. Each held a torch at arm's length and a spear angled skyward. From the spearheads alone: old weapons, and far worse than those of the Temple Guardians. Behind their broad backs, five or six figures loomed in the darkness—women, judging by the long skirts brushing the snow—and along the house walls, the gleams of other residents' torches darted.

Kolgrim approached the welcoming party with a broad stride, without ceremony or greeting, and stopped a confident spear-lunge away.

— Brom, Dim, Düstert, Schtille. We return from the mountain Temple with tidings and the Bride's blessing. I wished to…

The man on the far left abruptly dropped his spear into the crook of his arm and swung the tip right before Kolgrim's nose, cutting him off.

— So a high price was paid for those tidings and that blessing. Speak plainly, Kolgrim. Did you hear of the calamity—and is that why you rushed here, dragging every last Guardian from his honored post?

Judging by the others' faces, the men beside him did not approve of what was said—neither in substance nor in tone. From the women behind came surprised exclamations. But no one intervened. Kolgrim frowned, casting a careful glance over the four; then his grim gaze flicked to the women and farther down the street, straight toward the chantry on the slope. His face hardening, he said—without the earlier warmth:

— I fail to see how I deserved this treatment. If I am guilty, speak, and I will answer.

— You won't be kept long… It's just… you're only straightforward in appearance. Your standoff with Father buried a hot-headed, straight-as-a-spear youth in damp earth.

The man grimaced, as though the quarrel—and his own words—pained him. A long minute of silence hung in the air as the "gatekeeper" peered into the cold grey eyes opposite him. Finally, with a weary exhale, the only one who had spoken shook his head.

— Maybe I'm a fool, but I don't believe it… Whatever was between you, you wouldn't have done that.

Kolgrim cut him off sharply:

— What is this about, Brom? It's not your habit to circle your quarry.

— Father has been taken by the Maker. He died quietly—in his sleep. Found this morning at sunrise, in his own bed. But where the dead already rest, the living hunt for a scapegoat, snarl among themselves, and fuss. Who should know that better than you?

The leader of the detachment froze, stunned by the news. Looking at the others, who nodded silently in confirmation, he understood: there was no room here for a bad joke or misunderstanding. Drawing in a deep breath, Kolgrim said quietly:

— How could…

He cut himself off, whirling around to meet the scarlet-gold stare boring into him. Morrigan's studying gaze was direct and calm; she allowed herself only the slightest lift of a brow. The girl had no doubt: dark suspicions were brewing in the warrior's mind—suspicions he, from the deep shadow of his own faith, could not examine coolly or impartially, not now, and perhaps not ever. Morrigan did not believe "Father" had died a natural death. Following Kolgrim's lead, the welcoming party noticed the girl as well. Brom voiced the question first:

— And what bird is this?

The leader of the Wardens of the Sanctum hesitated for a brief moment, and it did not escape the growing crowd. Turning back to the residents of the Refuge, Kolgrim began his explanation.

— She… is part of what transpired. The Temple plainly showed its favor to the maid, restoring to the world the Bride's final resting place through her. It's there, behind us. Despite the grief that has befallen us, everyone here, today, can touch the place where our Lady last lay—the foundation of our strength and faith. And what's more, the resurrected Bride and her guardian both acknowledged this maid, showing their regard. Even with all my suspicion… of outsiders… Brom, the signs are plentiful. She is chosen by the Bride. For what deeds… I do not know, but is that what matters?

His opening words stirred a murmur among the gathered dozen. Disbelieving, people asked their neighbors again, sharing shock and breathless emotion… The final words hung in the air, as if dousing all present in icy water. The single thought piercing each of them was voiced clearly by the hoarse, low voice of Düstert, who opened his mouth for the first time:

— So, no worthy man was found among us… Our blood has grown too thin.

Kolgrim demonstratively clenched his fist a couple of times before him; then with the same hand he signaled to his men and, addressing no one in particular, muttered:

— I do not doubt my own faith, clear head, or strong arm. It is even less fitting for me to doubt the Bride's wisdom. Speak only for yourself, Düstert.

With a practiced motion, Brom spun his spear, driving the tip down into the frozen earth through the thin snow with a short jerk. Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he exhaled a barely visible cloud of mist and spoke up.

— Well, well, what a day… You might as well stand there or fall over—it's all the same… And just as it suits you, eh, Kolgrim? Both are outsiders…

His speech broke off as two Guardians carefully lowered the heavy burden onto the trampled snow and, drawing wide hunting knives, began briskly cutting away the wrapped cords and hides. Soon torchlight played upon the seemingly incongruous gold, which in response seemed to come alive. Morrigan noted with surprise how hidden admiration gradually displaced doubt and anxiety from their faces. It rose timidly in people from somewhere deep inside, as if afraid to stand fully upright before a harsh world. Glancing at the urn, she was struck again by the power of symbols polished by time—and by how often the outer form overcomes the inner substance.

But nothing lasts forever. The magical moment dissipated like smoke, freeing the crowd's thoughts and attention from its spell. Of course, they turned back to Kolgrim. Only the last of the four, Schtille, in contrast to the others, lowered his eyes to the toes of his sturdy fur-lined boots—already quite worn—and said:

— "And hope shall return, should the need become immoderate…" So it is written. Could Father's death be a sign that we are at the brink?

Frowning at his tribesman's words, Brom sullenly shot back:

— The words are right. But said out of place and out of time, you rotten stump.

Kolgrim cast a bewildered look at both men:

— I listen to you and fail to recognize the sturdy hunters I looked up to. Is it worth opening our hearts to the dark when the long-awaited light is finally bestowed—and will remain with us as long as we are worthy and our grip is strong?

Morrigan thought they should stop talking and take control of the situation. People… No one here would admit it if asked directly, but many needed explanations that would free them from the burden of hunting for answers alone. And now they were being offered the wrong clues… Her sharp gaze slid over faces that had turned into grim masks in the flickering torchlight. Even if Kolgrim was respected here, people were now uncertain about him. They had clearly been prepared to view the leader of the Guardians with bias, but the appearance of Andraste's ashes had scrambled the cards, tipping the scales toward a shaky uncertainty. Softly stepping forward—and immediately catching Brom's fiery golden gaze, leaping to meet hers from under bushy brows—the witch joined the conversation, trying to speak in a loud, measured voice:

— You are a concerned man. A son, or perhaps a brother, among the Temple Guardians? It cannot be that you are seriously worried about Kolgrim. Otherwise… how to explain?.. While the residents were gathering at the chantry at an ungodly hour, comforting each other in grief, anxiety, and hope, your eyes were fixed on that trail. That is the only way you and your comrades could have ended up at the Refuge's fence line ahead of time. Oh, or perhaps it's simpler… Were you waiting for a messenger with new tidings?

Brom blinked, forcing his gaze away, but Morrigan was already striking her next blow:

— Kolgrim, Brom isn't your kin, is he?

The warrior pressed his lips together in displeasure at the raised topic. A telling shadow passed over his face; the girl saw only irritation and a faint tinge of shame there. Without delay, she clicked her tongue:

— So that's it. Even here, filth isn't hard to find.

Brom, who had managed to collect himself, snorted and shook his head:

— A vixen. Sharp-tongued. Good thing the "chosen one" serves the people, and not the other way around. Otherwise…

Baring her teeth like a predator, Morrigan addressed Kolgrim alone, pointedly ignoring Brom:

— Your compliment was better earlier. Scales, forked tongue… A more interesting prospect than a fluffy tail. Is such delicacy really needed here? I suspect Father outplayed you from the grave, having cultivated doubt in every useful person beforehand. Any truth is a lie, and a lie is like truth.

Pointing behind her without looking, Morrigan did not release Kolgrim's grey eyes for a moment:

— If parents mistake a crow for an eagle, their son cannot become a falcon. Nobility and honor can be turned—cleverly—from a shield into poisoned arrows. And it's hard to argue with corpses and shadows… Do you have something that cannot be tainted by such suspicions?

Kolgrim opened his mouth, ready to answer the witch's challenge, but immediately snapped it shut. His grey eyes slid over the warriors—those searching the crowd for familiar faces, those thoughtfully studying the trampled snow before them, those watching the maid in their midst with burning eyes. Annoyance and fury flashed across his face when his gaze fell on the urn, gleaming with indifferent gold. After the unbroken pause, he said firmly:

— No.

The girl nodded, simply. As she was about to respond, she turned toward the mountains, peering into the dark sky above the ridgeline. The witch frowned, then lowered her scarlet-gold gaze from the heavens onto the figures of the Guardians. Staring as if through them, she asked herself—pointlessly, inappropriately—whether Kolgrim's mother and father were alive, whether he had brothers, sisters. Gathering her resolve, she addressed the spearmen loudly and clearly:

— Have you truly forgotten an indisputable truth? Each of you has witnessed it again and again—daily—so often it has eaten into your bones, become as mundane as breath.

Turning back to Kolgrim, Morrigan finished the thought:

— And that truth needs no prophets; it can speak for itself.

The man raised his eyebrows and, soundlessly, with his lips alone, mouthed:

— Andraste?

Brom's face darkened as he shouted harshly:

— What heresy is this?!

At that same moment a sound loud enough for all to hear carried across the yard—the slow beats of enormous wings. And the noise grew, sharpening. It was almost immediately clear it was not a single pair. Heavy, low breathing—slightly whistling, slightly gurgling, like the lungs of mighty forges—joined the wingbeats. All of it in the night's darkness, under an utterly still black sky where the vague, deceptive outlines of clouds were barely visible. Whatever filled their heads—whatever they believed—whatever principles they professed, every single one felt the touch of paralyzing, animal terror. Like hares realizing too late the presence of a pack of hungry wolves. A couple of teenagers—the kind who already trailed their parents everywhere—and a good half of the women panicked, rushing toward the nearest houses in tears or emitting incoherent gasps. The others did not dare move. Morrigan realized only two emotions remained in her—rapture and envy—having burned away everything else. A quick glance at Kolgrim showed her he was in the grip of something similar. But in him it was rapture and… fear.

In the space of a heartbeat, the seemingly motionless sky split open. Enormous silhouettes materialized out of the darkness. Each new beat of those vast wings spawned eerie eddies in the clouds, blinding the involuntary onlookers with waves of snow blown from the hilltop. Torch flames thrashed like birds gone mad in cages and, losing the battle, guttered out, yielding to the gloom. People squinted, crouched, covered themselves with hands and clothing, but no one dared turn their back on the unfolding horror. The massive bulk of the male landed first, plummeting onto the summit from the last few meters. Corded muscles absorbed the momentum, but a resounding impact rolled through the valley, echoing inside their skulls. From the settlement came, at that moment, the distinct sounds of panic and the crash of falling pottery. The female, in comparison, settled on the hill gracefully and quietly—almost more staggering. Then the brood appeared. Like minnows beside sharks, they flopped down clumsily behind the ridge, nearly tumbling like stones. Judging by the soft thuds and plaintive squeals—ill-suited to the deadliness of the "little ones"—few managed to land competently.

Without waiting for them to fully settle, Morrigan spun in place and in three steps was nose to nose with Brom. It was the only movement in the crowd, and it drew eyes at once. Pale as snow, Brom tore his gaze with difficulty from the flickering molten amber of the dragons' pupils—studying the people below like a faceless herd—only to become captive to the Witch's golden eyes, reflecting the last torch-gleams. He swallowed audibly, trying to calm taut nerves, but the girl gave him no respite; she leaned closer and, in a barely audible voice, said:

— That is the truth, requiring not a shred of proof. I admit, my mother is astounding. No one could—or can—play so virtuously, and yet so directly and cruelly, upon the prejudices and weaknesses of others. I can't compare, but I'll try to play. Alas, I do not command time in abundance. I haven't the leisure to be delicate with petty obstacles.

Without another word, she stroked the bulging veins at his throat with feigned tenderness… He jerked away, managing only a soundless exhale:

— Mage…

And then Brom sank into the snow—for a heartbeat, fighting for his life. Witnessing his tribesman's swift end, Kolgrim lunged toward the witch, shouting:

— Morrigan…

But his voice broke off midway, as if he had run headlong into an invisible wall. He was stopped by an attentive gaze, ready for any continuation. The crowd, stunned by the appearance of the dragons, struggled to digest what had happened. The swiftness, the absence of blood, screams, and the clang of weapons—none of it matched the rapid death of a seasoned hunter. Letting no excess emotion show, Morrigan addressed the leader of the Guardians coldly:

— My words of regret would be hypocrisy and lies. As would your words that this cannot be done. We are both accustomed to spilled blood. Your cry hit the mark. The Blight is at the threshold. Your noble efforts to bring these people light and hope… were in vain. That triumph was stolen long ago. If we are not to deceive ourselves, you were outplayed the moment you were sent to the Temple. Hear me! As the Chosen One, and in the presence of the resurrected Andraste, I declare: Kolgrim commands the Refuge henceforth! Restore order among the people—and in their minds. To avoid needless deaths, doubt must be eliminated. Andraste now belongs to two worlds. The moment her path among people ends is not far off. And Brom's death is an unambiguous message: time is running out; those who stand in the way will be removed. Who counts stalks when the whole field must be saved?

Even after her speech, Kolgrim hesitated. Though his pupils dilated at the mention of the Blight, he still wavered between duty and opportunity. Whether her words gradually sank into him or it was simply the pressure of what was unfolding, his face smoothed. Casting one last vexed look at the lone body in the snow, the warrior stepped toward his detachment, ready to give orders…

* * *

Morrigan watched the flame lick at the soot-blackened bricks in the narrow fireplace. Too massive for this humble room, the oven looked ancient but reliable. Its clay facing held firm, but it had darkened over time—cracked and dried in places—then rubbed smooth again, the scars worked over into a pattern as singular as a life.

Shifting her gaze to her companion, perched on a similar crude stool two paces away, the girl's mind drifted back to recent events. Weariness thickened her thoughts, threatening at any moment to pull her toward oblivion and drown her in dreams.

After the dragons appeared… Setting aside—or merely postponing—what had been said and done, Kolgrim set to work with diligence, perseverance, and the callousness the task demanded. In a couple of hours he managed to deliver the new reality to every resident, quelling the flood of questions, turbulent emotions, and imagined fears. Everywhere, he presented the Chosen One, refusing to wait for morning to make introductions. And the girl held her own, inserting herself into every conversation and turning every weakness she spotted to her advantage. Morrigan deliberately put off looking for Leliana, but even after the work was done, two more conversations came first.

The first unfolded in the middle of the main street. Taking advantage of the cover of a starless night, Kolgrim stopped the witch. The question seemed to trouble him more than any other. His voice sounded dry and subdued, betraying fatigue, and he chose his words cautiously, trying not to give her sharp tongue an opening. In the cold then—and now, by the fire—Morrigan recalled their very first conversation, and the unflattering words he'd hurled at her. Naturally, the question was about the Blight. Briefly, without adornment, Morrigan laid out everything she knew, holding nothing back. She strung the facts into a single thread and painted him a grim picture of what was coming—then left him in the dark, full of gloomy thoughts.

The next conversation took place on the hill. The witch had climbed there on a whim, expecting nothing in particular. But the enormous lizards were there and awake… Morrigan was pricked with curiosity in that moment: did dragons feel a need for sleep? At least in the sense familiar to bipeds… The male readily engaged in dialogue, whether out of boredom or curiosity. As for the girl's question… Morrigan could not ignore the stark mismatch between the predators' size—even setting aside the voracious brood—and the amount of livestock the locals kept at the Temple. It soon became clear the usual measure didn't apply here, either. Blood and flesh were needed by dragons only for growth, healing from wounds, and pleasure. Day to day, however, their strength was maintained exclusively by the "true light." Morrigan had to puzzle over it before she deduced that this was how her unusual interlocutors referred to mana. The discovery gave her food for thought, clearing a path toward the answers she wanted—and casting a shadow over existing plans. Soon after, turning one idea and then another in her head, the girl found herself back by the oven.

Shifting her gaze to her silent "roommate," the witch allowed herself a frown. The other maid, in contrast, remained completely motionless, back straight, her unseeing gaze fixed rigidly ahead. Only the trembling of her lashes and her slow breathing betrayed that Leliana was alive. The cause wasn't immediately obvious, but it drew Morrigan's attention all the same. She cradled her right hand in her left—the fingers bruised dark, unnaturally bent.

Taking a deep breath, Morrigan began in an even, dispassionate tone:

— Interesting… Now it's my turn to ask questions. Why did you do it?

Inhaling softly through her teeth, Leliana said:

— You are interested in…

— A short answer explains nothing. But spare me philosophy. Only facts.

— Eh bien… Very well. If… no—let me start again, to be clear. It was my decision. Consider everything from that angle. The locals…

The storyteller broke off, shifting her gaze to the black void of the modest window. Frowning, she continued:

— Perhaps I cannot manage with facts alone. For your own benefit. My arrival wasn't a bolt from the blue, non? They didn't even make a fuss here. As if they'd already seen their fill of outsiders. And each had an explanation ready on the tip of their tongue: who I am, and where I'm from. I only had to choose what to accept, and when to nod along. But not everyone was so… "down-to-earth"…

Closing her eyes briefly, the storyteller lowered them to her hands, then met Morrigan's gaze:

— You understand, rationally, that such a modest, isolated settlement cannot survive for generations on hunting and gardens alone. And certainly not by sending its men to the Temple… I could have skillfully woven in "the power of faith," divine providence. But no. The harsh truth is that under such conditions, principles and faith do not remain unchanged, even with such a symbol at hand. These people don't even need to believe; seeing is enough for them, hein? In fact, the locals share their legends freely, seeing no great secrets in them. It's not hard to grasp: each person here—and all of them together—has long been favored by… luck. As if the place is shielded from excessive misfortune. Like a necessary stepping stone, or… I don't know.

— So, this… Father. Marim. For the locals—the luckiest stroke of all. Even under the burden of winters past, I discerned in this man a keen mind, thoughtfulness, will. He guided the settlement along a knife's edge without once truly stumbling. Every decision, judging by the stories, proved the best possible—including Kolgrim. That's how the locals see it: Father set out to mold himself a successor. I see it differently: he failed to notice what power was doing to him. Marim merged with power and ceased to distinguish where he ended and it began. And so he soon began to see, in the rising generation that looked only forward, a threat—to himself, his authority, the fruits of his labor. The village doesn't hide its dirty laundry, either; pieces of the mosaic—gossip, petty cruelties—lie close to the surface.

— Marim. Such people… brilliant, but already rotting from within under the weight of victories and achievements—Orlais has plenty of those. I've heard it said that the essence of Bards, like the Ravens in Antiva, is to clear the way for new, ambitious growth—paid for by powerful old men. However you returned from the Temple, your clash seemed inevitable to me. If Father feared his own creation, you would have terrified him. And such a man is capable of crippling you—or worse, pushing you to violence. Had Marim fallen by your hand, he would have become a martyr. And in that role, he would have become untouchable by either force or argument. So… that's what happened. The consequences… Any master has loyal hounds. They needed simple answers, and they looked where it was easiest. Fools are no less lucky than others. Their methods of interrogation also turned out to be… primitive.

Morrigan gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head—a deliberately ambiguous gesture that could be taken any which way:

— The right hand. There's far more cynical calculation in that than you might think. Even knowing nothing about you, in a hunter's world there is nothing more valuable than sight, the right hand, and—perhaps—hearing. Bartering away your freedom, you seem to have misplaced your common sense. I understand: by saying this, I risk having that thrown back at me. But note—of the two of us, only one is maimed, though both have taken a life. Well… I'll take note. We should get you to a city soon, one large enough to suit my bird. After all, a Bard is not a Raven.

Leliana twitched the corners of her lips, but pain extinguished the beginnings of a smile, and the girl frowned again:

— So… yours went well?

— More than… perhaps excessively so. Repayment always follows luck. Well. Then, while I talk, we'll set your fingers where we can, bind them… and lose ourselves in sleep…

* * *

Another morning brought Morrigan a small variation: her head was splitting in a different way than usual. Trying not to disturb the fitfully sleeping Leliana, she slipped noiselessly from the bed. The wooden floor, worn smooth and darkened by time, met her feet—icy—reminding her of the stove gone cold, and of winter stirring awake.

Having dressed unhurriedly and rekindled the fire, the witch quietly left the modest two-room house right by the palisade of the Refuge.

Judging by the pervasive grey that had replaced the night's gloom, somewhere beyond the clouds the sun had already risen above the horizon. Cracking her knuckles and breathing a small cloud of breath into her cupped hands, she savored the bite of frosty air on her face. Her nose tingled with a mixture of scents—woodsmoke, burnt porridge, and the aroma of fresh flatbreads with a faint note of roasted nuts. The awakening settlement was shaking off drowsiness. From the squat roofs, soon to be buried in snow, thin tendrils of smoke rose into the sky. Someone's boots crunched in freshly fallen snow. For a moment, it seemed to Morrigan that time in this hidden nook had slowed to a crawl. And how tempting it would be to turn that to her own advantage… But sober reason reminded her: the rest of the world would not wait.

Finding Kolgrim, Morrigan snapped her fingers and traded the peace of morning for bustle. The new leader was dashing about the settlement, trying to be everywhere at once, as if trying to catch someone—or outrun something. But she understood: behind the flurry he was hiding anxiety, the dissatisfied glances of his tribesmen, unpleasant questions… and her. It didn't suit her. So, with no plan laid in advance, she simply stepped into his path and, right there in the middle of the street, set her palm against the chest of the massive man.

— I could understand your behavior—make allowance for it. But why dither? Perhaps yesterday's events are still working on you, or power is seducing you. If not one, then the other. Still, I'd like to believe it's about your mother, confined to her bed by Brom's death. Oh, don't be surprised… Either way, the decision can't wait. I'm not throwing this in your face for amusement's sake. I can turn around, leave, and then go straight to the Templars. A day or two, and they'll find a solution without you. But it would be better to preserve your position, honor, and principles—by settling everything yourself. Today. And to preempt your question, let me clarify: half the men able to bear arms must set out for the Highway no later than tomorrow. The rest, with the women, elders, and children, should follow within the week—without haste, with prayer; they should all manage to reach Redcliffe Fort. Let the Urn remain with you here. It will serve its purpose here; in my hands it would only lead to bloodshed.

In response, Kolgrim stared at her with a long, heavy gaze. It seemed he was not so much weighing her words as reining in emotion better left unshown. In the end, a hoarse reply came:

— The Chosen, like sunlight, takes no crooked paths. And truth tempers the mind as frost tempers the body.

— How fortunate for me that you explain it all so colorfully yourself.

The man gave a joyless snort and continued:

— And yet… How did you know? In less than a single night…

— Good. At least you don't explain everything away with miracles. Your tribesmen are tight-lipped and wary, but also confused and frightened. The unknown frightens people. It's only natural to seek support from a friend or acquaintance. The best defense against such things is to build a wall of the familiar. In small conversations between neighbors, they throw everything into the mix. What's in their hearts and on their minds… and what they keep close to home. All I bring is a keen ear and a quiet step. I suppose condolences are in order—for this. I don't know what disgusts you more: your mother's illness, the cause of it, the weakness that drove a woman to another man, or my mention of any of it.

Morrigan took a deep breath of frosty air and slowly exhaled, looking at the perpetually grey sky:

— Let me make the choice easier for you. I have no need to see Kolgrim at my side every hour. Stay in the Refuge—lead your people, and tend to your mother yourself—and catch up later.

Nodding uncertainly, as if only partially in agreement, he asked:

— The warriors' purpose is clear to me. But what awaits the others in Redcliffe Fort?

— A sensible question. The settlement has suffered greatly; winter is ahead, and so is war. Simply put: there are more houses than families.

— And they'll have us…

— Hardly. Andraste's visions were sent by the Maker himself. As for me—only trials. How could I have known in advance how this would all end here? Yet the Chantry's army is marching to that very place.

With a more confident nod, Kolgrim concluded:

— Let it be as you say, Chosen.

* * *

For the remainder of the first half of the day, Morrigan walked the settlement end to end, taking in the bustle of villagers who were warily accepting changes that had abruptly ended their unhurried way of life. She watched closely. Whether it was their nature, Kolgrim's leadership, or the religious undertow to everything that had happened, the locals showed admirable stoicism and restraint. There was gossip, of course—there were conversations and discontent. But no one threw up their hands and stopped working; they kept busy with familiar chores or newly assigned tasks. In fact, they barely mentioned the "Chosen One." They skirted the topic, as if they didn't know what words to use.

In all the hours that had passed, only the children—the littlest ones, who did not yet fear their parents' reprimands but had already fallen prey to curiosity—approached the witch of their own accord. Morrigan answered their rapid-fire questions with reluctance, setting off restrained giggles and whispers with a pointed remark here and there, but she drove no one away.

In the end, she returned to the small house on the outskirts to join Leliana. After the street, the warmth by the stove was a pleasure she did not bother to hide. Soon a few strips of dried meat appeared on the small table, along with a clay jug of fragrant infusion brewed from local herbs and dried berries, a couple of crisp nut-flatbreads, and slices of pungent goat cheese.

— Where did these come from?

Rolling a piece of cheese back and forth with idle care, Leliana answered readily:

— Brought about an hour ago… more or less. In all this grey, it is the easiest thing to mix up morning with evening. They handed over two bundles of food without a word, and that was all.

Morrigan nodded, pulled her stool closer, and sat down at the table. Leliana joined her, wincing at the pull in her injured arm.

— Eh bien. They avoid me now. Not that I venture out anywhere, of course. I learn the news only from you. And from what you tell me, to the locals you are… a symbol, non? Though for now each of them fills it with their own meaning. To believe in Andraste, to marvel at dragons, to proclaim the Bride of the Maker's resurrection—those are easy. The first is an image, something idealized; few remember she was a real person who once walked the earth. Dragons are unattainable, alien creatures. But you—here you are. Simple. Understandable. A conduit that lets them bind together the ideal, the unattainable, and the familiar.

Breaking off a piece of flatbread, the witch tilted her head, offering neither agreement nor denial.

— I would like to say yes, but…

— But?

— Suppose you spend your life searching for a precious gem. Then luck—at last, it's in your hands. Only it's flawed: a crack, a chip, a warped cut. Hope and triumph give way to disappointment. That is what is happening here. It's no disaster. The only question is how exactly I'm meant to take the reins.

Leliana's eyebrows rose.

— To rule? Not to guide?

Still picking at the flatbread, Morrigan waved the question aside with a careless flick of her hand.

— That's what they expect: instructions, so they can decide their own fate later. That's what they've been trained to do. Here everything is measured—like a dance repeated year after year. You sow ideas in spring, you reap decisions by autumn, you tighten belts in winter, and in summer you're given the illusion of freedom. It all seems to happen by itself. They must forget that luxury. The question is who will decide for everyone: me or Kolgrim. To my mind, the answer is obvious. Otherwise… these people are useless to me.

Leaning back slowly—careful of the stool in place of a chair—Leliana said, thoughtful:

— I don't recall you having a passion for… power over a crowd. Perhaps I misread you. Or perhaps you were never so straightforward. Not so quickly.

Morrigan shrugged.

— Power is power. It's pointless to avoid it, and just as pointless to hoard it without purpose. One by one, these people matter little. Together… And so they are not "ornaments," but tools.

Leliana hesitated, then asked:

— And how do you see… your options?

Brushing crumbs from her hands, Morrigan looked through the grimy little window at the snowy slope and answered:

— The simplest: by right of…

Leliana cut in, finishing the phrase with a glint of mischief:

— …noble blood. It matters little how the status was acquired, but vassals and other lords must take it seriously, hein? Is it worth mentioning?

Morrigan wrinkled her nose, as if she'd caught an unpleasant smell, then nodded, resigned.

— I doubt there's a shred of "nobility" in me. But acquired status—that's another matter. So. You want something trickier? Fine. Blood magic could help.

— Malefi—

The contempt on the witch's face stopped Leliana mid-word. Morrigan continued, her golden eyes steady.

— As mages in the Circle are "gifted" a leash by the Templars—or as our Seeker was—you can put the same collar on anyone. A matter of imagination. History should have taught you.

— Ancient Tevinter…

— No need to rummage in antiquity. But seriously: I wouldn't want to guess what one might end up owing to Zibenkek that way—suspecting nothing until the payment comes due. The game is not worth the candle.

A flicker of relief crossed Leliana's eyes as she smiled.

— I am glad to hear it.

Morrigan snorted, irritation flashing in her gaze.

— Two more paths. Rule as a man. Or as a maiden. The first is possible. But traditions and habits don't yield easily. And is it worth trying? I would have to break too many people's reflexes—explaining simple truths to those who refuse to hear, over and over. In their eyes, my image wouldn't fit the role. With my mother's persistence, and all the time in the world, it might have worked. But alas… alas…

Skepticism plain on her face, Leliana asked:

— Having defeated several Templars at once with your bare hands, you see a greater threat in the locals?

— You're used to judging an opponent by the point of your arrow. With that view, everyone looks equal. The Templars and their habits are well known to me. They never expect that instead of fighting from beyond bowshot—or retreating—a mage would choose close-quarters combat, and unarmed at that. And even so, it only works as long as mana and luck hold out. These people… they know next to nothing of magic. To them, an enemy is simply an enemy. And an experienced hunter never lets the beast get close. I have no spell against an arrow through the eye or the heart. And a spear is longer than my arm. Kolgrim has even seen my magic.

— So you choose the maiden's role?

Morrigan nodded and, breaking off a piece of cheese, began to explain:

— Exactly. Be a modest shadow—weak, yet unattainable. Let the mind hide behind a smile, and strength behind a submissive gaze. A leader who stays behind the crowd. Only… the role is unfamiliar to me.

— Creare misericordia, proteggere il nuovo… Where do such thoughts come from in you? A foolish question, though. Yet the role of the spider is clearly not yours. You are a scorpion—a creature of northern deserts, with a heavy venomous stinger and claws, always ready for a fight and a killing strike.

With a barely perceptible half-smile, Morrigan replied:

— An amusing comparison. And… you're not wrong. My temperament—sometimes even a cool head isn't enough to keep me from stepping to the front. I've already made a mess of things. I can't fit myself back into the role of a modest maiden.

— Remain yourself… No—bad advice. You should not be an unfeeling, cynical bitch. Oh. You didn't like that word? But you understand: if you keep those traits on a tighter leash, you will suit the role you've chosen without difficulty.

Morrigan chewed slowly on a piece of cheese, sighed, and finally nodded.

— The truth is, one should not create unnecessary difficulties for oneself. With you, perhaps, my task will be simpler. Let's discuss…

* * *

After a long conversation with the bard about the subtleties of acting and deception—useful lessons for Morrigan—Leliana, in the end, succumbed to exhaustion. However hard she tried to seem lively, she looked unwell and, even sitting in the warmth, tired sooner than the witch. She needed a proper healer; without one, Morrigan pushed the worry aside. Only for a dark memory of that unexpected "pupil" to surface from the depths in answer… and with it, doubts as sticky as tar about her own motives: Had she left Bethany behind, counting on returning, or was the truth uglier—had she simply abandoned her?

Hunched in the evening twilight, she watched, unblinking, as the embers smoldered in the stove, as if their flicker might yield an answer. The scent of smoldering wood mixed with the sharp aroma of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. The day's mention of her mother had lodged in Morrigan's thoughts like a splinter, dragging her back to the chaotic pictures of early childhood. She sorted through them meticulously, like Hasind beads on a rough hair-string. But in those scraps of the long-gone past, the witch either remembered herself as an insufferable brat in a house in the wilds of Korkari, or the hazier images trembled on the walls like shadows. The longer you stare, the more you see—only your present, not the past.

Once again admitting defeat, Morrigan returned in her mind to the image of her mother. The vivid memory that had washed over her recently—the day that split life into "before" and "after"—threw Flemeth's capacity for metamorphosis into relief as nothing else could. The shape-shifting spell she had devised remained a riddle without a key. It did not fully obey any rule Morrigan knew, changing flesh as easily as a potter works clay. From what she had seen before, Morrigan guessed that even demons, having seized a mage's body on this side of the Veil, could accomplish nothing so intricate. Flemeth had woven different notes into the spell as into a melody, perhaps even drawing on Zibenkek's power. Yet intuition told Morrigan her mother would sooner steal another's strength without their knowledge than bargain for it or rely on favor.

Without the principle, she had only the result—that "miracle" which magic always seems to be, as any magic does to an ignorant eye. But the recent words of the enormous winged predator had planted a new contradiction in Morrigan's thoughts. Before, she had never doubted those creatures were unlike anything in Korkari—except perhaps in size and danger. And yet it turned out they were not merely mage-like; they eclipsed the most arrogant of magi in sheer reserves of power. Morrigan couldn't rule out that the fearsome breath of the great lizards was magical, too. That would better explain its destructive force and uncanny nature. But if even mighty creatures that lived on mana still required real flesh to grow…

Morrigan straightened, staring into the darkness gathering in the corners. A simple thought struck her like an arrow loosed from a taut bowstring. She recalled Zibenkek's words: "…a deception that relies on the imperfection of the observer…" What if the magic did not "create" flesh at all, but merely concealed and reshaped a surplus already there? Biting her lower lip, Morrigan marveled at her mother's audacity. The dragons believed the price of their protection was a small part of the brood, while Flemeth had already stolen the lizards' secrets. It would have taken knowledge to do it—but the point was this: without paying anything like that price, Flemeth had carved herself a path toward goals no less ambitious than Zibenkek's. If not for that ill-fated day, whose laughter would have rung louder in the end?

Closing her eyes and touching trembling fingers to her lips, Morrigan rebuilt the spell in her mind: every rune, every gesture, until a chill ran down her spine. She could only guess which part governed the transformation of flesh, and which… Methodically tapping her lips, she went back over every time she had used that magic before the attack, and every time after. The spider she had once turned into had been the size of a man. So, too, was the revolting result the spell now produced. The crow she had been meant to learn in those days wasn't meant to be small, either. According to her mother, the black-winged bird would have been scarcely smaller than half Morrigan's size. Now she could easily believe Flemeth had planned to teach her in the dark, without explanation. Such an approach would neatly justify the need to accumulate additional flesh—slowly. No faster than anyone grows and matures…

Pressing her fingers to her temples, Morrigan reined in her runaway imagination, like hauling hard on the reins of a frenzied steed. Without clear proof, she could only hypothesize. But she would rather feel her way forward and make mistakes than wait endlessly in the dark for dawn.

She pulled on warm clothes and slipped noiselessly from the house like a shadow. Walking unhurriedly along the deserted street, ignoring the flicker behind the windows, Morrigan turned her thoughts to the spells she knew. She asked herself: was there a way to pick out, among the runes, the ones that hinted at the essence of the "language of magic"—the tongue in which a mage of Thedas might, perhaps, offer "prayers to the master of sorcery"? A quarter of an hour later she found herself on the far side of the Refuge, beside a stranger's shed where a peaceful clucking drifted out… and there Morrigan finally formed a clear idea of where to begin.

* * *

In the night's dark, lost in thought, Morrigan barely felt the cold—or the passage of time—until cautious footsteps sounded behind her. Boots gave the faintest creak in the snow, hinting at someone light-footed—skilled, or small. Still crouched, the witch tore her gaze from the carcasses of the laying hens, some newly dead, some long gone. She turned halfway and found a boy.

He barely reached Morrigan's waist and struggled to hold up an oil lamp like those she had seen in the Sanctum. In its dim light, eyes like shards of ice flashed—a color that suited this land. The boy was swallowed by a huge fur coat; only his nose and rosy cheeks showed, and he regarded the witch without fear, with open, earnest wonder. Then he noticed the dead hens and, with all the seriousness his young face could muster, frowned.

Before he could say anything, Morrigan spoke first:

— Late hour to be out, child.

The reply came with childish innocence:

— Is it really late? … I've been coming to check the coop since last summer, after dark. Every day!

— Alone?

Embarrassed, the boy lowered his voice:

— No… Mother sends me. And you… you're out walking after dark too?

As if nothing were amiss, the witch nodded and returned her attention to the carcasses. The clear voice behind her hurried on:

— Why did you…? You're the one—the one chosen by Andraste, right? That means you should… Well… protect, give hope. Not…

By the end of the sentence the lad had lost his fervor and the firmness of his voice, but he managed, more or less, to force the thought out. Morrigan turned back to her young interlocutor, one brow lifting. She asked, coolly:

— Hope?

Her lips twisted into a half-smile.

— How touching—to see children still saying what adults only think. And you're not worried about your coop at all, but about whether my deeds match your expectations…

The boy frowned, clearly missing the subtext, and nodded uncertainly. His mouth opened for clarifying questions, but the girl clicked her tongue and cut him off. Straightening, she looked down at him and went on:

— Hope… I doubt Andraste's deeds were fueled by hope alone. Speaking of which. Since you mentioned your mother, I assume you have a father?

The lad glanced toward the nearest house and answered briefly:

— Yes.

Morrigan's breath became a fleeting cloud, dissolving at once in the lamp's yellow light.

— Like the others, a hunter?

— He's not like everyone else!

The boy stomped his foot.

— He's the best!

The sincere urge to boast wilted under the piercing gaze of yellow eyes, but the witch pressed on, matter-of-fact:

— Spending his days in the forest, he surely hopes to come home each time. But is hope all he goes armed with? Or does he have experience, knowledge, instinct—and a spear?

Staring at his own shoes, the boy nodded uncertainly, then—deciding such an answer was rude or not enough—said firmly:

— Of course, a spear and experience are more important.

— Remember it, then, once and for all. Hope is cheap coin. Yes, there's strength in it; it often separates those who survive from those who surrender. But it's also a sweet poison. You can't get enough of it. Drink just a little more than you should, and it dulls the mind and steals away what you know. No—you'll find hope on your own. You can ask me only for knowledge and strength.

The boy stood as if enchanted, lips parted. Then his gaze returned, puzzled, to the dead chickens.

— I want to be strong. Even stronger than Father. I just don't understand… I could wring their necks too. Where's the strength in that?

Morrigan jerked her head as if to disagree, but her answer was calm, even.

— Curiosity and courage—worthy traits. But remember: fear is an ally, too. Strength is often hidden in small things. Take you, for example. In ten or fifteen winters, I'll wager you'll be broader in the shoulders than I am. Knowledge is stranger still. You can't measure it with any familiar yardstick. Yet it is knowledge—not raw strength—that invisibly rules what exists. These little things… they taught me a lesson. The familiar is often a delusion, not a law. If you want strength, resist pride and foolishness, and value knowledge and skill above all else. Worn truths, repeated a hundred times, gone stale. Easy to brush off. Harder to follow, steadfastly. That's no simple task.

While the boy stood with his brow wrinkled into a comically serious grimace, trying to digest her words, the witch's gaze slid toward the main street of the Refuge. Beyond the modest circle of lamplight, she picked out a faint silhouette.

— Seems we're not alone.

The lad turned unhurriedly, sensing no threat within the bounds of his native Refuge, and raised the lamp with all his might. Even so, the light barely reached an adult's waist. The stranger stepped openly into the circle.

— Kolgrim. Following me without a sound? Like a night predator.

The caustic remark hid genuine surprise. Morrigan truly hadn't noticed his approach. And the leader of the Wardens of the Sanctum stood before her for the first time without armor—the iron that had seemed inseparable from him. He wore the local garb of warm furs like an ordinary hunter, though the axe at his belt still caught the dim light with a menacing gleam. Holding his palms open, he admitted bluntly:

— That's right. I was looking for you, but found only your sleeping companion and fresh tracks by the house. I caught the tail end of an interesting conversation with a young hunter and couldn't resist—listened to the end.

— How fortunate.

— More than you think. Brave one, isn't it time you headed home?

The question carried an implicit instruction. The boy caught the hint at once, nodded hastily to both adults, and hurried toward his doorstep.

— Why were you looking?

Kolgrim peered intently into the girl's dark outline as the swaying lamp receded and the boy merged with the darkness. Morrigan, too, found it hard to read expression in her interlocutor's eyes, so she simply waited. At last he spoke.

— You truly believe what you say. And you speak of things I'm unaccustomed to hearing. Still… I'm glad of the chance to understand your views better.

— The words sound as though this conversation had just…

Morrigan let the question hang. Instead of answering, Kolgrim only shook his head—denial or confusion. Then he gave voice to what sat beneath it.

— Sending a child out at such an hour… How can anyone even imagine it?

— Ah… So it's only his age and the late hour that offend you. You are an interesting man. Don't be quick to argue. I remembered your advice about our conversations. Better answer my first question.

— I came to report: the Warden detachment is ready to move out at first light. Everything is prepared. Fifteen men. Half witnessed your emergence from the heart of the Sanctum. Each is equally skilled with bow and spear.

A slow, winter-dawn smile crept across Morrigan's lips—predatory, pleased—and she didn't bother to hide it.

— Clever. I can't tell whether such choices are calculation or wolf-instinct. By mixing your inner circle with the other Wardens, you've shuffled the deck with marked cards, and now you're ready to play at two tables.

After a pause, Kolgrim lifted his gaze to the dark sky.

— We see different things in the same scene. But if the Chosen thinks I am clever, so be it. I am flattered. You know… listening to you, I feel the urge to ask: are you from Ferelden?

— Why do you ask?

— In your manner and speech, at times, you remind me of representatives of the Charter with whom I've had to negotiate.

— Dwarves…

Morrigan's eyes narrowed.

— How often do they visit the Sanctum?

— Twice during the warm season. Late spring and late summer. The dry time.

— They do their business and then leave?

— Yes. They extract something from deep fissures around the Sanctum—near-bottomless cracks in the rock where landslides, mudflows, and avalanches vanish without a trace. They bring us generous payment on their backs, for safety and for the labor of our hunters and guides. But which crevice the dwarves emerge from, I do not know. The Charter guards its secrets fiercely. None of my men managed to stay on their tail long enough. And bare stone holds no tracks.

— When neither side cares about who, why, or for what, deals are easier to make—and often cleaner.

— True. Since we've broached the subject of honesty… why did you really break into someone else's barn? This is no large city. You will leave tomorrow, but by noon it will be the talk of the town. And I will be the one to deal with it.

Morrigan wrapped her arms around herself—a gesture that could be mistaken for cold, though in truth her mind had already returned to a recent discovery. The silence stretched, but at last she began to lay out her thoughts with careful precision.

— If we speak plainly, a sudden, seemingly foolish guess turned out to be true. A mage's spells are a complex dance of half-grasped meanings that create small or great wonders. Thinking it through, I found much in common with prayer—except our "wonders" are real. And deadly. If a piece of magic is understood—what it does, how it's used—only a few, out of whim or stupidity, will step outside the bounds. It isn't an axe you can always swing at a tree, a person, or the surface of a lake. It's closer to a bow—except every arrow must be whittled on the fly.

— You witnessed a spell that transfers wounds to another. Strip away the excess and keep the essence: there are two people, and if the wounds of the first should kill him, the second dies instead. With death, the "wonder" ceases. From a mage's perspective, it's logical—an instrument meant strictly for "chopping wood." For example, it cannot be applied to the dead at all. At the same time, the spell is extremely simple; it almost seems to find its victim on its own. But complicate it a little—something Circle mages, it seems, avoid doing—and yes, you lose ease and flexibility. Yet nothing would prevent you then from choosing a corpse as the target. And suddenly the result is the same.

Kolgrim, not hiding his reaction, scratched the back of his head and muttered, subdued:

— It got to me, as they say. So I'll have to come up with my own answer…

— That didn't unsettle you?

— Unsettle?

He snorted.

— Did you not foresee my response? As they say, otherwise you wouldn't have dared tug the wolf by the tail. No, I've come to terms with you being a mage. Was there a choice? We discussed that. There's even a balance in it, if you give your thoughts enough room. Andraste fought against the tyranny of mages—only to fall by their hand. And now, to carry out her will, a mage is chosen. And truth be told, I understood little of what was said.

* * *

The girl had barely slept—only a few fitful hours. Restless with thought and worn thin after burning through a good share of her mana, Morrigan spent much of the night staring at the ceiling, listening to Leliana's measured breathing. As soon as the darkness beyond the window thinned into morning grey, Morrigan slipped from bed.

Chewing the meager remnants of yesterday's meal, Morrigan headed toward the hill where the two dragons lay. From below she couldn't make out their shapes, and with every step a dread rose in her—the fear of finding them gone. But they were there. After the snowfall that had come in during the night's final hours, the colossal silhouettes merged with the terrain, like a natural extension of the hillside. Morrigan was struck by the temperament of these enormous predators, capable of such boundless patience. Judging by the bustle, the hissing, and the faint squeals drifting from the slope hidden from view, the young had not yet inherited that stoic calm.

By dawn, the shepherds and livestock from the Sanctum were due to reach the Refuge. And, judging by the noises from the opposite slope, the snow there had already lost its pristine purity.

Up close, Morrigan cautiously laid a hand on the male's rough, cold scales. Even at arm's length, its stillness—set against the supple hide of the graceful female—felt like stone. No breath, no heartbeat… Squint, and the fearsome giant became part of the landscape. She pictured other such giants, embedded beneath scree, grown into slopes under moss and roots, waiting with infinite patience for better times. Moving along the body, her fingertips brushing the fresh powder, Morrigan reached the massive head.

Morrigan turned and assessed the Refuge. It lay below her as if in the palm of her hand. And compared to the creatures at her back, the human settlement seemed an insect at a giant's heel. Was there any point comparing a silver table knife to a battle-sword? Yet for all the difference, a sword is not always the right thing to draw—and in daily affairs a knife is far more practical. Any tool requires a master… and the right moment to strike.

The snow stung her bare palms until her fingers went numb, but Morrigan methodically brushed the snow from the motionless male's massive head. When she was done, she crouched, leaned forward, and pressed her forehead against it, exactly as she had at the heart of the Sanctum when she communicated. Steadying her breath, she settled herself for a long wait.

* * *

Two hours later, Morrigan stood before fifteen men—from youths with first fuzz on their chins to seasoned warriors with grey at their temples. Not a trace of doubt, not a hint of wavering. Only strong hands accustomed to the grip, wind-worn faces, and solid weapons: spears with polished shafts, taut bows, quivers packed tight with feathered arrows. The witch noted to herself that such stores meant the Refuge was parting with its last reserves. A glance at Kolgrim and the barest lift of a brow was enough. Kolgrim returned a terse nod.

Taking one last look at the bustling Refuge—where there were only children, old men with stony faces, and a few women with anxiety in their eyes to watch the proceedings—Morrigan slowly exhaled. With a deep breath, she turned sharply and stepped toward the lone mount, with Leliana perched on it. Patting the bard's thigh, the witch said:

— Well, then. Time won't wait.

Nodding as she surveyed the slopes—at last surrendered to winter—the bard replied, a shade of doubt in her voice:

— Eh bien… the way back will take no less time than the way here, non? Not now.

Adjusting her tight braid of dark hair and pulling up the hood of the fur cloak Kolgrim had provided, Morrigan answered with a curt nod:

— Nevertheless. We can't let the Chantry's army slip away. And your hand needs a healer—unless you want your fingers broken again so I can set them properly with magic. You might lose your former dexterity for good.

Leaving no room for reply, the witch went to the hunter Kolgrim had placed in command of the detachment—Schtille. He had been there on that ill-fated day, with Brom and the others. Even so, without preamble or wasted words, Morrigan extended an open palm. The older man looked sullen, almost grim, as if none of this brought him any joy. Morrigan had already noticed: every local hunter wore that same face whenever he sank deep into thought. Schtille didn't hesitate; he clasped her hand, gripping hard. A directness Morrigan could appreciate.

Morrigan nodded once to Kolgrim, then gestured to Schtille. Without further words or ceremony, the detachment set off. At first their steps were ragged, but soon every last one of them was marching in rhythm.