The boy smiled at him.
Of all the cursed things buried in this mountain—of all the treachery, blood, and iron Varric had orchestrated and endured—it was that smile he could not tolerate.
Not the trap.
Not the corpse-to-be dwarf glaring at him with burning eyes.
Not even the witch with shadows licking her blade like hungry tongues.
It was the smile.
Smug. Relaxed. Almost apologetic, as if he were tolerating a child's tantrum. Something inside him twitched.
He had already shown them the relic—the jagged iron shard veined with ember-gold that the Tazrik dogs wanted badly enough to drown him in coin. When he lifted it earlier, he could have sworn he saw something shift behind the boy's eyes.
Not fear.
Not greed.
but something he did not recognize and that unsettled him even more than he cared to admit.
In the end He still stifled a laugh, make a little deal of it. After all, he could crush all three of them with his aura alone if he wished.
But then they had a nerve to mocked him, hence he finally snapped
No matter, Varric told himself.
Let arrogance be the last thing you ever feels.
"Kill them," he commanded.
The words rang clean and final as the steel answered.
The chamber exploded into motion exactly as Varric expected—bodies slamming, shadows writhing, the old stubborn dwarf, once his capable companion swinging his hammer like a forge awakened. The sound of it roared through the hall with thunderous familiarity, sending his guildmen crashing into stone.
Good fighters. All of them.
Dangerous, even.
But ultimately insignificant.
Varric watched with detached amusement as the first wave fell, then the next surged forward, reorganizing, pressing harder. He let it happen. Let the mutts bruise them, tire them, bleed them.
Desperation was a useful tool. When it hollowed their eyes and slowed their limbs, then he would step in and finish the matter himself.
That was the plan.
But the little bastard did not slow.
He sharpened.
He darted across the battlefield like a spark slipping between embers, redirecting bodies, creating gaps, whispering some idiocy to his companions.
Varric almost snorted.
He thinks he's planning something.
He tightened his grip on the lockbox.
"No matter," he murmured to himself.
"Let him dance. Let him scheme. When he breaks, I'll enjoy the sound."
Then He watched the boy moving closer.
Closer still.
Threading through the guildmen with infuriating precision, until he was right there—standing directly in front of him.
The boy met his gaze.
And smiled.
"Come on then," the whelp said.
"Hit me."
Varric barked a low laugh.
Gods, the arrogance.
The boy even positioned himself in front of a support pillar—an obvious ploy—pretending he had some clever trick prepared. And the more Varric thought about it, the more irritation boiled beneath his ribs.
With a snarl, he stepped forward.
Mana flared around him, molten and heavy. The air warped. Shadows hissed away from the heat of his presence.
Little fool, he thought.
A pillar won't save you from a Mortal Lord.
He lunged.
Mana scorched stone beneath his boots as his speed tore through the air. His blade flashed toward the boy's ribcage, before abruptly his world fractured.
For the briefest instant, Varric felt the air wrap, only in a blink of an eye but in that second the boy vanished.
It wasn't speed, it was denial. As if reality itself refused to place him where Varric's blade fell. In the same heartbeat, the boy was already elsewhere—sidestepping the thrust, guiding Varric's swing with a twist of his wrist so subtle it should not have mattered.
But it did.
The blade slammed into the iron pillar instead.
KRAAAAAACK—!
Metal screamed. Dust cascaded from the ceiling. The sound ripped through the chamber like a wounded beast.
Varric blinked.
Not from pain.
From disbelief.
"What—"
Before the word left his mouth, a boot struck his chest.
A boot he should have blocked.
A boot he did block—just a fraction too late.
The impact flung him backward like a sack of brittle ore. He smashed into the pillar he had just shattered. Pain bloomed across his ribs, sharp and unforgiving. His breath hitched.
The lockbox slipped from his fingers for a moment, before He snatched it back immediately, but the moment of imbalance sent another chunk of rusted pillar collapsing.
Then the ceiling followed.
"NO—!"
Too slow.
The world dropped like a dying forge.
A wall of metal and shattered stone crashed down between him and the boy's party with a roar that drowned thought itself. Guildmen leaped back, cursing, scrambling as the collapse split the chamber in two.
When the dust settled, the boy was gone.
A narrow, half-buried tunnel yawned behind the rubble—an escape path opened by Varric's own damned strike.
Varric trembled.
Rage tore through him like a bellows-fed flame.
He inhaled sharply, dragging mana into his lungs until it burned, and roared—
"YOU BASTARDS, YOU'LL DIE FOR THIS!"
His voice thundered through stone and dust.
From somewhere beyond the collapse, he heard the boy shout back, cheerful as ever:
"Take a number!"
Something inside Varric snapped.
Half-buried guildmen crawled forward. Others panicked. Varric shoved them aside, drew his blade, and strode toward the shattered heap.
He let his Mortal Lord aura flare fully.
His power surged and the air warped around his blade. Stone vibrated like struck iron.
He swung.
THOOOOM—!
A wave of molten force exploded outward from his strike. Metal liquefied at the edges. Stone cracked and vaulted upward. The collapsed tunnel blasted open, shards flying like flares.
Weaker guildmen were thrown off their feet.
Varric stepped through the ruin, breathing hard, cloak whipping in the wake of residual force. Blood trickled from his knuckles where recoil had bitten deep—but he did not feel it.
There was only rage.
Only promise he whispered into the dark.
"You won't outrun me, boy,"
The smelter tunnels beyond were empty. Only echoes, ancient soot and the fading scent of motion.
Varric exhaled slowly, forcing his breathing to steady.
He signaled his remaining men.
"Fall back," he growled.
Outside the smelter exit, the air was cool and sharp. The treeline swayed under the wind. Somewhere out there, the boy and his two strays vanished into the forest.
Varric held the lockbox tighter.
The forest swallowed his glare.
"I will find you," he whispered.
"And when I do…"
His jaw tightened.
"…I'll carve that smile off your face."