An unfamiliar voice called out. Tried to reach her. Someone shook her shoulder…
Suddenly tearing free from the veil of sleep, Morrigan's eyes flew open, fixing Alim with an owl-like stare. The man leaned over her, gripping her shoulder. His parted lips suggested her awakening had caught him mid-sentence. Restrained worry flickered in his eyes as the mage asked:
— Are you alright? Couldn't wake you, no matter how hard I shook you. Signs point to a nightmare… and not a mild one. You cried out—like someone was beating you. Then the convulsions started… Let's just say, seizures don't bring me the fondest memories.
The witch kept her wide-eyed gaze locked on the elf, breathing heavily. Slowly, she touched her cheek and found it damp with sweat. The cooling evening air had turned the beads of perspiration into a fine, glistening film.
— I…
Morrigan winced, scrambling to gather her scattered thoughts. Whatever words she'd meant to say evaporated before they reached her tongue. Claim she was fine? Too obvious a lie. Admit the problem? But what was the problem? Pressing a hand to her forehead, she focused, dredging up the remnants of the nightmare.
A forest. The dream had unfolded in a twisted version of a place she knew. It might've seemed ravaged by fire—the scent of char hung thick—yet no flames had touched the trees. A gray haze veiled her sight, pierced only by a diffuse, colorless light from above. The air carried no smell, and the vegetation appeared blackened, withering. Occasionally, large flakes of ash drifted down in a silent dance, coating the ground as far as she could see. Cold to the touch—unnaturally so. In places, though, it seemed to smolder, staining the dull palette with a single vivid hue: the dark crimson glow of embers. It resembled a battlefield, freshly abandoned. But within the haze lurked something vital—a detail slipping away with the fading clarity of the dream. The crushing sense that this was the missing key to understanding…
Exhaling, Morrigan opened her eyes again.
— The dream was… unusually vivid. I admit, this is a first for me. And… thank you. No one volunteers to be trapped in a nightmare a moment longer than necessary.
— You're welcome. The sun's nearly set.
True enough, night loomed on the horizon. This time, it arrived as a clear sky studded with stars. Their flickering light swelled to claim the heavens, transforming the dome above into a treasure trove of diamonds scattered across black velvet. After the nightmare's horrors, the sight was soothing—though the dissonance of admiring celestial beauty on a field where thousands had perished the day before wasn't lost on her.
Silence stretched between them. Only Alim seemed uneasy. Finally, he voiced the question gnawing at him.
— These dreams… Truly the first time?
Morrigan hesitated before answering reluctantly.
— Yes.
— Alright.
Another pause. Again, the elf broke it.
— Why Lothering?
— Why not? As I said, the road—
— Don't. For you, I'd wager every path's a road. Just pick a route.
— I don't know what you're digging for. It's the shortest way. Fewer dangers. Besides the Imperial Highway, the village sits on the river that splits the country north and south. A crossroads. Is that not reason enough? Fine! Where are your feet taking you, elf? Lothering has a dock. Upstream—a chain of lakes, then Calenhad's expanse all the way to that tempting Tower. Any other route would leave a wretched pedestrian like you stranded till the first snow.
Alim flinched—both at the blunt mention of his race and the merciless jab at his travel skills.
— Fair. My goals are transparent. Well, one is. What are yours?
— Concern? Or fear—wondering where the dreaded witch might slink off to?
— A bit of both. Mostly fear.
Morrigan laughed, though the sound held more chill than mirth.
— First Duncan. Now you. Why the sudden interest? As if no mages exist outside the Circle. But you know… Perhaps I will head to Kinloch. Tell me your plan. You show up at the Tower, a Grey Warden listed as missing. How do you explain your return without the Templars stringing you up? Or are you just eager to die the moment you step foot inside?
The mage shrugged, his voice dull with skepticism.
— No grand scheme… But it's not impossible. Entering Kinloch Hold's easier than leaving. Alive. Over the years, I've heard my share of rumors. Strip away the tales and fantasies, and you'll find thieves have breached the Tower before. That's one option. Then there's the whispers of mages who somehow maintain contact with the outside world, bypassing the Templars. Some even speak of an organization—mages living outside the Circle. That's option two.
— So, not hopeless. You've got things to ponder on the way.
— And why do you care about the Circle?
Morrigan's smirk faded, her tone losing its edge.
— Mother spoke highly of Kinloch Hold's library. Though her praise often ended… oddly. A joke, as if she'd delivered the finest tomes there herself.
She snorted at the absurdity, then continued.
— I want to see those books. My goal's no worse than yours.
— Why?
— For every question I ask, you lob two back. Who's the fox here, and who's the sheep? As I said—magic's acting strangely. I hope those books hold answers.
Alim nodded, sensing her simmering irritation. Instinct—or something deeper—stopped him from pushing further. Turning away, he gazed northwest. The last streaks of crimson and violet bled into the devouring blackness of night. As Morrigan stood and dusted herself off, she caught his expression.
— Perhaps you're the one who'd rather change course? I've seen you glance toward the treeline more than once.
Alim shrugged, his reply calm.
— The thought crossed my mind. More than once. But I left childish impulses behind with my youth. Weighed the odds, as the Circle teaches—let go of foolish illusions. So don't fret. Unless you abandon me in the woods, we'll be companions till Lothering's outskirts.
— Does the Circle teach a particular way of thinking?
— Thinking?... No. I don't know. From childhood, the Circle drills into you the ability to face facts coldly, to step back—to see a situation from the outside. To cut emotions out of your decisions. Without that, you won't survive to adulthood, let alone your Harrowing. Life in a closed community, a confined space, under rigid rules… When nightmares aren't just nightmares… When emotions can harm more than just yourself…
Squinting, the mage turned to Morrigan, who watched his expression and tone with sharp intensity. A thread of grim amusement laced his voice as he asked:
— Know why most great Circles are housed in towers?
— How would I? Fondness for stairs? Or a need to mask the fragility of delicate temperaments?
The elf snorted, tilting his head as if conceding the point.
— Plenty of theories. Some say it's easier to guard. Others—that it brings us closer to the Maker. Some argue it's simpler to burn mages if needed. There's the perspective from the windows, of course. And the symbolism—each tower a monument to the Chantry's authority. But my favorite? More… interesting.
He paused, as if giving Morrigan a chance to reconsider listening. She merely arched a brow, and he continued:
— Every cell has a window. Not for light or stars. For the dark hour—not of night, but of the soul—when each mage faces a choice. Open it… and step out. Or shut it… and greet the dawn.
— Charming. So towers are tests for suicides?
— No. Trials. Magic isn't just signs and spells. It's power that burns the weak from within. Those who buckle under the weight—of fear, loneliness, madness—they're dangerous. To themselves and others. The window is the line. If you're ready to surrender, you will. If not… then you've something worth enduring for.
— And how many… don't surrender?
— Enough to keep the Circle standing.
Morrigan tilted her head slightly, recalling:
— Duncan said much the same. But his words were about you.
Alim's brows lifted in surprise, then settled into a wry smirk.
— Sharp. But remember my rebuttal. The Knight-Commander delivered my sentence. In my analogy, mages pass judgment on themselves.
— You think those who judged themselves weak. True?
— Suppose I do.
Morrigan frowned, pressing:
— You didn't specify which. Those who jumped… or those who stayed?
— Again, precise. I didn't. Shall we move? It's getting cold.
As the elf strode toward the treeline, Morrigan watched him go, shaking her head faintly in puzzlement before following.
* * *
The night's trek through the forest passed without incident. The Imperial Highway lay utterly tranquil beneath the stars. Above, the young pearl-colored moon rose steadily while trees swayed softly in the cool wind, their leaves whispering. Only occasional night-bird calls and distant wolf howls pierced the silence.
Each traveler measured their steps toward dawn, privately contemplating what had been said—and left unsaid—between them. Morrigan cared little for her companion's thoughts, especially as he maintained his position two paces ahead. Her own mind, circling like a hawk, returned relentlessly to the nightmare's lingering weight—as if its images were stones dragging her under. Despite scrutinizing every detail, she found only cold traces and insufficient data for rational conclusions. Resolving to monitor her behavior and moods more closely, she faced two grim possibilities: either these oddities stemmed from a single source, or she'd simultaneously encountered multiple unrelated afflictions. Neither prospect comforted her.
The monotonous march dulled awareness. The dark silhouette of a hill seemed distant one moment, then abruptly loomed nearby. Slow realization dawned: they'd left the lowlands behind. The Highway now speared through rolling foothills stretching from Southron Heights in the east to the Frostback Mountains' western reaches, its path riding the ridges while shadowed vales hid below.
As eastern skies lightened, Alim conceded defeat without words, yielding the lead to Morrigan with only a tired sigh. She accepted with a neutral nod, devoid of triumph. When golden sunlight finally gilded the treetops, the forest awoke with cuckoo echoes, raven caws, and a chorus of warblers. Morrigan paused beside a natural archway where ancient pines overhung the road.
— We leave the Highway here. That vale eastward will add two hours, but see that gap between peaks? The ravine turns north—our path.
The hilltops wore thick coats of sun-bleached pine needles, but descending into valleys revealed a different world: broadleaf trees, ferns, and moss thriving near hidden streams. Fatigue made the rough trail punishing. By unspoken agreement, they rested on a sunny fringe where wild strawberries bled crimson against the green.
Leaving the brooding mage to his thoughts, Morrigan vanished into the woods without explanation. When she reappeared ninety minutes later, three large snowhares dangled from her grip by their broken necks.
— Raw or cooked?
She asked, dropping the game.
Alim's bemused chuckle held an edge.
— Is this your way of suggesting firewood gathering? Or do you not fear smoke signals in these lands?
A shrug.
— Merely asking. If smoke concerns you, use dry birch branches—still on trees, not fallen. Birch bark works too. Check the hollows. Pine kindling will suffice.
His skeptical expression said everything about finding dry fuel in this damp forest. Yet he rose and departed. Morrigan snorted, selecting a shaded slope for her work. Drawing an ornate hunting knife (its rose-engraved sheath glinting with gold filigree), she began carving turf with clinical precision.
By Alim's return, she'd excavated two connected pits—one vertical, one lateral. He deposited an armload of birch bark and surprisingly dry branches. Watching her arrange the tinder with ritual care, he noted how her flint struck sparks into near-smokeless flames.
With practiced efficiency, she skinned two hares over a second pit, later burying the offal beneath displaced sod. Impaled on sticks, the meat blackened deliberately over coals. Her silent, sidelong glance assigned roles as clearly as any proclamation. By mealtime, she'd even washed at the stream.
— Admittedly, I feel rather foolish.
Alim confessed while eating.
Morrigan's shrug was all razors.
— Then you're finally in harmony with your appearance"
The elf merely smiled. As she bound the third hare's legs with twine, her palm hovered over its frozen flesh:
— Fríos. Tenací.
Alim observed curiously.
—I've noticed you accompany spells with... ritual phrases. Why? That's Old Tevene—it holds no actual power.
Morrigan stiffened while securing the carcass to her belt.
— Nothing remarkable. My mother drilled those words alongside the runes.
— Given what you've implied about her skills, I doubt she'd teach meaningless incantations.
— Strange or not depends on perspective.
She kicked dirt over the embers.
— Habits outlast allies or enemies. She demanded those phrases be perfected like spells themselves. Often joked—" here her voice soured "—that they'd give me 'common ground with any Magister I might meet.
— A poor jest. Old Tevene would alert a Magister to your intentions faster than it'd spark conversation.
Mid-step, Morrigan faltered—her head tilting in ambiguous response.
— The thought occurred to me, — Morrigan admitted. — Mother's humor was... peculiar. But beneath those careless jests, I suspect another purpose. She played skillfully upon my hunger for arcane secrets—distracting me while teaching that ancient tongue alongside true magic. No mere child would endure such tedious phrases otherwise.
Alim rubbed his chin.
— I must confess... if true, that's at least clever. Devious, even. Wise, perhaps? My own instructors could've used such ingenuity.
— Everything was a puzzle to her, — Morrigan said, kicking a pinecone aside. — Some intricate riddle demanding solution. Sometimes I wondered…
Her voice flattened.
— ...if I too was merely another problem she sought to unravel.
The elf grew pensive, studying the path beneath his boots. When he spoke again, caution threaded his words:
— Strange... You speak of her as though she can no longer explain her methods herself.
Morrigan's pace faltered for half a step. She said nothing.
— Forgive me if I overstep, — Alim softened his tone, — but you only reference your mother in the past tense. Is she—
A guttural sound of irritation cut him off before the question fully formed.
— If apologies come before insults, — she snapped, — perhaps the insult shouldn't be spoken at all.
— No, I—
He exhaled sharply.
— Yes. Right. So...?
— I...
The witch's brows knitted. Emotions proved poor counsel here; facts were absent. Yet instinct whispered that his unspoken assumption held truth. Still, reason refused to elevate this possibility from hypothesis to certainty. Stumbling over the uncharacteristic hesitation, she crafted an oblique reply:
— I've not seen Mother for some time. What I haven't witnessed, I cannot know. But when last we met?
Her shoulders lifted fractionally.
— She seemed quite hale. Spirited, even.
Alim noted the contradiction but retreated, accepting the evasion. The remainder of their daylight trek through the northward-winding valley passed without incident, accompanied only by the forest's peaceful chorus.
* * *
Good things never last. By nightfall, stars vanished behind clouds creeping from the east. Then, without warning, a chill rain began just before dawn. Fortunately, the travelers had taken shelter beneath a massive fallen tree blanketed in thick moss. The broad trunk shielded them from the downpour and trapped what little warmth remained. Yet by sunrise—when the sullen sky finally ceased its weeping—both were soaked to the bone.
They awoke to a milky fog shrouding the forest, the aftermath of rain and cool air spilling down from the hills. Gone were yesterday's birdsongs; even the wind had died.
Morrigan, dispensing with greetings, curtly asked about her behavior during the night. Alim—who'd woken at the first raindrops and slept fitfully thereafter—reported only restless twitching. No screams. No convulsions.
Ten minutes into their march, the witch halted with a grimace, leaning her staff against a tree. Without a word, she shed her woolen vest, then—back turned to the hesitating elf—peeled off her sodden shirt. Donning the vest again, she draped the shirt over her staff's crook and marched onward. Over her shoulder came a taunt:
— Envious?
Struggling to master his reaction, Alim answered with forced indifference:
— The staff? Yes… A pity I didn't grab a suitable stick from camp.
Morrigan's laughter rang through the dreary woods.
— First man I've met to lament his lack of one. Care to lead?
— Another might trade double humiliation for such a prize. Might not even notice the cost… until the first misstep and your barbed remark. But I'll decline.
— Oh? So it is a prize—
The elf exhaled loudly and trudged ahead, silently hoping his trousers might dry within hours.
By noon, partial success. Morrigan, thanks to her clever method, fared better. Fog complicated their search for dry tinder, but after she demonstrated how to harvest dead branches' dry cores, Alim admitted defeat—he'd never have managed alone. He even lamented neglecting fire magic. A handful of foraged berries and unripe hazelnuts supplemented their meal.
The afternoon passed in silence through a fog-veiled forest. Then—suddenly—the oppressive weight of danger. Morrigan froze at the sound of birds taking flight. From a copse a stone's throw rightward. She whirled, hissing:
— Run.
They bolted left, uphill. False alarm? No—the pursuers' noises soon clarified: snorts, growls, the creak of worked leather, and heavy footfalls. Alim glanced back.
— Genlocks. A dozen. Armored. With darts.
— Bloody Void!
Morrigan skidded to a halt, driving her staff into the earth. Drawing a deep breath, she intoned:
— Somnia dirae tenebrae, animum furentē.
Darkness surged outward—harmless to Alim, but washing over the Genlocks. Birds erupted from the underbrush. Some darkspawn froze; others collapsed, twitched, or fled blindly.
Without wasting time to observe the spell's effects, Morrigan whirled and ran for her life. Alim strained to keep pace. Only after fifteen frantic minutes—scrambling over a hill, tumbling through slapping branches into a thicket, leaping a stream, and sprinting another fifty paces—did they stop. The elf gasped for air, fighting both ragged breaths and the urge to vomit up their meager meal. Morrigan fared only slightly better, though at least she could scan their surroundings with clarity. Minutes crawled by. Nothing. When Alim shot her a questioning look, she answered with a shrug and a nod.
As their breathing steadied, they pressed northward. Neither wished to discuss the encounter, yet silence gnawed at them. The mage broke it first, grasping for familiar—and thus soothing—ground:
— If your mother taught you spells like that... I'd say she rivals a First Enchanter.
Morrigan snorted, her contempt bare.
— A poor comparison. Neither honorable nor apt.
— I speak only of skill. That spell... I've never seen its like in the Circle.
Rubbing her brow, Morrigan privately conceded the point. Her resolve to track every anomaly demanded honesty, even when inconvenient. The spell's efficacy did exceed her memories—but which was false: her recollection or the magic itself?
— The spell isn't... practical. Requires careful use. Still, it's saved us twice. Doubt you'll find one rooted in nightmares and mental darkness in any Circle tome.
— You'd be surprised. The effect is debatable, but the spell's structure..
She waved for explanation without turning. Alim nodded reflexively, then smiled at the futility of gesturing to her back.
— Yours is a structured spell with controlled parameters. Such constructs are... masterworks.
Silence stretched. The mage awaited reaction; the witch pondered gaps in her education—and whether to reveal them.
— 'Structured'—this is common Circle terminology?
— Yes.
— Meaning?
— Ah... It means expending a predetermined amount of mana for a consistent effect. Your spell can exempt targets—consciously or instinctively. Most structured spells lack such precision. Those that do are usually open-form.
— Flattering. Though I repeat: the spell's no marvel. Mother called it 'a coward's tool.' Then mocked that cowards' privilege is burying the brave.
Alim coughed, swallowing remarks about Morrigan's mother—of whom he'd formed exceptionally conflicted impressions. The witch steered the topic back:
— If rarity's the measure, your spell takes the prize. Mother never mentioned its like.
— Well... It's unpopular. That might explain—
— Let me guess. Because it's open-form?
— Yes. The rune chain doesn't create the effect directly—it forms a mana node. Manipulating that generates the repulsive force. Incidentally, it's also limited by line of—
A grouse burst from the brush. Both froze, scanning the shadowed undergrowth. One minute. Two. Then—a snort. A bear shouldered through raspberry thickets thirty paces ahead. The lumbering lord of the woods eyed them lazily, sighed (or so it seemed), and ambled away.
After waiting double the necessary time, they resumed their march—briskly. Alim's voice held a tremor as he continued:
— As I was... ahem... The backlash from a successful pulse strains the node, demanding compensatory mana. Mages disdain open-form spells—difficult to master, unpredictable, and prone to knocking you unconscious. You've seen the results.
Morrigan nodded.
— Nothing comes without cost. Yet flaws didn't deter you.
— It accomplishes what other magic cannot. That justifies the risks. Besides...
He cleared his throat, adopting a deeper tone:
— 'To shield my brothers and sisters from threats within and without. To the last drop of mana. The last drop of blood. The final breath.' An old oath. Though nowadays, the 'blood' part feels... complicated.
A wry smile.
— Still, I uphold every word. If I collapse, it's after doing all I can. Then I trust my ally to see me through.
Morrigan pounced on the last line, her jab devoid of malice:
— Trust is a double-edged blade.
— A cliché favored by cynics and the witless. Trust becomes inevitable when my death ensures yours, and vice versa. That said...— He grimaced.— I'd prefer not relying forever on some plate-armored sylvanite ally. Before... events, I'd planned to refine the Repulsion Field—eliminate its worst flaws, or at least mitigate them.
— How very ambitious of you. None since the Imperium have famed themselves by crafting or improving rune chains. Those who succeed guard their secrets jealously—or die before speaking of them.
— True. My optimism about the future was... excessive. Hence my current state.— A pause.— And yours? What did you dream of?
Morrigan hissed, sudden venom in her voice:
— There it is—another maneuver. The moment emotions settle, we circle back to where we began!
Alim clicked his tongue, scratching his cheek as if approaching a wild beast:
— I've no intention of probing your plans. Truly. I asked about dreams. Like mine. It slipped out unthinkingly. Answer or don't.
She scowled. Anger throbbed at her temples—not at his words, but at her own fear. Fear that he'd noticed her anomalies and drawn conclusions. Fear that her terror, festering beneath courtesy, might twist him into an enemy. Fear that it already had. Another strangeness to catalog: her instincts had never betrayed her so before.
Eyes shut tight, she muttered:
— That was unnecessary. Very well... A dream.
She exhaled, gazing at the cloud-choked sky.
— Freedom. To escape Mother's smothering grasp. To flee where she'd never find me. A childish fantasy—unproven, unearned, just running. And now...— A hollow laugh.— Nearly a week of 'freedom.' Still running. Only now it's a chase.
— Matrinalis isn't the worst time for new beginnings.
They made camp behind a granite boulder—an anomalous sentinel on the hillside, lone and eternal beneath the passing sun.
* * *
The next two days tested both will and character—an ordeal Morrigan weathered far better than Alim.
Endless drizzle saturated every thread of clothing. Careless brushes against branches unleashed torrents of cold droplets. Clearings became shallow fords. Soaked boots promised blisters; clinging smallclothes chafed raw. During brief rests, Morrigan demonstrated a trick—stuffing wrung-out moss into her boots to absorb moisture.
Melancholy... While his companion remained sullen but focused, Alim discovered a grim beauty in the mood. Pausing beneath a broad-limbed tree, his mind stilled, mesmerized by the rain's white noise and distant thunder that prickled his scalp like ghostly fingers.
That first evening, shivering and exhausted, the elf longed only for warmth and sleep—either would suffice. Yet Morrigan roused him to build a fire. Smoke concerns forgotten, they fed it pine resin and spruce boughs. As flames finally took hold, an unexpected gratitude swelled in Alim's chest. Heat waves banished treacherous tremors, offering precious dryness.
No time for hunting. Their diet dwindled to berries, nuts, and the occasional fire-roasted mushroom. Conversation faded to gestures, but exhaustion dulled the tension of silence.
And dreams... Morrigan's nights were haunted. Something indefinable, though Alim confirmed she twitched uncomfortably. By the third dawn, he had to slap her awake from a nightmare's grip. She trembled long after opening her eyes. On the march, she admitted the dream's unnatural vividness.
What she withheld was its exact replication of the vision from Ostagar five days prior. Vivid dreams might be normal—but recurring nightmares? No accident. A symptom. The mage's words echoed: "A mage's nightmares are more than dreams." Her mother's warnings hissed louder: "Dreams are the gifted's greatest weakness." Consequences loomed, unexamined...
Meanwhile, the drizzle thinned to sporadic drops that could no further drench their sodden clothes.
Near midday, cresting a hill above a westward-bending valley, they beheld an arresting sight: a cleared lowland cradling a humble farmhouse, outbuildings, and tilled earth—classic Fereldan frontier stubbornness.
Yet no movement stirred. Shutters fastened, doors barred, tools absent. Abandoned, but deliberately.
Pausing before the locked dwelling, Morrigan gestured to a faint dirt track winding northwest.
— Lothering's two, three hours this way. Hardly worth the delay. Rain's stopped. And I've no interest in breaking doors.
At Alim's terse nod, she turned with renewed vigor toward the road. As if in answer, the gray cloud blanket began fraying—pale sky peeking through like an army in retreat.
After a time, Alim ventured:
— You think they fled the southern troubles?
Morrigan shrugged, eyeing the emerging blue.
— Likely. Lothering's troops passed through—yesterday at latest, perhaps days prior. Farmers here are canny. They scent danger early.
The elf chewed his lip, studying the ground.
— I'd rather not revisit this... but we must address what happened at Ishal's Tower. I needed time to consider it calmly. That... transformation... resembles demonic possession. If we're bound for town, I require facts to decide.
Morrigan snorted, her tone flat:
— Absurd. If possessed, why would I indulge this? Plan to duel me? Or hope I'll confess and spare you the guilt? No—your fear seeks reassurance against your principles. Your logic fails. You want the witch to convince you there's no problem.— A pause.— And curiosity gnaws at you.
Alim paled but nodded. Satisfied, she continued:
— First answer: what options do you weigh?
— I've rarely betrayed my conscience. I'll sacrifice myself, but not for abstractions. So... Templars in Lothering seem the least vile choice.
— I've seen the Maker's warriors. Unpleasant, killing you would be.
— Yet—
— Yet necessity dictates action. Self-sacrifice isn't my custom.
Silence lingered as they marched. By journey's end, the clouds had parted. Sunlight—first timid, then bold—set droplets on leaves ablaze. A warm northeastern wind celebrated the storm's passing.
Abruptly, Morrigan spoke:
— What happened in the Tower was spellwork. Terrifying, but known even to Hasind nomads. Many witches learned from Flemeth, as I did. The runes are Imperial... All the Magisters stole, crafted, or failed to replicate. The signature is unmistakable. But the spell itself...— She grimaced.— Like words scattered yet forming a pattern. It feeds on the caster's flesh and blood.
Alim's mouth opened soundlessly. Minutes passed before he managed:
— Thank you for that... It sounds like structured magic with control and no time limit. Not a masterwork—a violation. Absurd enough to be credible. And blood magic...— He exhaled sharply.— Your mother is... extraordinary. My earlier assessment was insulting. Yet...
His head shook uncertainly.
— Yet any magic scholar would call this Maleficar. Others would cry possession. A compelling reason for silence.
— Brilliant counsel. But I care only for your decision.
— This clarified nothing. Honestly? After these days and words... I've no urge to flee. Is that wise? Weeks may tell...
Morrigan's smirk held no joy. The exchange pleased yet bittered her—like a rigged bargain. Not trust's dawn, but fresh suspicion: Could he be lying? Only the emerging sun lightened her mood.
* * *
The road twisted one final time through the trees before spilling the travelers out at the forest's edge. Beyond lay rolling slopes of endless spring rye, their heavy heads rippling under wind-driven waves. Shadows of white clouds slid across the golden-green fields—still a month from true harvest, though those who'd sown them might not live to see it.
The path meandered down into a valley where the river glittered like scattered coins. To the left ran the Imperial Highway—a dark, ruler-straight line that seemed toy-like from this distance. Where nature and artifice met sprawled Lothering, its buildings clustered like thrown dice. Westward glimmered a chain of lakes; eastward, the river vanished into hills bound for Denerim.
Descending revealed more details. Against the yellow-green fields, the village grew from a brown smudge to a mud-churned blot. An army's passage during heavy rains had turned earth to slurry, rendering the already humble settlement downright ugly.
Alim pointed toward refugees trickling along the Highway east of town—some with carts, some on foot—all funneling into chaotic crowds at the bridge. The sole surviving Imperial-era crossing over the River Dane.
Morrigan clicked her tongue, squinting at the Highway.
— So this is their legacy. The road's shattered beyond the river too...
— That damage is older,— Alim corrected.— From the Orlesian occupation. A decisive battle was fought here—one Ferelden lost. For seasons after, Lothering housed their command.
— Charming. But look closer. Their commander rebuilt bridges over broken segments... only to demolish them again when retreating. Surprising this one still stands.
The mage frowned, then nodded.
— How long until they reach here, do you think?
— What am I, a seer now?
— I value your insight.
Morrigan's lips twisted. After scanning the terrain, she answered:
— Perseverance. Purpose. Foresight. Few people remain here. The horde burns and destroys without thought of plunder. An army digging in would only draw them. So your commander—clearly smarter than most—withdraws north. The horde won't come soon. First the Western Hills, Gwaren, and other southern cities will burn. Then Redcliffe's populous valleys. But people expect the enemy to behave like any army.
Alim nodded slowly.
— An interesting deduction...
He shifted topics abruptly, shielding his eyes from the sudden sun.
— Shall we blend with the refugees? A tavern with warm beds—perhaps even hot water—would be welcome.
Morrigan stopped dead. Her gaze fell to the staff she'd carried for years. Pressing her forehead to the wood, she exhaled sharply—then flung it aside.
— Very well.
She marched on, eyes fixed ahead on Lothering's waiting sprawl.
* * *
The winding road finally delivered the travelers—along with a dozen other fortunate souls—to the village gates, where a refugee camp sprawled in all its miserable glory: carts, tents, mud, and the first fetid whiffs of a lazily-dug latrine pit. The air thrummed with voices, movement, and that unmistakable tang of fear—woven into every hurried word, every nervous gesture.
Two fully-armored Templars stood guard at the entrance. Their gear bore the dull sheen of hard use rather than parade-ground polish, yet the scratched metal still commanded respect. The lightly-stubbled men scanned passersby with disinterest, dismissing Morrigan and Alim after noting their lack of weapons or suspicious markings.
The muddy track followed the river before terminating at the village's central chantry. But almost immediately, the pair had to skirt a shouting mob surrounding a merchant's cart.
— Highway robbery!— someone yelled.
Morrigan's sharp eyes picked out the instigator—a woman in ochre wool robes that brushed her ankles, her hair pinned in a severe bun. A Chantry sister. While the crowd raged about inflated prices for travel supplies (especially dried fish from local waters), the sister maintained icy decorum, delivering measured arguments the red-faced merchant only deigned to acknowledge. Stranger still—the Templars mere paces away ignored the scene entirely.
Another commotion awaited near the chantry steps. Here, the focal point was a wild-haired man in patched furs, his beard braided in the Hasind fashion.
—My clan saw them in the woods!— he rasped.— Creatures black as the Void! They move silent—no war cries, just blood and the Blight in their veins! They come north—slow, but they come!
Alim's whisper cut through the prophet's ravings:
— Unusual...
They paused at the bridge's foot, observing. The elf scratched his chin before nodding toward a Templar lurking near the chantry wall. The man's ornamented tabard marked him as the local Knight-Commander—and his expression simmered with contempt for either the Hasind or the spectacle itself.
Morrigan's assessment was colder:
— That one's clan stayed when others fled the Blight. Too greedy—or too cowardly—to abandon their hunting grounds. Now he spins tales of being the sole survivor.
Alim frowned but nudged her toward the bridge.
— Let's go. And... perhaps let me do the talking at the inn.
— Why?
— Your... phrasing tends to linger in memory.
She scowled but didn't argue, muttering only:
— As do certain ears...
The Hasind's gaze followed them as they crossed to the riverside inn—its tile roof sagging but still the sole lodging for miles. Just before they passed from earshot, his tirade hitched. For one knife-sharp moment, his eyes locked on Morrigan's back. Then the crowd swallowed him again.