The rest of the night passed in movement and sullen silence. Morrigan's companions were weighed down by exhaustion, fresh bruises, wounds, and the foul weather. Before dawn, the group was twice drenched by short, icy downpours. An additional burden was the still-unconscious elf, passed like a reluctant parcel between Jory and Alistair. And then there was the gnawing sense of danger—unshaken even by the first rays of sunlight. It seemed to lurk behind every bush now. Unsurprisingly, the men were haunted by the death of their comrade, left behind without burial or honors. The witch, however, treated the night's events as a settled matter, refusing to torment herself with grim reflections.
Yet.
As the sun flickered between the clouds, the monotony of the march took hold. The sharp edges of dark thoughts and intentions blurred. Guilt dulled. The warmth of the new day helped, as did the vivid, living landscape. A sliver of brighter emotion came when Alim finally regained consciousness. After a brief rest and a terse summary of events, the mage grasped the mood and wordlessly fell into step, saving questions and commentary for later.
Two hours later, cresting another hill, the party spotted the slender silhouette of Ostagar's watchtower ahead—still awe-inspiring after centuries. It pierced the sky like an arrow. The promise of campfires, warmth, and food now lay just beyond the last ridge.
Alistair slumped onto a nearby log, forehead pressed to his knees, signaling the others to catch their breath. Jory gingerly probed his mouth, then immediately collapsed into the grass. After a moment's silence, the leader straightened and fixed his gaze on the lithe figure of the girl. Leaning casually on her staff, she stared pensively at the horizon between sparse pines—precisely where they'd first met her. Not a trace of fatigue showed. Deliberately sharpening his tone, the blond tossed out a question:
— How do you manage to look so fresh after a march like that?
Without shifting her gaze, Morrigan smirked.
— A puzzle, truly. Either my fellow traveler is far better prepared for strolls… or the men around her are simply weak. I'll ponder it at leisure.
Alistair scowled. The girl, catching his reaction from the corner of her eye, sighed and continued:
— There were times I wouldn't return home for days. Hunting. Surveying the wilds, studying beasts, gathering herbs. Just the forest and… the maiden. That tempers both body and mind—teaching where the line lies between arrogance and real strength.
The elf, perched on the gnarled roots of a distant pine, ventured cautiously:
— Alone? And no one worried? No one searched for a girl lost in the woods? Called you home?
Morrigan closed her eyes and shook her head.
— Complex questions. Slippery words. Loneliness—what is it? How does one describe concern? Our perspectives may differ fundamentally, elf. You, Tower-raised, should understand such nuances better than most. Especially after stepping into the wider world. The chains you endured never bound me. And the feelings that stirred my spirit? Not for outsiders' ears.
Jory, rubbing his bandaged leg under his trousers, grinned and spat a barbed comment:
— A witch is a witch. Like these lands—wild, dangerous, and deceptive. What they say of the mother applies to the daughter.
The girl shrugged and tossed back indifferently:
— A warrior. Like the sword on his back—heavy, dull, unwieldy. What holds for one holds for the rest.
The swordsman bristled but checked himself under Alistair's sharp look. With an offended snort, he flopped into the grass, muttering:
— Sword's perfectly sharpened. Checked it before leaving camp.
Unexpectedly, Alim spoke up:
— After last night… I've been wondering. Why Ostagar? You could've slipped past any foe in the wilds of the Korcari.
— You've a Grey among you, but—blondie, how many darkspawn have you seen at once?
Alistair's jaw twitched. He shot the elf a dark glance but answered evenly:
— Thirty-four. The ranking officers ordered us to turn tail and prove we could run. One of us didn't make it.
Morrigan tilted her head thoughtfully, as if weighing this.
— I've seen a hundred. From afar. So, elf—when a horde like that crawls through the forest, there's no hiding in branches or roots.
Seeing the conversation wither, Alistair slapped his knees and stood.
— Lovely chat. Truly 'heartwarming.' Let's move. Three hours tops, and we're in camp.
Groaning discreetly, the party rose for the final descent. The terrain grew stonier—boulders veined with roots, exposed bedrock. The hills steepened, as if some titanic force had crumpled the Korcari wilds, carving deeper valleys and sharper peaks. Near Ostagar, cliffs dropped abruptly. The pines now mingled with deciduous trees, their crowns aflame with autumn gold.
The path steepened, forcing the group to clutch at outcrops and pause for breath. During one such break, Morrigan drew alongside the panting elf. She watched him climb, teeth gritted, until sunlight broke through the clouds—revealing a face too pale even for an elf. That decided it:
— That magic which saved us last night…
She drew out the words, giving him time to gather his thoughts.
— Remarkable skill for a Circle apprentice. A battlemage?
Alim took two deep breaths, wiped sweat with his sleeve, glanced at Alistair's back, and finally met her gaze.
— Strange that that interests you. But no. I never intended to join the battlemages—drafted by Chantry and King. Life there's… thicker, simpler. But there are hidden costs. Still, I'd a knack for magic young, which opened paths. Of the options, I chose Tower guard: standing with templars during Harrowings, keeping order, escorting Tranquil. A protector… As you see, my plans lacked foresight.
Morrigan narrowed her eyes, scaling the next ledge with ease. At the top, she offered a hand. The elf hesitated, then accepted without shame.
As she hauled him up, she voiced the thought on her needle-sharp tongue:
— You speak as if you had something—or someone—to guard in that Tower. How curious. I'll not claim a wilds witch knows all of the Circles or Kinloch Hold… but few there burn to defend their gilded cage. Let alone devote themselves to it.
Brushing himself off, the elf shook his head.
— The heart of another is a dark forest.
The witch nodded slowly.
— So it is.
* * *
After cresting the final ridge, the party entered a forest starkly different from the one before. Even the scent had changed. The evergreen pines were gone, replaced by the lush variety of broadleaf trees typical of Ferelden's heartlands. Rolling with the terrain, the trees stretched in waves all the way to the fortress walls, where cliffs plunged vertically downward. This time, the descent was over slick stones, carefully skirting a rain-swollen pool visible in the hollow below.
Morrigan paused. For the first time on this path, the girl studied the vista with sharp attention. A faint crease on her forehead betrayed the effort she poured into memorizing every detail—every possible hiding place. Misreading her thoughts, Alim offered his own take on the striking landscape.
— A tad unsettling, isn't it?
The girl arched a brow and turned to him, waiting. The mage faltered, realizing his mistake, but quickly clarified.
— It's common knowledge the fortress is an Imperial relic from Tevinter's golden age. Few realize the forest around it contrasts with the Korcari Wilds for the same reason. The Magisters planted it. Perhaps Tevinter mages found this foliage more… aesthetically pleasing. Or the original terrain was razed during construction. What unsettles me is the sheer labor—transforming a border outpost at the empire's edge.
Alistair, already picking his way down, tossed over his shoulder:
— Beauty's fine, but what matters is it's impassable for cavalry or supply trains. Admire it from inside the fort. Move along.
The march led them along a narrow trail between boulders, then to a grove at the fortress's base. The walls, though weathered and veined with tenacious weeds, still radiated impregnability. The winding path brought the quartet to a clearing of stumps—then to a trampled field before the gates. Sawhorses, wood shavings, and piles of bark hinted at recent activity. The gates themselves, hastily repaired and reeking of fresh timber, suggested the fort's restoration had barely concluded.
Two bored spearmen guarded the entrance, their faces devoid of curiosity. To avoid unsettling them, Morrigan slipped between her companions, leaving the talking to the blond. Alistair waved and strode ahead, asking if Duncan was in camp or with the King. The guards shrugged; they'd only been on duty a few hours. A couple of flat jokes later, the group passed through Ostagar's gates.
Inside, the fortress's guts had fared worse than its walls and towers—as if built in different eras. Not a single outbuilding survived the centuries. Even the grand central structure was now a skeleton of columns and beams, its ruins hinting at vast halls and Tevinter's love of communal spaces. Ironically, Fereldans now preferred cramped quarters with tiny windows.
The military camp sprawled amid vegetation reclaiming the ruins—a mosaic of tents in faded hues, their heraldry clashing oddly with autumn's palette and the weather-worn statues. The gate opened onto the upper tier, near haystacks, horse pens, and a freshly built kennel. And it was the hounds that delivered the first unpleasant surprise.
One barked, then the rest joined in. The party reacted differently. Jory glared at Morrigan, his split lips too painful for words. Morrigan feigned surprise but tensed inwardly, expecting treachery from Alistair. Even she found the mabari's reaction odd. Alim watched her sidelong, not the dogs. Alistair scowled, then turned to the kennel master, who leaned on a post with a grim smirk.
— Alistair. Should've known… Only a Grey could rattle the hounds like that. Sometimes they can't tell your kind from darkspawn.
The kennel master's smirk sharpened.
— And judging by the stains, you've got their cursed blood on you, not just in you. That shade's no deer or Hasind.
Grimacing, he added:
— Bad luck, or were you hunting trouble?
Alistair exhaled, his shoulders loosening slightly.
— Bad luck, obviously. Seeking out darkspawn on purpose? That's just stupid.
The man swept the ragged party with a disapproving glance.
— Careful, Grey. The army's here to fight them—on whose orders, you know damn well. Some might call that kind of talk… bold.
— Won't change my mind. Excuse me—I've got blood to wash off.
— Aye. And Alistair? Don't track filth around. Folks are jumpy enough.
As they walked away, Morrigan murmured:
— 'Track filth'?
Alistair grunted.
— Darkspawn blood's toxic. A drop in an open wound? Death sentence. Most know it's what makes Grey Wardens, too. But they don't trust ours won't corrupt them. Hence the 'filth.' Handshakes are… rare.
— Fascinating.
The camp defied expectations. Instead of orderly rows around a command tent, it sprawled chaotically. Center: a cluster of pavilions merged into one, cordoned off by rope and guarded by four armored warriors. Their engraved breastplates—a sword amid rays or petals—marked them as Templars. A makeshift Circle enclave. Periphery: supply wagons huddled near a noisy workshop. To the right, soldiers drilled spear thrusts and archery.
Alistair led them toward a bonfire between ancient columns. A man sat there on a broken statue's head—dark-skinned, silver-streaked beard, armor echoing Templar design but distinct. At their approach, he stood, hands clasped behind his back. To Morrigan, his stern face was an open book: the slight crinkles around his eyes betrayed warmth, all of it aimed at Alistair.
His voice was smooth, low:
— Alistair. It seems your 'brief scouting trip' diverged from the confident plan you outlined. The Wilds extract a price for carelessness—though I hope the lessons were worth it. Report.
The blond ducked his head like a chastised pupil. Jory watched the exchange with awe; Alim feigned boredom.
— Yes, Knight-Commander. You were right. Again.
Alistair straightened.
— No signs of darkspawn until the ruined outpost. Then the weather… A storm gathered from nothing. Lightning like I've only seen on the Waking Sea. We got the downpour, not the worst.
The commander nodded.
— Same here. Rains drowned every fire. Loghain had the mages light these pyres.
He gestured to the bonfire.
— Go on.
— At the ruins, we encountered… the current keeper of the Treaties. After… negotiations, we reached terms. Some involved, ah—
Alistair glanced at Morrigan.
Morrigan emitted a deep, throaty sound—deliberately drawing attention to her irritation—before addressing Alistair's interlocutor directly:
— You're Duncan, then? These louts keep naming you as the one who gives orders.
— Correct. And your name?
— Felandaris.
The elf openly smirked upon hearing this, perhaps for the first time. The others merely blinked in surprise. Duncan, however, allowed a faint smile.
— So be it. A telling name.
— That's the point.
— How did the Treaties come into your possession, Felandaris?
— Circumstance. Like what brought everyone to this fortress. Let's not mince words. A deal was struck between me and Alistair, as the Grey Wardens' representative. He got the Treaties his Order needed, intact. In exchange, I get safe passage into this camp and secrecy about my identity. The only question now is: what weight does a given word hold for you? The blond's disgustingly honest. And you?
Duncan narrowed his eyes, steel creeping into his voice:
— You're putting me in an awkward position.
— That's the point.
— Very well. Alistair—your thoughts on our guest?
The leader shifted uncomfortably but answered plainly:
— Hard to judge after one night. Prickly. Tough. More endurance than any of us… save you, Knight-Commander. Fights well. Not a coward. But her first priority is always her own skin. A witch.
He spat the last word, earning a sharp look from Duncan.
— Alistair. Shed your Templar past, or it'll bury you when it matters most.
At the mention of the Order, Morrigan's eyes flicked to Alistair, but she betrayed nothing else. The blond bowed his head, reciting a rote reply too quickly:
— My apologies.
— Spare them. Hmph. 'Disgustingly honest.' Apt, Felandaris. That tells me more than Alistair grasped. A dangerous bargain—but Grey Wardens pay their debts. Our path's never straight, nor unquestionably 'right.' Even the King doubts it now. Back to this fight you mentioned.
Alistair scratched his neck and continued:
— Darkspawn. A full squad, but unarmed. Their leader acted… odd. Held back, then fled. And Daveth… didn't make it.
— Losses are inevitable,— Duncan said. — A leader's duty is to minimize them—not eliminate them entirely. Remember, but don't let memory hinder you. Cynical? Heartless? Such is command.
He glanced skyward before prompting:
— Anything else?
— Tracks. Before the fight, we found a clear trail heading northwest. They moved in formation.
— Fits the pattern, strange as it is,— Duncan mused. — Three clashes reported in the past day—all near Korcari's hills, two hours from Ostagar. All the same: victories against disorganized, unarmed darkspawn. Minimal infections, all fatal. Call it luck, but four such encounters? Suspicious. As are the… missing patrols.
Jory, unable to contain himself, leaned forward:
— Ser Duncan, who—?
— Officially, we've lost no one,— Duncan said carefully. — Two patrols failed to send couriers. King Cailan agrees: couriers travel in threes, yet none returned. The first patrol was led by Fergus Cousland—heir to his house, with forty mounted knights. The second: Urien Kendells, Arl of Denerim, with twenty elite mercenaries.
Morrigan filed this away. Something was being hidden—patrols fed easy victories while shadows swallowed others. She voiced her contempt:
— So many pretty titles. Likely they just got lost. No competent mages to send a signal, I'd wager.
To everyone's surprise, Duncan nodded.
— We lack mages. I requested twenty battle-ready. Loghain demanded more. Yet the Chantry sent mostly Templars—and the few mages are healers.
He turned to practicalities:
— The Treaties are secured. Now, focus on the Joining. Rest while you can. Alistair—wash the taint from yourselves and your gear. Meet me at the central ruins at dusk.
As Alistair handed over vials of darkspawn blood and wilted herbs, Morrigan noted the plants were useless weeds, crudely uprooted.
Duncan paused, his gaze now assessing:
— You've not been forgotten, Felandaris. Your name's a lie, your motives opaque. But I suspect you prefer clarity over vague promises. Until the Joining is done, Alistair's word is mine—but no further. You're a guest. Best remain one.
As Duncan strode toward the Templars' tents, Alistair groaned:
— So. Baths… or food first?
Jory patted his stomach mournfully, but Alim cut in:
— Baths.
* * *
The bathhouse was a fresh log structure on the far side of the gorge, flanked by Ostagar's ancient walls like a sentinel. According to Alistair, they'd built it at the foot of Ishal's Tower—one of the few structures still standing defiantly intact, bearing the name of the Tevinter Archon who'd overseen Ostagar's construction. The mundane jostled with the eternal here.
From the bridge spanning the gorge, the view was staggering. To the south, a slope choked with rubble descended into the gorge proper, now dotted with tents as uniform as mushrooms after rain—far more orderly than the haphazard sprawl within the fortress. Scarlet campfires, the ones Duncan had mentioned, flickered between the makeshift lanes already taking on the distinct character of their makers. Beyond a sparse palisade lay a barren field, stripped of shrubs, then a swath of fresh stumps leading to an old pine forest. The gaze could climb those trees and race unobstructed to the horizon, where the outlines of distant hills blurred into the sky.
The only other mark of civilization was the Imperial Highway—so massive it seemed part of the landscape. Once, it had met the gorge head-on, culminating at Ostagar's gates. But centuries of neglect had left its nearest arches dismantled or swallowed by the wilds. Now, it reemerged an hour's march away, where the army had hacked crude ramps into the earth. From there, it arrowed toward the horizon, a ruler-straight slash across the natural world.
Morrigan turned away, hastening to keep up with her weary companions. Only Alim glanced back—northwest, she noted, toward Lake Calenhad and the Tower of Kinloch Hold, Ferelden's primary Circle of Magi.
The bathhouse itself was a "masterpiece" of field engineering: two crooked boxes cobbled from scrap lumber, gaps wide enough to slip a hand through. Steam seeped everywhere—through the needle-strewn roof, between logs, even the crudely carved vents. Nearby, soldiers lounged on rocks while their sergeants barked orders, sending the able-bodied to chop firewood.
Alistair adopted what he likely thought was a commanding air and approached a sergeant. The man unleashed a colorful stream of curses, which the Grey Warden ignored. Leaning in too close, Alistair began murmuring something to the stocky, older man.
Amused, Alim whispered to Morrigan:
— Bath order's set by the captains. Only rule: returning patrols jump the queue. These lads are lucky there's just four of us. When a forty-man troop comes back—
— Wait.
Morrigan cut him off.
— You genuinely assume I'd go in there with you?
Alim opened his mouth, then realized his mistake.
— Ah. Right. I've spent days trailing after three men and— Never mind. I'm too tired to dig myself deeper. But you…?
— I'll manage. Unlike you, I'm not caked in blood and filth. The rain washed Daveth's clothes clean enough. I'll wait… elsewhere.
As Alim trudged after Alistair—now cheerfully suggesting the sergeant fornicate with his mother's pet—Morrigan scaled Ishal's Tower, fingers finding purchase between megalithic blocks. She perched on a ledge a dozen paces up, her staff wisely left with Duncan to avoid attention. The only miscalculation? The soldiers below applauded her display of agility, then promptly returned to their dice games once the sergeant's back was turned.
From her perch, Morrigan observed the men below with clinical detachment. They weren't afraid—not truly. Their nervous laughter, bravado, and sudden aggression over trifles spoke of lingering anticipation, not dread. Even the sergeants carried themselves with cocky indifference, as if darkspawn were mere training dummies. Duncan had been right: without firsthand horror or a commander's discipline, this army saw no reason to fear. And the Grey Wardens' warnings fell on deaf ears.
Closing her eyes, Morrigan turned inward. Now, in this rare stillness, she confronted the void in her memory—a gap that slithered from focus like something trivial. But she'd been raised in the Wilds, not coddled like these soft southerners. With iron will, she clawed at the emptiness, probing its frayed edges for the moments just before the darkness.
That day had begun like any other. She'd returned from hunting, dragging a bloodied musk deer carcass. Flemeth greeted her with neither warmth nor words—just that piercing stare before resuming her inscrutable rituals. Then…
Morrigan frowned. Fragments resisted cohesion: a figure emerging from the trees. Male, perhaps. And her mother's face—surprised. That alone chilled her. Flemeth, despite the rumors, was no mad crone ruled by whimsy. Unpredictable? Yes. Capricious as winter winds? Certainly. But surprise? Morrigan had seen it maybe thrice in her life.
And an uninvited guest who'd slipped past Flemeth's wards? Unthinkable. Her mother always knew of intruders days in advance—enough time to send Morrigan scrambling to mislead fools or slaughter overzealous maleficar hunters.
Two possibilities remained: either this was another of Flemeth's cruel lessons (though the scale felt excessive even for her), or someone had outmaneuvered the Witch of the Wilds. The latter made Morrigan's skin prickle. Yet logic dismissed panic—if such an enemy had let her live, they either no longer cared or hadn't come for her at all.
A flicker of grief surfaced—not for Flemeth's hypothetical demise, but for the stolen memories. Then anger: someone had robbed her of choice.
Why assume violence, though? She exhaled, distancing herself from the emotions clinging to the memory of smoke over their hut. Some felt… imposed, like an animal's instinct to flee fire. But without a pursuer, what sparked this urge?
The mental image suggested devastation—trees shattered, the clearing scarred. Had there been a battle? If so, its magnitude would've reduced her to collateral damage. Yet here she breathed. The only plausible scenario was intervention: something had shielded her, erased all traces of harm, and spirited her away. But how?
A throbbing headache tightened around her skull. She massaged her temples, refocusing on the present. Ostagar's imminent carnage posed a far likelier death than any shadowy stranger.
Half an hour later, the men still hadn't emerged. Patience exhausted, Morrigan scanned the camp for women. Soldiering remained rare among Fereldan women, but Orlesian occupation had eroded some prejudices. She spotted two archers on duty—identical braids, weary expressions. Perfect.
Loosening her hair, she replicated their hairstyle in minutes. As she dropped from the ledge, her posture shifted—shoulders rounding, steps measured. Not flawless, but enough to blend in. As much as a golden-eyed woman with raven hair ever could among these ruddy northerners.
Adopting the weary, harried demeanor of a soldier with too many duties, Morrigan crossed the bridge unchallenged. No one cared to stop her. With three hours until sunset, the only place worth her attention was the mages' cordoned-off section. She chose a spot just beyond the Templars' sightline but within earshot, dropping unceremoniously to the ground. As she rummaged through her pack, she noted how nothing drew less suspicion than an idling soldier.
The Templars, like all sentient beings, couldn't resist gossip. Their conversation was sluggish—pauses stretching between phrases, silence when others passed—but the snippets were revealing. They spoke of Kinloch Hold: tensions flaring since a quarter of the Templar garrison had marched to Ostagar, leaving the Circle understaffed. The First Enchanter, ever the Chantry's lapdog, preached dialogue, but both guards suspected conspiracy. They hoped to return before "something irreversible" happened to their comrades—or the mages they'd grudgingly befriended.
After a dreary tangent comparing junior enchantresses to dairy cows, the talk turned juicier: a Seeker had arrived in Denerim. The way they whispered the title—half awe, half dread—suggested someone high in the Chantry's shadowy ranks. Rumors swirled: the Blight, a renegade hunt, even whispers of Aeonar, the mage prison, falling silent for the first time in decades.
Morrigan was weighing this when Duncan emerged from the tents. He nodded to the Templars and vanished behind the canvas—only to reappear at her shoulder, his footsteps swallowed by the camp's din.
— Felandaris. The transformation suits you—though it makes me question your intentions.
His voice was dry.
— For our safety, you'd do better staying visible. But since youth favors recklessness, you'll endure an old man's company. Walk with me. Tell me your aims.
— You think I have more than one?
— Alistair's mind holds one goal at a time. Not simplicity—focus. You? Your eyes betray you. Even mid-conversation, you're parsing clues, weighing options. Multiple aims. The question is: do you steer them, or they you?
— Hmph.
— Don't bristle. Outliving one's peers turns men into philosophers. Or death-seekers.
— Are you seeking death here?
— Ah. 'Prickly' fits. Alistair learns. Good.
Duncan led her into Ostagar's skeletal heart—a grand hall with miraculously intact burgundy tiles.
— After seeing death up close, I've doubts about 'worthiness.' Hence the philosophizing. Your goals?
Morrigan shrugged.
— For now? Survive. Escape north. Then…
She faltered. There should be a plan, yet the details eluded her.
— Find somewhere safe. Sort through… doubts. Simple.
Duncan nodded toward a massive slab—altar or table, its purpose lost.
— A respectable plan. May you achieve the first steps.
He produced a cloth bundle.
— Not porridge, but filling.
Inside were two grayish bricks of… something. Beef jerky, oats, nuts, and dried vegetables, he explained, before brushing dust off the slab.
— This'll do for the Joining. Grim theatrics aside, rest until sunset. I'll be on the steps.
* * *
As the sun kissed the horizon, painting the ruins in crimson, Morrigan's three companions arrived—cleaner, fresher. Duncan stopped Alistair at the stairs for a hushed exchange. The blond shot a glare toward Morrigan, who leaned against a broken column, but nodded silently.
The other participants soon appeared. First, the Grey Wardens—a pitiful dozen, all Duncan's age or older, their eyes haunted by varying degrees of madness. Not a single Fereldan among them. Orlesians, Free Marchers... Had the entire southern contingent gathered here? The sight was no less grim for it.
Then came the mage in his traditional robe—a garment Morrigan deemed purposefully impractical, marking its wearer as a target. Though he kept apart, the Grey Warden medallion on his chest was unmistakable. A man of both worlds, he set to work without Templar escort. A sign of trust—but for whom?
While Alistair, Jory, and Alim lit torches around the ritual site, the last sunlight licked Ishal's Tower before surrendering to dusk. Camp noises faded; smells grew sharper—smoke, sweat, fresh-cut timber.
The two candidates stood before Alistair as Duncan accepted the chalice of tainted blood from the mage, who then hurried away. Jory trembled but stood resolute. Alim... was night to Jory's day. His hands fluttered helplessly, his face a mask of trapped despair.
Jory drank first. A grimace, then glassy-eyed stupor. He collapsed, muscles seizing violently. The Wardens watched, tense. When the convulsions ceased, Duncan checked his pulse.
— Alive? croaked an Orlesian Warden.
Duncan shook his head and closed Jory's eyes. Alistair cursed under his breath before schooling his features. Wasteful stupidity, Morrigan thought, but she kept silent, observing.
Then came Alim's turn. The elf recoiled from the chalice.
— This,— He pointed at Jory's body. —isn't what you promised.
Alistair stepped forward, but Duncan silenced him with a look.
— You came to me, — Duncan said. — Chose this path."\
Alim's composure cracked.
— I came to protect her! Because you needed a weapon and saw one in her. All that talk of duty, traditions—lies. You never said it could kill. What are the odds? One in two? One in four?
A tic under Duncan's right eye. Alim paled.
— You joke... And you'd have... That makes every word you've said worthless.
— This is the best we have, — Duncan began, but Alim cut him off.
— No. You listen.
The elf's voice was steel wrapped in sorrow.
— Of course I understand. Tell recruits the truth beforehand, and no one would follow the Grey Wardens, treaties or not. Better to die fighting darkspawn than like this. I'm sure you have reasons—good ones, to those who survive. But from where I stand?
He shook his head.
— I refuse.
Fatigue carved new lines into Duncan's face—the weariness of a strong body shackled to a broken spirit. Alistair stood frozen, disbelief written across his features. The other Wardens watched Alim with the same detached acceptance they'd shown Jory's corpse. No anger. No reproach. Only resignation.
Finally, Duncan passed the chalice to another Warden and spoke:
— You could argue about stolen choices. But the right to refuse? That's more than most get in a lifetime. The Order has never denied it—though by the Void, we could.
His voice roughened.
— One last question: do you fully understand the consequences?
Alim's smile was a grim, private thing.
— Yes. Now I see why this is secret. Refusal means death. Acceptance means probable death. Simple—yet not.
He met Duncan's gaze.
— The sentence is yours to pass. But I won't choose a meaningless end.
Jaw clenched, Duncan stared at the ground.
— For you… it's more than that.
The elf tensed, then nodded slowly.
— A fair point. But it depends on how this war ends. I'll wager on the darkspawn.
A third of the Wardens smirked; the others withdrew deeper into their grim resolve. Duncan exhaled.
— Few share such pessimism. So be it. Perhaps you're right, and we're just relics clinging to old ways. Against our laws, I spare you—on two conditions.
Murmurs rippled through the ranks, but none challenged him.
— First, you swear never to speak of what you've seen. Second, my word as Commander binds me: no Grey Warden will set foot in a Ferelden Circle before spring. Should any of us survive… Alim Surana dies.
— That's… better than I'd hoped.
With sudden resolve, Alim extended his hand.
— I swear.
Afterward, Alistair avoided Alim, lost in thought. Morrigan seized the chance to drift closer—though not so close as to seem deliberate.
Most had dispersed, taking Jory's body for burning. Duncan oversaw the disposal of the unused Tainted blood, ordering it poured into the pyre. As he conferred with a fellow Warden, Morrigan admitted—if only to herself—that even her endurance had limits.
Then a messenger arrived, his fine garb marking him as no common soldier.
— Ser, — he bowed. — His Majesty summons you. Scouts report a darkspawn host marching from the northeast. The camp prepares for battle.
— North after all, — Duncan muttered. — Alistair—see to quarters for our guests.
As Duncan strode off, Alistair turned to find Morrigan watching him, her golden eyes alight with mischief—and just a spark of curiosity.