Chapter 15 - Chapter 15 - "A Step into the Unknown"

A significant part of the night Morrigan had spent in vigil. And her weary consciousness met oblivion only closer to dawn, for a couple of miserable hours, but dreamlessly. While awake, the girl gave herself no rest, sifting through facts from the books she had already studied and fitting them together this way and that.

Shedding the veil of oblivion just as the light became sufficient for reading, the witch performed a short warm-up and took up the set-aside tome with a cover of black leather. Running her palm over the book's surface, Morrigan, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, opened the hefty volume and began to read. Compared to the previous books, the author's thought here did not wander from one rare fact to another, skillfully hiding behind thickets of empty words and, often, euphemisms. The essence seemed laid out concisely, even sparingly, resembling a reference book more than a research work. Page after page, facts accumulated faster than she could ponder them. But the path the author had taken to achieve such results was granted barely a couple of lines. Thus, the quality of the material differed radically, yet the outcome proved similar to the other books. On one hand—verbosity, on the other—baseless assertions. Nevertheless, Morrigan gnawed at the text, not allowing herself the weakness of contemplating surrender before this 'adversary'. By the middle of the book, the witch developed a subtle sense of recognition regarding the rare inclusions of the author's personal thoughts. As if in these brief, caustic remarks—dismissive either of the just-described result or of the reader's ability to comprehend it—there was something familiar.

Frowning, Morrigan stopped, quickly flipped twenty pages back, then more, then forward again. One furrow between her brows became three, and the girl slowly licked her lips, stubbornly continuing to read. Until this point, the text had offered her nothing new, save for an unpleasant aftertaste from the author's dismissive stance toward the reader's abilities. After all, most facts pertained to branches of the magical art the witch had known since childhood... Morrigan froze, peering at the slightly blurry letters densely covering the page. Concentrating on a fleeting sensation, she mentally returned a few moments back. She knew the overwhelming majority of what pertained to magic in the already-read portion of the book. Flipping back another dozen pages, she found the needed fragment, which mentioned in passing some problems with controlling a spell's area of effect, solved in part by placing a series of runes in separate layers relative to each other. In Morrigan's memory, the words of Alim and Bethany immediately sprang to life, along with the surprise both had shown upon first touching the concept of representing a runic spell formula in three-dimensional form. The conclusion lay on the surface—this book should not be in the Circle. Or it was accessible to very few, and a mere mention would be insufficient even for a talented mage. Returning to the cover, Morrigan carefully inspected it from the inside but found, instead of the author's name, only a miniature imprint in the shape of a stylized dragon's head.

Biting her lip, the girl returned to reading, finding herself about an hour later staring at the last page. Now she was certain: the style of certain phrases faintly, almost imperceptibly, reminded the witch of her mother. Not entirely, but in those rare hours when, instead of a half-mad old woman, a collected and exceedingly dangerous woman surfaced. By the end of the tome, Morrigan felt both foolish and deceived. One could not deny it: hundreds upon hundreds of lines in the book were dedicated to concise descriptions of certain forms of interaction between shadow creatures and living and non-living objects. This included a catalog of forms of possession, which, it turned out, were more numerous than the witch had imagined. Manipulation—like controlling a puppet, without the need to leave the Fade. Common possession. Coexistence, where a Fade creature does not seek control over the host's body or mind. Fusion, where the invader and the invaded merge into something new. And replacement... Morrigan winced from a slight stab of headache. For obvious reasons, the witch particularly disliked the last form, as it implied the theft of not just the body, but also memory. And this strangely resonated with the girl's nightmares of confronting herself. Some practical use could be extracted from this, had Morrigan's goals been different. But in her current position, it was useless... Opening the book again, the witch found a section in the middle dedicated to the concept of mana. Besides the unnecessary parts, it indirectly confirmed what the witch had learned from her recent dealings with demons. Mana is considered inherent only to the living and is an integral quality, with the only non-living form containing it recognized as lyrium. Simply put, denizens of the Fade crave to obtain mana, initially lacking it themselves. This concept seeded in Morrigan's mind the prototype of an idea, not yet fully formed.

Setting the black book aside, the witch took up the remaining volumes, firmly intent on filling the empty lacunae with the necessary pieces of the puzzle. And at that very moment, her cozy solitude was again disrupted by an opening passageway to the gallery. The girl tensed internally, for some strange reason thinking it might be Valinsi. She herself didn't know whether she feared another encounter with the man or felt intrigued by the possibility. But Bethany appeared in the passage, and following her, Naire entered the austerely furnished room, carrying food. Both girls were dressed in typical Circle robes. But if the elven girl felt accustomed to the robe, Bethany showed signs of discomfort. The prisoner's gaze did not miss that the black and chestnut locks of the two girls were both braided into long and short braids in a similar fashion.

The girls stared in silent surprise at the floor, where Morrigan sat cross-legged. The image was complemented by books laid out around her on all four sides. Bethany smiled awkwardly and began the conversation:

— I... We thought you'd be bored here, cut off from the world and such precious freedom. But... Were we mistaken?

Morrigan shrugged, setting a closed book aside and smoothing down a couple of locks that had escaped her hairstyle.

— I can't say I have nothing to do. But, allow me to note, the fact that you came together intrigues me no less than these books. How—

The witch fell silent mid-sentence, freezing with her mouth slightly agape, which was immediately replaced by a predatory smile.

— Leliana?

Setting the dishes on the bench, and not without a slight tinge of embarrassment in her voice, Naire replied:

— You are right. Leliana found me. Wanted to meet in person. As she said: for a number of reasons. Starting with curiosity about whom you saved, and ending with an interest fueled by Alim's stories. I can't even imagine what he blabbered... And I don't want to. After a light and pleasant conversation, came the suggestion to introduce me to the pupil of the 'Savior of the Circle.' And... Why not? I admit, I was curious too.

Bethany nodded a bit too hastily, as if afraid her agreement would go unnoticed. Morrigan, however, shook her head in mild disbelief, commenting:

— The fox... Clever. You think Leliana's motives are pure and sincere? Bethany?

But Naire was the first to speak again:

— I believe... That is far from the case.

The room's host raised a surprised eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. The elven girl looked down, but her following reply was firm:

— If we follow step by step. You intervene for me. Then show cautious interest, as if emphasizing it wasn't a random act of mercy. Now, after talking with Bethany, I believe random acts are not in your character at all...

— Stop. 'You,' 'your'?.. Don't do that. But excuse me and go on.

Clearing her throat, Naire nodded.

— Then Alim, more stubbornly than ever, tries to convince me of the inexpediency of communicating with... you. And besides, he says a lot that any connection with the 'Savior of the Circle' is dangerous. Given the accusations voiced, there's logic in that, but... There's also a sense of much absurd exaggeration. I've never seen him so obstinate regarding... Ahem. You see, Alim rarely displays such deafness to possible alternatives. Although, he behaved similarly when deciding to leave with the Grey Warden. And then, immediately after, Leliana finds me. Bam, and here Bethany and I are, she's no less surprised by the swiftness of events, already talking. I admit... Before the recent nightmare, I wouldn't have noticed anything strange in this sequence. But paranoia has sufficiently spoiled my perception for disparate events to start seeming interconnected.

While Bethany peered surprisedly into Naire's face, Morrigan smiled widely and clapped her hands three times.

— Marvelous. I wouldn't say your perception is spoiled. It's become deeper. The truth is, there are many ways for Alim to repay the inconvenience I've created. But, perhaps, the most undemanding and interesting one is to befriend you.

Shifting her gaze to Morrigan, Bethany asked in surprise:

— You want to build a relationship with Naire only because of Alim?

Fixing the apprentice with a heavy look, the witch posed a counter-question:

— Are you accusing me?

Bethany immediately threw up her hands in a defensive manner.

— No...

— Of course. An unfortunate choice of words to express an unfortunate thought.

Gesturing towards the bench for the guests to stop inappropriately towering over the 'hostess' by lingering near the entrance, Morrigan continued:

— Let's clarify the main points. I don't believe Alim did something out of malicious intent. And not because I think better of him than the elf actually is. It's more about stupidity and rigid thinking.

A sad smile flickered across Naire's face and immediately vanished, which didn't escape the notice of the witch sitting on the floor but went unseen by the attentively listening Bethany.

— Alim is a slave to his own principles. In a way, his prison is much smaller than mine. The conflict between what he considers right and my actions was smoothed over by hopelessness.

The elven girl nodded almost imperceptibly, as if hearing something familiar, while the southerner continued:

— Obligations for saving the elf's hide helped too. I don't read those around me as well as Leliana does. But here's an opinion. Alim assessed the state of the Circle and the position of the Order with his inherent gloominess. I suppose he saw not a single chance for the elf within the Circle. And consequently, for Naire. But he considered the chance that I could get what's needed in the chaos and get out to be significant. Without Naire and the Circle, all that's left to guide him in life is a bare, stupid sense of justice. Or does Alim call it something else?.. In a word. Habitually ignoring his own emotions and doubts, he laid it all out before the Knight-Commander of the Templar Order. You already know from Bethany that the mage personally testified a lot, right?

Naire pressed her lips together and nodded again.

— Yes, and I...

— Wait, we'll get to that. So. When the Tower gates opened and you emerged from there triumphantly, who turned out to be the main fool? Alim is incapable of overstepping his personal principles. The elf is like... Hmm. This is interesting. Interpreting Leliana from this angle... seems quite apt and precise. But I'm digressing again. Having assessed the result of his own choice, the elf reasonably decided that he and I are enemies from now on...

Morrigan fell silent, as if catching herself talking too much. Her fingers tapped on the book's spine, as if keeping rhythm with unspoken thoughts. When she continued, her voice held the familiar venom Bethany knew:

— But to 'deliver' a slap to his principles... Nothing will make Alim's position more foolish than if we, contrary to the elf's wishes, grow closer naturally. Yes, 'naturally' sounds strange in this phrase, I know. It's not a river where water flows only one way. However, let's not lie to each other? You are already interested in me. And here we approach Bethany's question. It so happens that I use this girl's naive opinion as a guide, so as not to become the one Alim saw so clearly in me. Bethany is afraid my interest stems strictly from Alim. That is part of the truth. What else could be a source of curiosity? Firstly, the relationship. As I understood for myself, it's about a warmth unique to the Circle, devoid of selfishness and carnal attraction, which you, despite the circumstances, managed to preserve. Secondly, your talent. Thirdly, behind those aquamarine eyes hides an attractive resilience. Oh, when you calmly think this situation over alone, don't be angry with Leliana. However it turns out, Bethany could become an excellent friend to you.

The word 'excellent' hung in the air like a silvery chime. Bethany sharply inhaled—in all the months of apprenticeship, Morrigan had never assessed her so... directly. Her lips twitched into an embarrassed smile, and her fingers automatically reached for a lock of hair—a childish gesture she had long tried to rid herself of. Quieter than she intended, the girl whispered:

— Thank you.

But then added louder:

— I... will try.

Naire nodded, immediately posing a new question:

— But why should I be angry with Leliana? What's so...

— ...pimping about it? — Morrigan finished for her.

— Yes.

— It's about something else. Leliana is a manipulator far more skillful than I am. Bethes ruisseaux. That is...

Under Bethany's tense gaze and Naire's surprised one, irritably rubbing the bridge of her nose, Morrigan corrected herself:

— A cunning beast. Yes. That in itself is not a sign of good or evil. But someone with Alim's principles, if you shove the facts in their face, or someone perceptive like you, might ultimately feel irritation or resentment.

Casting a heavy, thoughtful look at Bethany, which puzzled her greatly, Morrigan continued:

— Leliana, like many, fights the worst in herself, striving for the better. But, like everyone, not necessarily successfully... Recently we had a conversation about the boundaries of reason. That is, about what Leliana might allow herself to achieve a goal, so as... not to turn into what she despises. But, among other things, words about self-determination were also spoken there. About free will... So... Who knows what form it will all ultimately take. Now... You wanted to ask about the murders, didn't you?

Naire nodded cautiously. It was immediately noticeable how the girl's gaze tensed and her hands clenched into fists...

— Correct. Bethany told me about the personal situation... No, more like the catastrophe that... I don't know how to put it into words correctly. In short, about how you killed three Templars. But, besides that, there are also Alim's stories, as he says from your own words, about killing Templars in Korkari. And... If we don't beat around the bush, why?

— The question probably isn't 'why'... You want to hear that in each individual case, there was no alternative without violence and death. For 'justification,' to ease your own conscience. But the problem isn't the presence or absence of an alternative. The problem is perception. You're more flexible than Alim, so let's play a game. Two phrases. Compare and weigh both thoughtfully. Okay?

Naire nodded cautiously and, leaning slightly forward, focused. The girl obviously still didn't know what to expect from Morrigan from one minute to the next. Too much information had piled up in her head, conflicting and not forming a single picture. Bethany, on the contrary, leaned against the wall, preparing to observe the proceedings relaxed.

— A squad of faithful warriors of the Maker discovered a place where three apostates were hiding. As a result of suspicions of maleficarum, three were killed. The Maker's warriors lost a loyal brother in battle. Do these events, besides the natural sympathy for a good person, evoke sharp rejection? Outrage? Which side do you empathize with more?

The elven girl bit her lip, lowering her blue eyes to the floor and listening to the intertwining of thoughts and emotions. After a minute, she gave a clear answer:

— What's described, though it seems sad, sounds... normal? No. Familiar. No sharp outrage or rejection. I can't say I empathize with anyone more strongly. But if you insist on an answer, then I feel slightly more empathy for the Templars who lost one of their own in battle...

Naire didn't finish the sentence, furrowing her brows. Bethany, lowering her eyes to the floor, said quietly but clearly:

— With a maleficar. Is that what you meant to say? But Morrigan said: 'as a result of suspicions of maleficarum'. That's not the same as a definite verdict.

The older of the mages smirked and continued the 'game':

— A band of mad Hasinds stumbled upon a house of a family of three settlers. As a result of suspicions that they might have valuables, each was killed. In the fight, one of the Hasinds fell. The same questions.

The elven girl raised her eyebrows, opening her mouth to answer but saying nothing. Frowning, after a prolonged pause, Naire slowly said:

— That's... Not the same thing.

— Do you believe in Andrastianism?

— More yes than no.

— Good. Let's take the principles of that faith. Forget what the Chantry later managed to add 'clarifying'. From the standpoint of the basics, what is the outcome of both examples?

Naire squinted and forced out:

— Four lives cut short. Both there and there.

— Death, the most accurate measure of grief. Though not the only one. This doesn't mean context isn't important. What's important is how we perceive context. Apostate, settler, Hasind, Templar. Four views. Different. One must remember that. Truth is vague. Essentially, it doesn't exist at all. Yes, I killed Templars because they were looking for me to kill me. Yes, there was a choice. Hide or run away. The same is true for Bethany's 'catastrophe'. There are no 'justifications.' There is choice and...

Bethany met the gaze of the dark-golden eyes and, trembling almost imperceptibly, picked up on the fly:

— ...and consequences.

Morrigan involuntarily squeezed the book's spine—it cracked under the pressure. She sharply unclenched her hand, as if burned. And Naire, cautiously watching this movement, said quietly:

— There's something to think about here. But...

She faltered when Morrigan's dark-golden eyes suddenly bored into her with new intensity.

— I didn't think there was so much... magic, logic, philosophy in you. It's astonishing. Don't take it as an insult, one doesn't expect that from someone who grew up in the Korkari backwoods.

— If only you knew. Mother taught me much. Even the necessity—to accept other points of view. For example, that a rabbit is not just a roast, but, like everyone, is afraid...

Morrigan's lips twitched in a grimace, as if she remembered something unpleasant, and then her laugh—short, sharp, like the snap of scissors—tore the silence. But the next instant, she clenched her teeth, her fingers digging into her temples, as if trying to suppress a sudden pain. When the witch spoke again, her voice sounded muffled, as if she were fighting a wave of nausea:

— Other things are entirely unknown to northerners. And yet... Into thoughts, intentions, even into speech, like water, something foreign seeps. A phrase in Orlesian, the very understanding that it is Orlesian, 'thinking,' 'manipulation,' 'self-determination,' the principles of Andrastianism... Surely much else escapes notice. This appears from nowhere. Like memories of things that never happened. Here we are approaching closely why I can be truly dangerous. Or become so.

Bethany shook her head, showing disagreement, but finally uttered:

— Possession.

— Yes...

Morrigan ran her palm over the books laid out around her, as if checking their reality.

— But not only...

Naire's eyes swept over the books on the floor, following the gesture, and she clarified:

— Is this to solve the problem?

Morrigan brightened and smiled openly, also letting her eyes slide over the books, then finding the gaze of those serious, sky-blue eyes.

— That's why you'll find a common language with Bethany easily. You don't allow for doubt that this is a problem, not a sentence. Even after what happened. And you're sure a solution will be found. That's pleasant to hear. For a change.

Bethany bent forward to ask:

— And how...

Interrupting her, the prisoner smirked, measuring the young mage with a gaze full of sarcasm.

— How you should proceed? What about your lessons? How did the books get here? How close have I gotten to a solution? I can see by your eyes that behind one 'how' a host of questions immediately swarms.

The young mage blushed. The remark had obviously hit the mark. Seeing this too, Naire simply reached out and squeezed Bethany's shoulder in a sign of support. Watching the girls, Morrigan just shook her head, either in surprise or bewilderment. When she spoke again, a note of weariness slipped into her voice:

— In order. Your fate is undetermined, like mine. But not so bleak. Pity you climbed into this trap after me. But there's nothing even to put on my own scale yet. That's why I can't offer hope. However, if you managed to bargain for visits, then continuing the lessons is within your power, however much time remains. But not today. Better go raid the Circle libraries while there's no one to guard them. As for the books around us, they are a gift from the First Enchanter. A favor for a favor. Or better... Let's call it a move in a long game. Leliana can tell you more. The solution to my personal problem... It turns out I'm picking the lock with lockpicks instead of finding the key. A possible possession doesn't affect the weight of the other accusations at all. It's no joke, two death sentences?..

Bethany reached for the nearest folio but, instead of opening it, froze, looking at the worn spine.

— Before the executioner arrives at the Circle, I want to deal with this.

The elven girl turned back to the prisoner and asked:

— Can we help?

Noting how easily Naire included both herself and Bethany in the question, and that the apprentice didn't even notice it, Morrigan cautiously replied:

— Most likely. There aren't so many books here. If they don't reveal themselves to me today, you'll know the layout tomorrow.

Bethany didn't look very convinced by these words about the venture's success, but forced herself to smile. Standing up, the girl said:

— So, we'll come tomorrow. By the way. I think Leliana is skillfully spreading rumors and gossip about you. More precisely... It's not something definite. I don't even have a hint of proof. Just... Even I understood that by locking you up here, the Templars, of course, wanted as few witnesses as possible to see the 'Savior of the Circle' in the flesh. And for most to forget about your existence altogether, quickly. Softly, without undue pressure. And when stories about a heroine with 'golden eyes' who defeated an evil demon start spreading among the children... Well, knowing who is capable of such a thing, you immediately understand...

Morrigan nodded, returning the smile, and added, addressing the blue-eyed, sharp-eared interlocutor as she left:

— Naire. Don't shoulder the burden of responsibility for my fate. That dilemma is beyond you. Push the debt to me aside. Throw Alim's words out of your head. Templars, the Circle, possession. Others will deal with that. You should be concerned with the answer to only one question—does communicating with me pose a threat to you and others? Or not.

Before turning to leave, Naire chewed on her lower lip and said:

— That's... complicated. Many thoughts and... And the fact that you push me to ask questions, that's good. Yes, I owe you my life. It's not easy to throw that out of my head. And also... No. Not like that. I enjoy talking with you.

Naire's lips trembled, as if she were searching for the right word:

— Most conversations in the Circle are like textbook pages: you know how they'll end beforehand. But here...

She abruptly cut herself off, her fingers involuntarily gripping the edge of the bench.

— When Alim returned, I thought... Well, he would at least explain. At least ask. Instead, he decided for me again. And you...

Her voice broke, but the elven girl quickly composed herself:

— You at least don't pretend you're doing me a favor. That's... unexpected. Almost like when I chose to leave with the Warden myself. It's very close to... freedom. And... Well, one doesn't become friends overnight. I only hope there will be enough time for that.

She threw a glance at the door, beyond which lay the Circle—with its predictable corridors, predictable people, predictable tedium.

— After Alim left, I thought... Well, at least here everything would remain as it was. But now I understand—I don't want 'as it was.' I want...

She faltered, as if afraid to say it aloud.

— I want to at least choose who to talk to.

Naire smiled shyly and left, hurrying to catch up with Bethany waiting in the gallery.

* * *

For the remainder of the day, alternating reading with reflection, Morrigan became finally convinced there was no 'good' solution to the problem of possession. The witch had suspected it would be so. Trying to put the yolk and white back into a broken eggshell was pointless. It was easier to take the next egg. Since neither the Circle mages nor the Templars had anything to even detect possession... The plan was built around the hope that the girl would manage to combine the disparate ideas from the materials provided by Irving in an original way, obtaining something workable in the end. Unfortunately, brilliant solutions do not arise from thin air. They require a solid foundation of quality ideas, research, preliminary results, and consistent hypotheses. In every studied work, the problem of possession was considered by the authors only from the standpoint of an endpoint, requiring no additional contemplation. Except for the book with the black cover. But even it, lacking the required answers, only posed the right questions to the reader. Morrigan admitted that such a book could have been hidden. But she acknowledged that a complete ban on reading it was unlikely. Moreover, the source of censorship could be located higher than the First Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle. And the Seeker's 'magic remedy' could be from similar 'secrets'. Like blood magic shamefully hidden within the Circle, but on a larger scale. And yet... For Morrigan's situation, in the end, it made no difference at all.

In the end, the witch was left only with something hastily conceived and based on traditional magic. Morrigan had specifically singled out the word 'traditional' for herself. Besides the fact that the term was interesting to roll on her tongue, feeling both alien and familiar notes simultaneously, the word accurately conveyed the meaning. The witch suspected blood magic was the missing fragment of the mosaic for creating a full-fledged solution. However, 'suspicions won't fill your belly'.

With the end of daylight, Morrigan stacked the books into a neat pile at the edge of the bench, stretched her body with a couple of exercises, and concentrated on the necessary. Self-critical contempt seeped from the girl, expressed in evaluating her own idea as 'clumsy', 'superficial', 'lazy'. It all came down to mana. Shadow creatures strive to possess any object in the physical world. Based on what she had read and previously known, the witch assumed the following: under the pressure of rules different from those operating in the Fade, creatures from there cannot appear here in their true form. It is unknown what threat the conflict between the 'true form' and the physical world poses. The witch allowed that, as with the Fade penetrating the physical world, the latter would inevitably wrap the invading creature in a cocoon of blackness... Morrigan got distracted, involuntarily thinking that the only known substance with the required depth of black was probably soot. Shaking herself, the girl returned to the essence of the idea. 'Compression' into a form corresponding to the conditions of the physical world requires constant application of force from the Fade creatures. Residing in a material object allows them to 'relax'. Morrigan didn't know if such a term could be used here. Of course, among hosts, the living are preferred. The difference lies in plasticity. And among the living, the choice falls on the gifted. For some reason, it's easier for Fade creatures to reach magic possessors, and the desired mana serves as an additional incentive.

The witch began a slow movement in a modest circle within her allotted little space. Casting aside internal limitations, she allowed her consciousness to slide forward freely, not paying attention to the occurring oddities. The girl's thoughts revolved around mana. She proceeded from the idea that between the source of mana, whatever it may be, and the victim's mind, Fade creatures usually choose the enticing mana first. Something like an instinct. Like how it's hard not to jerk your hand away after accidentally touching something scorching hot. But typical possession occurs so swiftly that it's impossible to break it down into stages. Mind, mana, body... Mind. Precisely this sequence intuitively seemed to Morrigan close to the truth. One could fabricate logically looking arguments to support such a sequence. But, with sufficient inventiveness, it's not hard to stretch outwardly consistent proof onto any foolishness. That's why the witch didn't hide from herself that she was using guesses as a foundation for a step forward. Assumptions. And if so, there existed a tool allowing intervention in the course of possession. And the girl's case was just suitable to manage to do this. 'Adolebitque congesta ut terra' — or, in a free translation, 'Mana Scourging'. A spell that Morrigan had pieced together from several mentions in the books she'd read. It was originally intended precisely for fighting the possessed. By directly depriving them of mana, the spell curtailed the power and threat of the opponents. By this moment, the witch could, with some strain, imagine how to hold the correct amplitude of oscillation for two runes in her mind. That would be enough to, without radically changing the spell formula, close it upon herself. Her own mana would burn out utterly—that was the essence of the enchantment. This would immensely weaken or even throw the parasite devouring the witch back into the Fade. But herein lay the main trap: if a part of her already belonged to another, then she would only manage to burn what was still perceived as 'her own'. How to expel the uninvited guest if he hides in the blind spots of her very perception?

Leaning her burning forehead against the cool wall, Morrigan estimated what she might need. Her fingers involuntarily clenched into fists. The answer lay on the surface—lyrium. The only thing that could become an external source, unconnected to her distorted essence. With the knowledge from the books, she could channel mana from it directly into the spell, bypassing possible "stolen" fragments. Complete scourging. Without compromises.

She closed her eyes, imagining the consequences. Ordinary exhaustion—loss of consciousness, hellish migraine upon waking... But this time, she wouldn't plunge into the darkness alone. If the theory was correct, the parasite would be flung out along with the last grains of mana. But only if there was no mistake...

Besides, she needed helpers. And it would require not just care... Indifferent logic demanded acknowledging the probability of complete failure. The word 'control' was on the tip of the girl's tongue. Here, thought led inexorably to one name: Valinsi. Who else could hold this mad experiment back from catastrophe?

— This resembles a very bad plan... But it is a plan, and not fumbling blindly in the dark.

* * *

That night, Morrigan had no strength left for vigil. Sleep took her suddenly, as if leaping from around a corner. And though the girl openly longed for a black oblivion, replaced immediately by morning light, instead, another nightmare appeared.

Or one that seemed 'just another' at first. Waking already in that strange place, the witch stared blankly at the soundlessly upward-falling ash. Her chest rose with slow, measured breaths. Five or six such breaths passed before she felt grasping fingers on her shoulder, squeezing to the point of first pain. Those same fingers then spun her around with a sharp tug. Her double, covered in black voids, wasted no time this night on empty accusations or threats. Pulling its free hand back slightly, it straightened two fingers, lips moving soundlessly in a long, unreadable phrase, and—simultaneously with the appearance of black runes upon its nails—drove them into Morrigan's left breastbone. Right over the heart. A sharp, hissing sound of searing flesh followed. Fortunately, smells were absent in this place. Plunged into an abyss of agony, the witch tried to push the copy away, the one boring into her with its single, unblinking eye filled with cold hatred. It wasn't very successful, but the fingers slipped from the wound, forcing a ragged, piercing scream from her.

Pain narrowed her field of vision, consuming all her attention, becoming the only thing that mattered to Morrigan. Only after a merciless pause of stretched-out moments did the desired blackness descend upon her, sharply severing all sensation like a knife. But even that proved merciless, denying her oblivion. In the void, images continued to flicker, flooding her mind with flashes of unfamiliar memories.

Poorly lit corridors and a dance of death with a fan of bloody spray following a darting blade... irritation... The crunch of stones underfoot on a narrow path, weariness from a long road, and focus... Yielding, hot flesh under fingers and anticipation... The nose-clogging smell of dust, fresh ink, ancient parchment, and determination...

Morrigan broke free from the nightmare with a sharp gasp, as if surfacing from icy depths. Her chest rose and fell rapidly and shallowly, her entire body trembling—not just from the cell's chill, but from shock, as if searing fingers still burned her flesh. She instinctively clutched her chest, expecting to find a charred wound, but beneath her clothes was only sweat-damp skin and a deep, muscular ache, as after prolonged strain.

The sweat cooled quickly on her skin in the penetrating basement cold. The air duct connecting the cell to the surface drew in the frigid night air, and for the first time since her imprisonment, Morrigan considered the lack of a blanket. The prospect of hypothermia and dying before the enigmatic Seeker's lofty verdict now seemed a real risk.

Morrigan closed her eyes and let out a guttural sound of deep irritation. For the first time, the fear in her spoke louder than reason. Her thoughts tangled. The witch sifted through questions without even attempting to find answers. Had this cursed place taken too much from her? Had it strengthened the demon? Or had Morrigan long deluded herself, while a bleak end remained just an arm's length away?

Angrily punching her knee, the witch focused solely on her breathing. Five minutes. Ten. Enough to regain the rhythm of a calm person, not a cornered predator. Composed, Morrigan forced herself to start the day precisely like the last. Routine maintained concentration. Unfortunately, completely ignoring the escalating noise from outside was impossible. The thud of axes biting into fresh wood, the long scrape of a sliding plane, the accelerating whine of saws... Shouts, the creak of wheelbarrows, the sound of rope friction as it was pulled forcefully through a block. The latter vividly reminded her of the brief days aboard the ship and the fresh, biting wind in her face. The bustling activity outside made her wonder if everyone had suddenly awoken from sleep and despondency at once.

The witch's thoughts jumped to yesterday's conversation with Naire and Bethany. A grim smirk crept onto the girl's face. Morrigan found her own display of superiority and pride ironic. It was obvious that without the girls' help, she wouldn't even be able to attempt her own flawed solution to her problem. From start to finish, for reliability, it would require processed lyrium equivalent to twice Morrigan's own mana volume. Besides requiring watchful supervision... Clenching her jaw tightly, the girl remembered Valinsi and the need to speak with him. If she could also secure Irving's direct support... Without it, the performance would end before it began, at a snap of Gregor's fingers. Morrigan had more to offer the First Enchanter beyond their initial deal—a deal the cunning old man might consider already fulfilled. But she had to play her cards carefully. That is, assuming no one had loosened Bethany's tongue and shaken out the right clues. The witch held no fear of the templars. If they could have achieved anything, the signs would have been visible on Bethany's very body. She could only hope that any Circle members entangled in politics had either perished in the recent crisis or hadn't yet managed to reach the pigeons and ravens.

The temptation to surrender to the gloomy mood seemed more alluring than ever to Morrigan. Forcing her mind to work productively felt arduous. But, little by little, the girl returned to methodically contemplating the movement of runes in an imaginary formula. Without practice, it was mere theoretical guesswork, but today Morrigan didn't yet wish to spend her own mana prematurely or feel the characteristic weariness in her body...

The girls who arrived about an hour later found the prisoner against the wall opposite the entrance, head tilted back, eyes closed. An image so calm and still it seemed the witch was asleep. The moment Bethany and Naire hesitated on the 'threshold', dark-golden eyes flew open, bestowing upon them both a fleeting smile that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

— This is not a noblewoman's boudoir, requiring permission to enter.

Exchanging puzzled glances, the guests stepped inside and settled on the bench. Before they could speak, Morrigan continued:

— Bethany. You haven't told anyone the essence of my teachings, have you?

The girl threw a wary look at the elf seated beside her, then, returning her attention to her mentor, shook her head. Her pupil's face showed neither uncertainty nor doubt.

— Thank you. Naire. Alim told me many things. However, he was reluctant to touch upon the background of that messy situation with the Grey Warden. If I understood the details correctly, you were the initial choice?

The girl sighed, clearly not eager to broach the topic. But, collecting herself, she replied calmly:

— That's right. I don't know if it's important, but I wasn't opposed. I didn't ask Alim to take the duty in my stead. Especially not to leave.

— Yes, the elf said as much. Many words abot the blame being his alone. I assume that created a rift between you?

— Well…

Naire made a hand gesture suggesting 'a bit of this, a bit of that,' and then added:

— Not enough time has passed to forget. But enough to cool down. The problem, you see... isn't that he took away my right to choose. That's a familiar feeling in the Circle, though such treatment from someone close hurts more. What matters is that Alim left, leaving me here alone. I understand logically that in a mirror situation it would have been the same, but... I don't know, that stung more than anything.

— Did Alim tell you the adventure turned out far less entertaining than expected?

The elf gave a wan smirk, agreeing:

— Oh yes... Alim displayed an uncharacteristic eloquence to 'correctly' characterize that journey. And despite his clumsily stitched efforts to exaggerate the grim aspects, his inherent aversion to lying didn't allow him to completely avoid mentioning the... merits of a certain witch.

— Merits... Ha. What did Alim tell you about the Grey Wardens' Joining ritual?

— Nothing. He said it was someone else's secret. So he has no right to reveal the details.

— Damn it all... Those idiotic fits of his—this acute need to avoid the simplest solutions... Fine. The oaths of the dead concern me little. When Alim saw how lethal the Grey Wardens' initiation ritual is for the participants, he refused to take part. The stubborn mule's thoughts were of you. Surprising. Of course, in hindsight, that doesn't justify Alim in any way. And it changes nothing. But I hope it smooths over the misunderstanding between you.

Naire's eyes widened in surprise, realizing the 'adventure' had ended not just with serious complications like the battle of Ostagar, but also with the risk of an inevitable and seemingly pointless death. Thoughtfully running her fingertips over her lower lip, she clicked them and voiced her next thought:

— Alim was ashamed to speak of it. Probably considered that decision 'unworthy.'

— You would know better. These questions aren't to pick at wounds or offer empty comfort. The Grey Warden chose you for a specific reason. A talent?

The elf looked up at the ceiling, waving it off, but Bethany listened with interest.

— Ah, that. Yes... Hmm. I explain it to myself like this. Unlike others in the Circle, who lean towards books or nothing at all, I loved spending time with a slate-stick or a quill. Not that I disliked books, not at all. But the special magic of smooth lines coalescing into images... It enticed me more than the intricacies of rune and mana interaction. Alim stubbornly provided me with what I needed, even when it got the poor soul into trouble. And in return, I devotedly produced scribbles. This went on for several years, until one of the older templars noticed the young elf by the oak grove, tearful from realizing her own lack of talent after a dozen unsuccessful attempts to transfer an oak leaf to parchment. Turns out, the seasoned warrior, over his hard life, had made hundreds or tens of hundreds of landscape sketches and detailed maps during hunts for apostates. The young lady's tears inexplicably moved the scarred warrior. He taught me how to hold my hand and explained the basics. Soon, everywhere I could reach without risking a caning for damaging property, there appeared birds, trees, symbols, and... other things. And then it turned out that magic and drawing can coexist as a single art. Inscribing a series of runes on a surface while applying specific spells creates a unique effect. It also transfers the burden of maintaining the magic from the mage to the created drawing. And the neater it is, the better the result. Though speed is valued too. That's the whole talent. With due diligence, anyone could achieve the same.

Morrigan nodded with a serious face.

— Of course. Anyone can become a talented artist, I suppose.

Bethany snorted into her fist and threw an apologetic look at her friend. And Morrigan, as if nothing had happened, continued:

— You and my mother... could have found common topics for conversation. Not about drawings. Flemeth's own research in magic led her to unique solutions. Even now I cannot fully grasp the meaning she embedded in them. For instance, the arrangement of runes, where meaning stems not only from their order but from their overall structure.

Naire's mouth fell slightly open as she immediately tried to imagine something similar. Bethany shot her a slightly mocking look, fully suspecting what would follow next. Squinting and gazing into space, the elf cautiously asked:

— But... that's not entirely a question of beauty, is it? It's more like...

— Yes and no. Symmetry. Proportion. Proportionality. Fluidity. It is from these qualities that the magic manifests. But I see confusion in your eyes. The answer to your question is no. Beyond what I've listed, I know of no other principles to determine what will work and what won't. Mother had decades of trial and error. Quite possibly, even guesswork. But the result... Ask Alim directly. What he saw when I saved his hide atop Ishal. Precisely and in detail. However...

Morrigan broke off, as if listening to sounds beyond the cell. Something had caught the witch's attention, and she allowed herself a faint shadow of a smile before switching her focus to Bethany.

— Apprentice. Tell Naire.

— Are you sure?..

— I have never played games with you. And I don't intend to start. Expect that more from Leliana.

Bethany nodded in agreement and smiled widely, turning to her intrigued friend.

— It's fascinating. Believe me. Mmm... It might be harder for you, since unlike others, you're not just accustomed to certain rules of spell construction. Your way of practicing the art interacts with a surface, never leaving it. But try to imagine that a flat drawing has volume. Not a sketch of a flower. But a figurine of a flower made of glass. Forget about runes on canvas. Imagine a puzzle that possesses width, height, and length.

Naire, with easily readable disbelief, cautiously asked:

— Is this some method for training imagination? Such a thing... It can't... Can it? Really?

Bethany nodded eagerly.

— Yes. When you're used to one way of perceiving formulas since childhood, mastering another approach is harder. It's like being perfectly able to walk. You do it every day, never tire of it, satisfied with your own pace. And suddenly you're asked to run. You can. But you quickly lose your breath, feel unwell, and don't understand why? Exactly until someone trained runs past you, maintaining the pace for hours. Believe me, if you form the runes correctly in multiple layers, imagining them connected in volume, the mana passing through the formula will do exactly what it does with the orthodox approach. But more efficiently.

— And Morrigan is teaching you...

— Yes.

— And you two...

An unspoken question hung in the air, causing two pairs of eyes to turn to the senior witch in the cell. She shifted her gaze to the passage to the outer gallery and, speaking as if not entirely to Naire and Bethany, said:

— Aside from accusations and sentencing, nothing prevents two people from learning.

From outside, right near the entrance, came the quiet sound of a shuffling step, and then the figure of the First Enchanter appeared from around the corner, his faded eyes piercing the predatorily smiling witch directly from the gallery. Tapping his staff's ferrule on the floor, the man nodded to the templars on either side of the cell, and with his eyes ordered them to leave. After a pause long enough to not make it seem the warriors obeyed unquestioningly, the two armored figures moved off slowly.

Both girls turned towards the sounds simultaneously but displayed different reactions. Bethany, with wide eyes, immediately jerked her head back. She instantly realized who had heard the words so confidently leaving her mouth. Naire, however, maintaining a mask of calm on her face, respectfully nodded to the First Enchanter. The man nodded back, but his eyes never left the prisoner for an instant.

Morrigan tilted her head slightly and addressed her two interlocutors:

— Our time, to my sorrow, has expired before it truly began. Naire. I have a request. Forgive me if it seems inappropriate. But there is no one else I could entrust this to. Please ask Valinsi to visit me today. Can I count on you?

Irving flinched at the mention of the mage, betraying a moment's doubt. Naire slowly wrinkled her nose as if chewing a sour fruit, but, overcoming it, nodded. Taking her friend's hand, the elf pulled her along. Without another word, the girls disappeared into the gallery.

The First Enchanter slowly shook his head, displaying mild disbelief at the proceedings.

— So, aces up your sleeves.

— Perhaps.

— Of course. Well, the bait is good. If one believes that knowledge of... Profunditas Descriptionis... has found its way into your head. But believing that a technique of the Tevinter magisters, which allows them to look down upon other mages of Thedas, is in the hands of a witch from the wilds of Korkari... is difficult.

Taking a step into the room and looming over the witch seated on the floor, Irving narrowed his eyes and asked a question unrelated to the previous topic:

— You hinted that after such a short time, you would have a solution to the 'problem of possession.' Well then. I'm listening.

— A solution exists. Crude. But hoping for an elegant one would be presumptuous and foolish. Of course, provided you have shared all your knowledge with me...

— What I possess is already at your disposal. Possession is not something... that sparks curiosity and is safe to study. Get to the facts.

Before returning to the exchange, Morrigan fell silent, pondering such a straightforward display of interest from the mage.

— A dozen mugs of processed lyrium. Two assistants. Not so complicated, as it is dangerous.

— The essence?

— Mana cauterization.

— As simple as that?

— I repeat. A crude solution. And unlikely to help anyone but me. It requires... many conditions. This is not a working method offering guarantees. It is an attempt to save oneself. And nothing more.

Irving directed his gaze to his feet, unconsciously rubbing his slightly chapped lips with his fingers in deep thought. The First Enchanter was weighing and comparing what he'd heard with what he already knew. Or so it seemed, while Irving's thoughts might have been elsewhere.

— Does it make a difference if another casts the spell?

— I don't know... That hadn't occurred to me. I proceed from the basis that one's own mana must be turned inward upon itself. Because one must...

— ...'bleed the invader dry.' Yes, I've thought about that. But such a... suicidal option never crossed this old mind. So, you managed to modify the spell appropriately in such a short time? It's hard to believe... Even knowing the magisters' method, one would need to add a dozen additional runes to the formula. That guarantees an unbalanced mana flow. And a fatal misfire. It requires time for refinement, experiments. A significant amount of time.

— I understand. But... I know how to avoid that.

— Aces up your sleeve... Hmm.

Irving winced, as if the necessity of relying on such vague explanations gave him a toothache.

— Transfer the formula to parchment. Immediately.

Irving's voice remained calm, but his fingers tapped lightly on the staff's pommel—a barely noticeable, yet sure sign of growing impatience. Morrigan's eyebrows shot up.

— In such a hurry to verify my sincerity? Or do you already doubt your own?

A cold spark of irritation flared in the mage's usually impassive eyes:

— Every hint of hidden knowledge from you is like rolling dice blindfolded. I am tired of conjecture. The formula. Now.

With clearly noticeable surprise, the witch asked:

— It seems proof of effectiveness interests you little...

The mage did not react to the remark, silently awaiting continuation, causing Morrigan's face to harden.

— Ah, yes. I forgot. My problems hardly interfere with our deal... Possessed or not, that's the Seeker's concern. As long as I don't kick the bucket.

— What's the point in discussing this? Beyond careful consideration of your feelings? I repeat. For the Circle to survive, any grounds for suspicion must be eliminated. Yes, there have been problems with the behavior of some mages. It's barely noticeable from the outside, but to me, the deviations are obvious. If I see it, the Seeker will notice. And based on a single precedent, she will sweep the remnants of the Circle into the frigid waters of Lake Calenhad. Drop the feigned surprise. I will squeeze the maximum from your situation. And you should remember, we are not on equal footing. My part of the promise is already fulfilled.

Morrigan slowly drew up her legs and rose to her full height before the mage.

— Precisely.

Irving gave her an appraising look and slowly nodded. His response held not the slightest hint of sympathy.

— So, you've decided to test the boundaries. Well then... Let sincerity be mutual. Firstly. Your ritual, whatever it may be, was not part of our agreement. Therefore—no lyrium. At the slightest suspicion of serious magic, the templars will restrain you. Secondly. Bethany and Leliana are still within my power, and your apprentice's position is not as cloudless as it might seem. Yes, that is a direct threat. And now, the ritual, please.

The witch paled slightly, her brows furrowing. This was not what the girl had planned. Or even the complete opposite.

— I...

— Don't bother. There's nothing to explain here. Nothing new for me.

— No. It's different... The fact is, the formula cannot be transferred like that. It's more complex than...

— Is it truly? Or is it simpler to say—you don't want to give it up? Or perhaps it doesn't exist at all. And it's all a bluff.

— To transfer certain parts of the formula to parchment, one must first figure out how to describe and record them clearly.

Irving sighed wearily, his eyes not leaving the witch's face.

— Is that supposed to be convincing? This irrational reluctance to cooperate, especially after we've clarified all points, is irritating.

The girl tilted her head slightly forward, peering from under her brows at the tired face of the elderly man.

— If only...

— No. No subjunctive mood. I'm already sick of its use everywhere in the Hold. Everyone tries to feed me that nonsense. It's obvious a decision has been made here. That's normal. In a losing game, you bet on a wild stallion and, of course, got nothing. But you didn't lose either. However, since you've also decided to 'play,' remember our agreement. Banish any illusions about what comes first for me: the Circle, my own clear conscience, or you.

Irving turned and left the room with a swift stride, irritably stamping his staff against the stone floor. And Morrigan was left to gloomily wonder—who else in the Tower was now possessed by a shadow creature.

* * *

Valinsi honored the witch with his presence considerably closer to evening than she had hoped, but much earlier than she had feared. The man did not look as tense as during his last visit. But he hadn't become more cheerful either. Slouching, the mage quietly entered the room, silently sat on the bench, and stared at the opposite wall. Not a single word. The girl, who was standing by the wall opposite the entrance, touching a fresh layer of rime, nodded gratefully and sat down next to him.

— Naire?..

— You could have sent another... Bethany, I think. Or another one. Using Naire like that was cruel.

— It was necessary...

Valinsi shook his head negatively, his gaze slowly sliding to the intricate frost pattern on the wall.

— Maybe it just seems that way to me. Lately, a lot of things 'seem' a certain way. But your mind, locked in here, is straining and starting to bite itself. I grasp the goals you hoped to achieve. For me, upon seeing the messenger, to understand the importance and urgency behind the message. For Naire, leaning on the motive of 'helping a friend', to overcome her own fears. For... No. I don't want to think about the rest.

— You are too selective. As if you're striving to blind yourself in one eye.

The mage snorted.

— You're accusing me of not wanting to think about this shit? About the surrounding shit? About the shit that will irreversibly drown us in the coming days? You know what? I don't give a damn. There's no one to protect now, no one to save, not even anyone to drill. Teacher, healer of crippled souls, or a builder—I'm a mediocre one at that. Truth is, they're forcing the role of jailer on me. And that goal doesn't motivate me to get up and go against the wind. So yes, consider it selfish, but I refuse to face certain facts to preserve my sanity and the ability to move forward.

— But you can't make decisions...

— You called me here, literally asking for a favor or even help between the lines, and now you're going to try and convince me you're 'not worth the attention'? Listen. I won't guess what this means or what mind-bending game you're trying to play. Why am I here?

Morrigan smiled faintly at the corners of her lips and nodded.

— I need help. There's no doubt about that.

Valinsi leaned against the wall behind him with evident relief. The tension gradually left him. It didn't resemble smugness or triumph, more like a transition from uncertainty to clarity.

— I'm listening.

— Of course... I've found a solution to my possession problem. Through a ritual.

The witch threw an eloquent glance at the neat stack of books by the cell entrance, and then at the passage with the templars on duty around the corner. Following her gaze, Valinsi picked up the top book. The very one, bound in black leather, which had turned out to be the most useful volume of all. Opening the substantial tome at a random page, the man quietly repeated after the girl:

— Possession... Wonderful. And the infamous 'Black Grimoire'.

His fingers rested on the cover.

— I've heard of it. But it's the first time I've held it. The book is probably a hundred winters old. And instead of a clear history of its origin, only a murky legend. As if the author was a Hasind witch who once visited this Circle. Funny, isn't it? Never thought I'd see it here, in your hands.

The mage shifted his gaze to the witch, intending to add a remark. But, meeting the piercing gaze of her dark-golden eyes, he slowly closed his mouth and returned the book to its place.

— Alright. Continue.

— I need processed lyrium. At least ten cups. Bethany, Naire. And you.

— Me, to get the lyrium. Or just... me.

— Both. I need someone to ensure control. Someone who will understand what's happening. And make the necessary decision, regardless of the consequences. My trust is with you.

The man's face split into a crooked smile, accompanied by a quiet curse:

— You really are a witch...

— Good that you noticed now. And not when it's too late.

— That's what you think.

A silence fell, which Valinsi was the first to break.

— Getting to know you is like reading a book like this from the forbidden section of the library. From the first chapter, you're sure it won't end well. But for some unknown reason, and contrary to logic, you keep turning page after page, torn increasingly between doubts, dangerous thoughts, duty, and blind hope. A strange experience. I assume the 'romance' with Irving didn't turn out cloudless?

Smoothing her hair and rubbing her face as she collected her thoughts after the mage's tirade, Morrigan said:

— Hmm... The old man, I thought he gave me the books because we'd reached some agreement regarding my help. That is, simply payment for services rendered. A naive mistake. In truth, the result interests the mage no less than it does me. I suspect... Irving suspects others of being partially or fully possessed. But... What I've hastily assembled here from fragments, I cannot transfer to another. It's not a question of motive or greed. It's a question of capability. I don't. Know. How.

Valinsi studied the witch's face intently, which did not hide the irritation at her own clumsiness and incompetence. After a short pause, the man exhaled:

— By the Void. After scoring so many points in your favor for cleverness and ability, to then try and convince the First Enchanter of your own dim-wittedness... And making him believe you're so smart you could invent something in a couple of days for which a method of recording hasn't even been devised yet is even harder. Of course, he decided you, for some reason, chose to 'play games'. Irving, I'd wager, was not thrilled by that. One thing is unclear. What's the rush? I mean, if I believe your words and there's still a chance of salvation, how does one day differ from a week?

The girl raised her eyes to the ceiling, frowning.

— Time...

Morrigan's fingers twitched involuntarily, almost touching the spot over her heart where the wound had burned in her nightmare. She sharply dropped her hand, noticing Valinsi's gaze flicker towards the movement.

— One might have guessed.

The mage's reply was sharper than expected:

— I don't want to guess. I want to hear.

Wincing, as if his attention had become an almost physical touch, the witch forced out:

— There are... changes. Things that were only in nightmares before... now leave marks. We must succeed before tonight...

Valinsi slowly exhaled. His eyes narrowed, scanning her figure with a new, alarming intensity.

— To be honest, that sounds quite...

The girl turned to Valinsi and hissed quietly through clenched teeth:

— I am afraid. Terrified. Satisfied?..

Clenching his jaw, the man ran a hand through his hair, his fingers unconsciously brushing against the ring woven into his braid at the end of the motion. His hands dropped to the bench, gripping the edge as if he were trying to stop himself from a rapid fall. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, for a moment reflected an internal struggle—between the duty of a Circle mage and something more personal. And his quiet voice uttered, barely audible:

— Alright. Into the abyss...

He rose abruptly, suddenly standing to his full height. The slouch was gone, but not from confidence—rather, as if he had made a decision from which he could no longer retreat. Morrigan instinctively tensed, expecting... What? Anger? Action? But Valinsi only cast her a final look—a strange mix of irritation, frustration, and something else she didn't have time to identify—before turning sharply and disappearing into the gallery.

* * *

Time flowed slowly, like tar. Morrigan's thoughts wandered aimlessly, and she found herself unable to gather them for any productive purpose. It wasn't a sharp, pronounced fear. Rather, it was something crawling just beneath the surface of her fragile calm, a tension born of undefined anticipation for the unknown. Too much would be decided too soon, with too few ways to influence the outcome...

If asked now, the witch would, with some uncertainty, name this moment the worst of her life. There had been no shortage of 'low' episodes over the winters she'd lived. She had lost her way in an unfamiliar part of a winter forest at night, teetering on thoughts of inevitable death. She'd found herself in the clutches of a predator barely past her fifteenth season. She had greeted dawn with bloodied fingers, splayed against a rocky cliff face—all for curiosity and foolish bravado. She had lain with broken legs in a forest filled with dangerous sounds, submerged in an abyss of pain. She had fought a pack of wolves for a kill, every moment expecting them to lunge at her back. And finally, a worthy entry in this collection was the day she awoke on a hillside, watching pillars of smoke rise over her own home. Disoriented, with a gap in her memory... and perhaps making her gravest mistake by yielding to instinct and fleeing instead of returning to see the truth with her own eyes.

But in each of those moments, she had retained the ability to do something. Adrenaline and a sharp will to survive had driven her forward, forced her to move, to think. How was 'now' different from 'then'? Morrigan had no trouble answering that question. It was the utter lack of control over the things that mattered. No matter how much adrenaline coursed through her veins, no matter what thirst spurred her on... the truth was, she couldn't overcome even ten experienced Templars, and here there were far more. The surrounding walls were unbreachable. The meeting with the Seeker was inescapable. And the vilest part, in the witch's opinion, was waiting for the inevitably approaching night, with the nightmare hiding within her.

Adding to it all was the bitter realization of how close she had come to what she wanted. A continuous itch demanded she spit on it all and take that final step alone, using only the mana she had left. To prove to everyone once more what she was capable of. Yet, alongside the temptation, the awareness of her mistakes slowly seeped into her mind. She couldn't help but circle back to the thoughts of what had been the root cause of this pitiful outcome. What she could have done differently. Had Morrigan been more composed, she would never have allowed such reflections on what was missed and what might have been.

The key mistake loomed so obviously before her that it made her want to grind her teeth. Alim. Rage urged her to blame the elf for everything. But had what happened been inevitable? Not without a struggle against her own prideful nature, Morrigan admitted—no. She could have seen the elf as more than just an 'interesting travel companion'. She could have taken Leliana's words more seriously. She could, in the end, have dedicated more time to the mage, allowing him to better know and understand the 'enigmatic southerner'. There had been enough moments. After all... Morrigan remembered the look in the youth's eyes that night at the inn. And then similar glances he'd thrown at the redheaded 'sister'. Morrigan knew—it wouldn't have been difficult for her to bind that mage to herself with something stronger than trivial 'friendship'. Too high a price? Raising her right hand and clenching it into a fist, the witch grimly concluded that in recent days the answer to such a question had shifted from evasive agreement to cautious denial. The girl could and should have used everything at her disposal. People, elves, qunari—they are bound not only by heavy chains: duty, rank, status, lineage, religious views, ideology, and kinship. But also by threads masquerading as something fragile and insignificant: sympathy, empathy, compassion, friendship, lust, and love... For Naire, Alim would have been ready to abandon the Circle. Perhaps for Morrigan, he would have done no less. Not long ago, in a frank conversation, Leliana had voiced her own suspicion: the Witch of the Wilds 'collected' companions like a set of interesting and useful tools. So be it. The girl accepted the unpleasant fact that she should have learned from the former bard. Just as she accepted that very few care about the true motives behind actions as long as they see what they desire. Morrigan harbored no illusions that she could shed certain character traits or newly acquired inclinations with a snap of her fingers. But she did believe in the success of an attempt to 'dull her thorns'.

Nevertheless... she had to return to the harsh truth of the present. Valinsi's reaction had left the girl with little hope. Alim... Morrigan could only smirk darkly. Naire and Bethany lacked sufficient influence to offer real help. Leliana... Yes, the witch did not doubt the 'sister's' ability to 'exert influence'. But that required time and the right circumstances. Finally, from her current position, Morrigan could not hope to match people like Irving. A direct consequence of personal weakness. To turn these conclusions into something tangible, the girl needed a chance... Something that couldn't be bought for any amount of coin.

* * *

As the daylight faded, Morrigan prepared to face the nightmare. Little remained within the girl in terms of suitable emotions or confidence to meet the coming night fully armed. Only the will to survive, to which she added as much stubbornness as she could muster. Stretched out along the bench, the prisoner quietly awaited the veil of sleep to carry her off to the realm said by legends to lie on the border between the Waking World and the Fade.

Therefore, when the stone blocks grated and shifted with a faint scraping sound, she couldn't suppress a soft gasp of surprise. The first to slip into the room was Leliana's lithe figure. The 'sister' offered Morrigan a restrained smile before immediately turning to Valinsi, who followed behind. The witch stared at the mage with wide eyes, unable to untangle the knot of emotions crashing down upon her. The mage gave a grim smirk and muttered quietly towards his redheaded companion:

— Looks like she's ready to meet the Maker.

Leliana merely shook her head, perplexed by the mage's clumsy attempt at humor, then turned back to Morrigan.

— We are here to help. Naire... She wanted to come too. But they've had a conflict with Alim. So, the girl is temporarily... restricted in her movement around the Tower.

The witch raised her eyebrows, asking in surprise:

— She's a full mage. Alim couldn't possibly restrict...

Valinsi cut her off, stating dryly:

— He can. Formally, due to the near-total absence of surviving senior mages of the Tower, I am currently highest in the hierarchy. However, the First Enchanter has been... diligent in ensuring his wishes regarding future appointments reach the right people. So, if the elf wants to do something within the rules, in this emptied-out Tower, he'll get his way. And the lad apparently had a powerful urge to lock Naire away. I had a choice—go argue with the stubborn fool or be here...

As the mage spread his hands, indicating his chosen course, Leliana nodded, adding her own details:

— From my perspective, Alim is a difficult conversationalist today. Sharp. Careless words set him off. Experience suggests the young man is unaccustomed to conflicting emotions tearing him in opposite directions. In Alim's life, I suspect everything was always clearly defined and focused on two or three specific things. First, he found himself in an unstable position, and then he personally ripped the last hint of constancy out from under his own feet. I understand the difficulties he faces perfectly. But the elf needs to decide what he truly wants…

A easily recognizable note of irritation sharpened Leliana's voice on the last phrase. As if, beyond the obvious, there was something personal here too. And simultaneously, from the far end of the gallery, came the sound of running footsteps, as if someone was approaching the cell at a sprint.

— Bethany?

— I'm here, I'm here...

A breathless girl, grabbing the doorframe for support, hurried into the room. Brushing a stray brown lock from her forehead, she offered Morrigan a modest smile.

— I was answering a couple of initiates' questions about life outside the Circle. The young men were rather persistent.

The 'sister' rolled her eyes meaningfully, more for the older of the two mages than the younger, as if saying: 'of course'. Meanwhile, the Templar by the entrance—the same veteran who had escorted Morrigan between cells—snapped to attention at Bethany's arrival. His hand instinctively fell to his sword hilt as his eyes counted the present: two mages, an unfamiliar woman, and the prisoner herself. Four people in a cell meant for one. Noticing the 'mistress' of the stone sack focusing on something in the passageway, Valinsi also turned around.

The Templar's sharp cry cut through the air like a whip crack:

— Enough! Three visits in one day—this is no longer visiting, it's a gathering.

The warrior's gaze slid to Valinsi:

— Even if you have the First Enchanter's permission, I have my orders from the Knight-Commander. Petr, after the assistant! One foot here, the other...

The second armored figure saluted and strode swiftly along the other cells towards the only staircase leading up. Valinsi, testing the waters before diving in headfirst, asked the remaining Templar:

— After the full-fledged delegation the First Enchanter brought here himself, you wouldn't pick a fight over a trifle with the Tower's future right hand, would you?

The warrior didn't even grant the veiled threat in the remark a reaction, offering a cool reply:

— You have only the First Enchanter's Word, which may not become fact. And even if it does, the future of the Circle itself will first be decided by the Seeker's will. A flimsy foundation, it seems. So, forgive me, but I don't care. If any one of us sees anything even remotely suspicious, I assure you, the Knight-Commander will hear of it.

— Looking at you, I...

Leliana punched Valinsi in the shoulder, cutting him off before the dialogue could escalate into direct threats. The mage turned to her with a surprised look, but she was already addressing the Templar.

— Ser Harman, a man of stern views and a stickler for discipline. Please do not take his words as a personal insult. This warrior of the Maker is quite loyal to mages, unlike some others. More precisely, he is fundamentally indifferent—who breaks the rules is who faces his sharp criticism. However, one should consider that Harman lost two comrades during the retreat from the Tower, men he'd weathered more than one winter with. Among themselves, the Templars believe that's precisely why he was assigned to watch over Morrigan. Though I doubt many know the 'Saviour of the Circle' by name.

The redheaded 'sister' offered a conciliatory smile to the slightly flustered man. The Templar responded with a demonstrative scowl and silently resumed his habitual post by the wall around the corner. Turning back to Valinsi, Leliana clarified in a half-whisper:

— A quarter of an hour, while Petr runs around, and then the Knight-Commander's assistant will be explaining the situation to him.

Focusing her attention on Morrigan, Leliana continued:

— Pull yourself together. Not long ago, you pushed me in the right direction. Hard to believe I already need to push you so soon. Can we manage in ten minutes?

Watching the mage's still-surprised gaze reassessing the redheaded woman, Morrigan closed her eyes for a moment. Suppressing the relief and irritation that were superfluous now, the witch exhaled and met the gaze of those pale green eyes again, nodding.

— The beginning is swift. I cannot predict the duration of the consequences.

Leliana nodded. The mage, finally, made a cautious remark, addressing the redheaded girl more than the witch:

— It seems you haven't been wandering the Tower aimlessly all this time?

The 'sister' shook her head noncommittally, a faint hint of guilt in her voice:

— Perhaps I should have devoted more time to other matters. But yes. Thanks to the isolation, the Circle is teeming with rumors like an anthill. Right now, after the tragic loss of so many seniors, they are more innocent. But the collective consciousness still holds enough facts about those living under this roof. Of course, not everyone can discern them beneath the childish jokes and scary stories. One must know how to listen and encourage the storyteller with a kind word. But we are digressing.

Bethany and Morrigan nodded readily, but despite this, the man had the last word:

— Right now, the Circle is in disarray and has practically frozen, awaiting the unknown. That's why this trick of yours was so easy to pull off. Don't think it will always be this way. In the old days, we were far more closed-off, conservative, and suspicious of outsiders.

— Easy to believe. But those times are past.

The older of the two mages interjected before the conversation could turn into a relentless exchange of barbs, quietly asking:

— Lyrium?

Valinsi nodded, removing from his belt a massive leather pouch, suitable for carrying several valuable tomes at once. Inside were four ceramic flasks, capable of containing a solution of processed lyrium. Touching them with her fingertips, the girl felt the familiar, unpleasant tingling in her hand.

— Then let's begin.

After emptying the bucket of drinking water into the latrine, she moved it to the center of the room. Watching the preparations, Bethany whispered:

— Um... What should I do?

As she retrieved the ceramic vessels, the prisoner gave a nervous snort and, beginning to pour the bluish liquid with a faint pearlescent sheen—a sign of high concentration—into the bucket, replied:

— Make sure I don't fall. The floor is stone.

At this remark, Valinsi cast a thoughtful glance at the kneeling Morrigan, which only the younger mage missed. The man remained silent, not interfering in the preparations in any way. Wasting no time on doubts and pushing the empty containers aside, Morrigan sat before the bucket, crossed her legs, and plunged her right hand into the solution. It felt only slightly more viscous than plain water to the girl. Her arm, up to the shoulder, was immediately gripped by an unpleasant tingling that seemed to reach the very bone. This was accompanied by slight nausea, but nothing that couldn't be overcome with an effort of will.

After a meaningful look from the older mage, Bethany realized it was time to act. Springing from her spot, she was behind her mentor's back in two steps. Taking a deep breath in and out, Morrigan conjured the mental image of the required spell formula. Making the necessary adjustments on the fly to account for the role of oscillating runes, the witch approached the final step. Closing her eyes and concentrating on the sensations in her right arm, she allowed the mana from the dissolved lyrium to flow freely through her body, to fill the formula with power and set the spell in motion.

Morrigan had never experienced mana burn before. The witch had various expectations... But there was nothing to describe here, as the moment the spell took effect was not accompanied by any distinct sensation. It was more like rapidly mounting dizziness and fatigue, crashing down with an overwhelming weight upon both body and mind. As if a huge wave of cold water had suddenly surged forth, instantly dragging her to the very bottom. Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision, squeezing her consciousness in a vise. And it lasted no more than a couple of heartbeats. The last things to reach the witch's awareness before the embrace of darkness were the sounds of the Templar's irritated questions, their meaning elusive, and Bethany's 'Flaming Hands' on the back of her head…

* * *

The forest was dying. No... Morrigan winced, realizing she was capable of the thought. Her thoughts were tangled, refusing to form a logical chain. Words obeyed reluctantly, refusing to describe what she saw. For more than one nightmare now, the forest had borne little resemblance to familiar, living vegetation. These changes had been accumulating, but only now had they become so obvious. Everything around her had become the embodiment of 'death'.

Before her eyes, the trees were losing the pitiful remnants of blackening foliage, which dissolved into black, ghostly smoke before even reaching the ground. The undergrowth had already vanished, and even the ash that had previously covered the soil was melting away like the first snow under bright sunlight. All that remained was a bare, grey surface, scarcely resembling forest soil and pockmarked with ulcers, as if afflicted by an unknown disease.

Looking around, the witch felt, for the first time in this nightmare, free rather than a victim caught in a web. Nothing restricted her movement, and the first cautious step she took felt astonishing. Finally, after three minutes... At least, it felt like only three minutes had passed... her searching eyes stumbled upon the only object that differed from the trees and showed no sign of turning into a melting mirage. Taking careful steps, Morrigan came upon a copy of herself. It was kneeling, curled into a ball with its face buried in its knees. Sensing the approach more than hearing it, the witch's alter ego lifted its head, covered in black scars, revealing a face contorted with pain. Focusing its single eye on the 'visitor', the copy demonstrated a swift transition from suffering to rage and hissed:

— Everything's been taken... My memory is full of holes... My body... And now you're burning this little corner I fought so hard to cling to, to keep from falling into oblivion. How I hate you!

Morrigan frowned, looking down at herself for the first time, and asked the only question that troubled her at that moment:

— Why?

The copy suddenly froze, its single eye widening, reflecting something more than just rage—a profound understanding of the absurdity of its position. A snarl twisted its face, though behind the hatred, desperation was now visible:

— Why?!

The double repeated the question, its face distorting into a grimace half-made of pain, half of mockery.

— You stupid creature! Does one need a reason to want to live? To desire to exist? To reclaim what was rightfully theirs?..

Its voice broke into a rasp as black cracks crept up its neck:

— You've even stolen my pain... my dreams...

Morrigan felt an icy shiver run down her spine. There was a strange conviction in the copy's words...

— But I desire the same. Exactly! Our desires cannot... Why didn't you choose another victim, demon?

— Not my choice!..

The copy opened its mouth and froze, clearly deeply shocked by Morrigan's words. Then it burst into abrupt, unprompted laughter. The witch felt a strange mix of revulsion and pity watching the scene unfold. When the laughter subsided, the copy raised its hands, watching at eye level as the tips of its remaining fingers began to blacken. Shifting its gaze back to Morrigan, it began to spew words with extraordinary force:

— You are a sick creature... Broken, twisted, with insane goals, meaningless principles. And that is my small victory. A doll, stuffed with the desires of others, which make me feel soiled and diseased. Without me, you are less than a shadow... Every particle of you is stolen! Even your very essence belongs to me! But now... Now...

Cutting off mid-sentence, the copy looked away into the void, as if peering into an abyss unfolding before it. Something in these words, saturated with sharp hatred and chilling sorrow, pierced Morrigan, making her take a step back. Meanwhile, the blackened fingers of her alter ego began to melt, turning, like everything else, into ephemeral haze. Looking around, the girl realized the trees were gone. The nightmare's disintegration was rapidly approaching its climax. Letting out a painful, weeping moan, the copy drew the witch's gaze once more. As if with great effort, it forced out a poisonous smile. In it was a certain defiance and a desire to drink to the dregs the sweetness of small victories, no matter the cost. The girl couldn't bear it and shouted:

— What?! Enough. Disappear. I've won. You won't get this body.

— Creature... Be damned... On that ill-fated day, Flemeth almost killed you... Almost...

Lurching forward abruptly, the witch grabbed the copy by its darkening shoulders, intending to shake it.

— You remember that day? What... What happened then? Tell me! What happened to Mother?!

In the copy's single eye, shining with pure gold, surprise flashed, replaced by triumph. It laughed again, but this time the laughter was angrier, more jerky, more painful... reeking of madness. To her own surprise, the witch slapped the copy, then again, feeling the taste of blood from her bitten lip. With the third blow, the face, riddled with black cracks, shattered like broken glass, scattering into tiny shards that didn't even reach the ground. The body fell, immediately crumpling and beginning to disappear. In the timid, frozen silence, a whisper finally reached Morrigan's ears:

— Be cursed...

Immediately after, the very ground beneath her feet swiftly changed color from dirty grey to black and crumbled into dust, marking the final death of this mysterious place, lost amidst dreams. At least, that's what Morrigan, sinking into darkness, hoped for…

* * *

Five years, and a handful of sunrises before that.

Melsendre stood over the body of a softly snoring man who had quite successfully reached his fifth decade of winters with a few to spare. He had managed not to wear out too badly over the years, despite a comfortable, carefree, and not overly active life. A slight paunch, a moderate number of wrinkles, a smoothly shaven face framed by grey hair, and legs only just beginning to grow frail. A mage. Yet, like most of the gifted, not immune to the common folk's afflictions. Raising the left corner of her elegant lips in a slight smile, the woman noted that the mage no longer possessed the stamina of the young, even with his accumulated knowledge and talents. Wiping a soiled corner of his mouth with the edge of the clean sheet, and then using it to dry the moisture between her own thighs, Melsendre approached the clothes she had prudently discarded in one spot. From her dress pocket, she retrieved a small silk pouch. Transferring the brooch it contained—adorned with three memorable emeralds—into the top drawer of the bedside table, the girl, who had never touched the jewelry with her bare skin, couldn't help but note the trinket's elegant design.

As she put her dress back on, Melsendre thought she felt almost sorry for the harmless librarian of the White Spire. The man held no influence but had the carelessness to voice his political opinions publicly three times in the last week. And each instance could be deemed unfortunate: both in timing and location. Such shortsightedness, combined with carelessness, easily became a weapon in the 'Grand Game', which had been rapidly acquiring bloody undertones in recent months. Melsendre's patron, Gaspard de Chalons, had decided to put two chatterboxes in their place—men who had found themselves, by carelessness or design, in the wrong place. The brooch the bard had left behind belonged to a court lady. A most respectable lady. And attractive, for her years. Despite her spotless reputation, she had the misfortune of being married to the commander of the Val Royeaux guard. He, too, had recently been too public in declaring his personal tastes in favor of the current Empress, Celene. Melsendre was perfectly aware of the White Spire librarian's weaknesses, and though the task wasn't personally intended for her, the woman had confidently volunteered to fulfill her patron's wish first.

The rumor of the adultery was already slithering through the capital, a quiet snake finding its way into the right ears. Once the evidence became known... feathers would fly. But for Melsendre, this affair held a personal interest. The opportunity to gain access to the White Spire through the head librarian's good graces was not to be missed. Who would now suspect that the real target was an ancient folio in the library? Deftly fastening the last loop on her luxurious dress, which flatteringly displayed the one area of skin—its owner's deep décolletage—the woman picked up her porcelain mask and high-heeled shoes. When worn, the mask depicted a smiling jester with pronounced feminine features, reliably guarding the anonymity of the person behind it.

Quietly closing the chamber door, Melsendre slipped into the dark corridor. Barefoot, with a light and silent gait, she headed for the library. She knew the way. Perhaps she shouldn't have, but she did. The Night Spire slept—the mages had long since retired to their quarters, leaving the labyrinthine book repositories unattended. It was quiet and deserted.

Soon, the desired doors came into view. Slipping between them, the bard found herself in a realm of knowledge. The sharp smell of ink drying on documents copied during the day struck her nostrils, along with the indescribable scent of paper dust and aging parchment. Together, they enveloped the newcomer, as if whispering in her ear where she had arrived. Many would be bewildered by the sight of the huge shelves receding into the distance in straight, longitudinal lines, dividing the vast circular hall into narrow aisles. But not Melsendre. She knew precisely what she needed and where to find it. All the preliminary work had long been completed, waiting only for a fortunate confluence of circumstances.

Gliding between the shelves, the bard searched visually for the required call number, of which there were a countless number around her. The secret language of the local attendants, which made them indispensable. And over the years, it had scarcely simplified; if anything, the opposite. Any successful trick that made navigation difficult for a casual visitor among the tomes, scrolls, and tablets was immediately adopted. Finally, Melsendre stopped before an ancient volume that gave no outward indication of its value to the woman. By a fortunate twist, it was located only on the third shelf, and with the help of a step-stool, it was within the reach of the woman's long arms. The book was written many winters ago by an Orlesian researcher who had studied scattered documents of the old Empire—everything that could be translated or obtained without visiting Tevinter itself. The handwritten work was dedicated to cataloging the architectural feats of the old Empire, mentioning the most peculiar of those already forgotten.

With a soft, delicate rustle, Melsendre ran her finger down the required page and finally found the name she sought. Aeonar... Previously, the woman had held disparate pieces of a puzzle she had set for herself. The task was to discover the secret prison of the Seekers of Truth for those gifted with magic. She had never succeeded before. Not until a clue appeared that the mysterious place was located within a relic of the Magisters of the old Empire. Now, by process of elimination and possessing the most complete list possible outside of Tevinter of such relic sites, Melsendre had obtained what she needed for a confident answer. A place where there was a chance to realize a dream and take an important step from significance to that elusive exclusivity. Only one small matter remained: to find a suitable candidate for infiltrating the grim Aeonar. A place known to few, and from which none return...