The rest of the night passed in movement and sullen silence. Fatigue, fresh bruises, wounds, and foul weather weighed on Morrigan's companions. Before dawn, the group was twice drenched by short, icy downpours. The additional burden was the still-unconscious elf, passed like a dead weight between Jory and Alistair. And then there was the gnawing sense of danger—unshaken even by the first rays of sunlight. It seemed to lurk behind every bush now. Of course, the men couldn't shake the death of their comrade, left behind without burial or honors. The witch treated the previous night's events as a settled fact, refusing to let them fuel darker thoughts.
Yet. With the sun flickering between the clouds, the monotony of the march took hold. The sharpness of dark musings blurred. Guilt dulled. The warmth of the new day helped, as did the vivid landscape. A flicker of brighter emotion came when Alim finally regained consciousness. After a brief rest and a terse summary of events, the mage caught the mood and silently fell into step, saving questions for later.
Two hours later, cresting another hill, the party spotted the slender silhouette of Ostagar's watchtower—still imposing after centuries. It pierced the sky like an arrow. Just past the last ridge, warmth, food, and campfires awaited.
Alistair slumped onto a nearby log, forehead pressed to his knees, signaling a breather. Jory prodded his swollen mouth and promptly collapsed into the grass. After a moment, the blond straightened and fixed his gaze on the girl's lean figure. Leaning casually on her staff, she stared pensively at the horizon between sparse pines—back toward where they'd first met her. Not a trace of weariness showed. Deliberately sharpening his tone, Alistair tossed out a question:
— How do you manage to look so fresh after a march like that?
Morrigan smirked, eyes still forward.
— Hard to say. Either your companion is better suited to long walks... or the men around her are simply weak. I'll ponder it in my spare time.
Alistair scowled. She caught his reaction sidelong, sighed, and continued:
— There were times I didn't return home for days. Hunting. Surveying the wilds, studying beasts, gathering herbs. Just the forest and... the maiden. That tempers body and mind—teaches where the line lies between arrogance and real strength.
Perched on gnarled roots beneath a pine, the elf ventured cautiously:
— Alone? And no one worried? No one called you home?
Morrigan closed her eyes, shaking her head.
— Complex questions. Slippery words. What is loneliness? How does one describe concern? Our views may differ fundamentally, elf. You, raised in the Tower, should understand such nuances better than most. Especially now, thrust into the wider world. The chains you knew never bound me. And what stirred my spirit... is no concern of outsiders.
Jory, rubbing his bandaged leg, smirked and jabbed:
— A witch is a witch. Like these lands—wild, dangerous, and deceptive. What they say of the mother applies to the daughter.
She shrugged.
— A warrior. Like the sword on your back—heavy, blunt, unwieldy. What holds for one holds for all.
The swordsman bristled but checked himself under Alistair's glare. With a huff, he flopped back, muttering:
— Sword's perfectly sharp. Checked before we left.
Unexpectedly, Alim spoke up:
— After last night... Why Ostagar? You could've slipped any pursuer in the wilds of the Korcari.
Morrigan tilted her head, weighing the words.
— You've a Grey among you. But—blondie, how many spawn have you seen at once?
Alistair's jaw twitched.
— Thirty-four. The officers told us to turn tail and prove we could run. Lost one that day.
— I've seen a hundred. From afar. When a horde like that crawls through the woods, elf, no branch or root will hide you.
Seeing the conversation wither, Alistair slapped his knees.
— Lovely chat. Truly 'heartwarming.' Let's move. Three hours—we'll reach camp.
Grimacing but silent, the party rose for the final descent. The terrain grew rocky, boulders veined with roots jutting from the slopes. The hills steepened, as if a titanic force had crumpled the Korcari Wilds, carving deeper valleys and sharper peaks. Near Ostagar, cliffs plunged abruptly. Pines now dominated, interspersed with deciduous trees crowned in autumn fire and gold.
The path narrowed, forcing them to clutch at outcrops. During one pause, Morrigan fell in step with the panting elf. She watched him climb, teeth gritted—then sunlight pierced the clouds, revealing his pallor, unnatural even for an elf.
— That magic last night...
She drew out the words, letting him gather his thoughts.
— Rare skill for a Circle apprentice. A battlemage?
Alim inhaled deeply, wiped sweat, and glanced at Alistair's back.
— Strange that interests you. But no. I never sought the battlemage corps, bound to Chantry and King. Simpler life, perhaps—but hidden costs. Still, I took to magic young. Of my options, I chose Tower guard: standing with templars during Harrowings, keeping order, escorting Tranquil. A protector... Poorly planned, as you see.
Morrigan scaled the next ledge, then offered a hand. After a pause, he took it.
— You speak as if you had something to guard there. Strange. My knowledge of the Circles—of Kinloch Hold—is hardly exhaustive. But few there burn to defend their gilded cage. Let alone devote themselves to it.
Dusting himself off, Alim shook his head.
— The heart of another is a dark forest.
She nodded slowly.
— So it is.
* * *
Crossing the final ridge, the party entered a forest starkly different from the one before. Even the scent had changed. Evergreen pines gave way to the lush variety of broadleaf trees common to central Ferelden. Rolling with the terrain, the trees stretched in waves all the way to the fortress walls, where cliffs plunged sheer into the depths below. This time, the descent was treacherous—slippery stones and a rain-swollen pond in the lowlands forced careful footing.
Morrigan paused, taking in the unfamiliar path with a furrowed brow. Every detail was scrutinized, every potential refuge noted. Misreading her thoughts, Alim offered his own take on the peculiar landscape:
— Unsettling, isn't it?
She arched an eyebrow, waiting. The mage faltered, then clarified:
— Ostagar's an imperial relic, yes—but few realize this forest contrasts with the Korcari Wilds for the same reason. The Magisters planted it. Perhaps Tevinter mages preferred this aesthetic. Or the original flora was razed during construction. Unsettling, really—the labor it must've taken for a frontier outpost.
Alistair, already descending, tossed back:
— Beauty's fine, but what matters is it's impassable for cavalry or supply trains. Admire it from the fortress. Move.
The march led them along a narrow trail between boulders, then to a grove at the fortress base. The walls, though weathered and veined with stubborn roots, still radiated impregnability. Winding past gnarled trees, the party emerged onto a clearing of stumps—then the trampled ground before the gates. Fresh wood shavings and hastily hung gates suggested recent repairs.
Two bored guards leaned on spears, eyeing the newcomers without curiosity. Morrigan hung back, letting Alistair take the lead. With a wave, he asked if Duncan was in camp or with the King. The guards shrugged—they'd only been on duty a few hours. A few flat jokes later, they were inside.
Ostagar's interior fared worse than its walls. Not a single intact building remained—even the grand central structure was a skeletal ruin of columns and arches, hinting at Tevinter's love for vast halls. The Fereldans who now occupied it preferred cramped quarters.
The military camp sprawled amidst the ruins, a mosaic of faded tents and pavilions bearing heraldic embroidery. Oddly, it harmonized with autumn's palette and the eroded statues. Near the gates, haystacks, makeshift horse troughs, and a freshly built kennel cluttered the space.
Then the hounds howled.
Jory shot Morrigan a glare. She feigned innocence but tensed inwardly—this was too convenient. Alim watched her, not the dogs. Alistair's jaw tightened as the kennel master, a grizzled man, smirked.
— Alistair. Should've known. Only Grey Wardens rattle the boys like this. Sometimes they can't tell your kind from darkspawn.— His tone darkened.— Run into 'em or went looking?"
— Ran into 'em,— Alistair muttered. — Seeking 'em out's just stupid.
The man eyed the party.
— Careful, Grey. The army's here to fight. Some might call that talk... bold.
— Won't change my mind. We've got business—like washing off this taint.
— Aye. And Alistair? Don't trail filth. Nerves are frayed.
As they walked away, Morrigan murmured:
— 'Trail filth'?
— Darkspawn blood's contagious,— Alistair said flatly.— An open wound's a death sentence. Most know it's what makes Grey Wardens, too. But they don't trust ours is harmless. Hence... no handshakes.
— Fascinating.
Descending toward the tents, Morrigan noted the camp's disarray. Instead of orderly rows, it was chaos: a central cluster of merged pavilions (guarded by four templars in engraved plate), randomly scattered soldier tents, and supply wagons near a makeshift workshop. On the far wall, archers and spearmen drilled.
Alistair led them to a roaring fire between ancient columns. A statuesque man—dark-skinned, silver-streaked beard, templar-like armor—rose as they approached. His stern face hid nothing from Morrigan: his eyes warmed at the sight of Alistair, then flicked over the others—lingering on her.
— Alistair,— he said, voice low and pleasant.— Your 'short trip' seems to have diverged from plan. The Wilds exact a price. But experience is valuable. Report.
Alistair stiffened, chastened.
— No signs of darkspawn until the outpost. Then... a storm. Lightning like I've only seen on the Waking Sea. Later, we found tracks—clear, heading northwest. And then... a full patrol. Unarmed, but with an alpha. It acted... odd. Didn't fight. Just fled. Daveth didn't make it.
Duncan's gaze softened.
— Losses are inevitable. A leader's duty is to minimize them—not dwell.— He turned to Morrigan.— And you?
— Felandaris,— she said.
Alim smirked. The name meant "terror-flower" in Elvish.
— Apt,— Duncan noted.— How'd you come by the treaties?
— Circumstance. Like why we're all here. The deal's done: the Wardens get their papers. I get safe passage. My secrets stay mine. The question is—what's your word worth?
Duncan's voice turned steely.
— You press awkwardly.
— That's the point.
— Alyster?
— Prickly. Tough. Fights well. Self-serving. A witch.— The last word dripped disdain.
Duncan chided him:
— Shed the templar's hate, or it'll get you killed.
Morrigan's eyes narrowed at "templar", but she said nothing.
Duncan continued:
— Three more skirmishes happened last night. All against poorly equipped darkspawn. All victories. Too many. And two patrols—Fergus Cousland's and Arl Urien's—are missing.
Morrigan scoffed.
— Northerners got lost. No mages to signal for help.
To everyone's surprise, Duncan agreed.
— We're short on mages. Too many templars.— He eyed Alim.— But the treaties are secured. Focus on the Joining. Alistair—clean up. Meet me at sunset in the ruins.
As Duncan left, Alistair groaned:
— Bath first? Or food?
Jory rubbed his stomach, but Alim cut in:
— Bath.
* * *
The bathhouse, a slapdash structure of fresh-cut logs, stood defiantly intact at the foot of Ishal's Tower—a relic of the Archon who'd overseen Ostagar's construction. The mundane nestled against the eternal.
From the bridge spanning the gorge, the view was staggering: the southern slope, choked with rubble; the gorge below, tent-dotted like mushrooms after rain; the orderly lanes (already taking on the character of their makers); and beyond, a cleared field giving way to stumps and the dark pines of the old forest. The horizon blurred into distant hills.
Only one artifact of civilization remained—the Imperial Highway. Once, it had met the gorge head-on, but centuries of neglect had left it fragmented, swallowed by the wilds. Now it reappeared an hour's march northwest, a ruler-straight scar on the land.
Morrigan turned away, trailing her weary companions. Only Alim glanced back—northwest, toward Lake Calenhad and Kinloch Hold's distant spire. The heart of Ferelden's Circle.
The bathhouse itself was a shoddy affair: crooked logs, gaping seams, steam leaking everywhere. Nearby, soldiers loitered on rocks while sergeants barked orders at woodcutters.
Alistair adopted a gruff air, accosting a sergeant. To Morrigan's surprise, the man cursed fluently—but the Grey Warden only leaned in, murmuring something that made the older man scowl.
Alim muttered an explanation:
— Baths are allocated by rank. Patrols skip the line—which irks those waiting. Lucky for them, we're just four. A full squadron's return would—
Morrigan cut in:
— Wait. You assume I'd join you?
The elf coughed.
— Ah. Right. Spent days trailing three men— Never mind. Too tired to dig this hole deeper. But you…?
— I'll pass. Unlike you, I'm not drenched in blood. Daveth's clothes got a night's washing.— She gestured vaguely.— I'll wait… around.
As Alim trudged off, Morrigan scaled Ishal's Tower, finding a perch on a protruding block. Below, soldiers whistled at her agility—then promptly returned to dice games.
Observing them, she noted their lack of fear. Nervous laughter, bravado, petty aggression—all symptoms of complacency. Duncan was right: this army had known only easy victories. The Grey Wardens' warnings fell on deaf ears.
Closing her eyes, Morrigan turned inward. The gap in her memory taunted her—a void her mind reflexively dismissed as trivial. But she'd been raised harder than that. With iron will, she chipped at its edges, reconstructing the day it began:
A routine morning. Returning from the hunt, dragging a gutted musk deer. Flemeth's wordless greeting—then…
Fragments resisted order. A figure emerging from the trees. Male? Flemeth's face—surprised. That alone was alarming. The Witch of the Wilds was unpredictable, but surprise was rare. And uninvited guests? Impossible. Flemeth always sensed intruders days in advance. Usually, Morrigan would be sent to mislead fools or scare Hasind youths. Or kill overzealous maleficar hunters.
Two possibilities...
A cruel lesson from Mother. But even Flemeth wouldn't erase memories for pedagogy.
Someone slipped past her. That thought prickled Morrigan's skin. Yet logic soothed her: if she'd escaped such an enemy unharmed, the threat was gone. Flemeth had either dealt with the intruder—or he'd no interest in Morrigan.
A third, darker thought surfaced: What if Mother lost? Examining it, she felt only a thread of sorrow for lost history—and quiet rage at the theft of her choice.
The second key point. Why did her mind only conjure scenarios of violent confrontation? Sighing, Morrigan forced herself to detach from the emotional haze—from every feeling that surged at the mere memory of smoke coiling above the hut she'd shared with her mother. Some emotions seemed... imposed, deliberately pushing her to flee like an animal instinctively retreating from fire. But without an active pursuer—what sparked such impulses?
Frowning, the witch focused on the mental image burned into her memory. The devastation suggested massive damage to the forest—likely tied to the stranger's appearance. Yet when, how, and by whom remained mysteries. Had a battle occurred, it would have been on a scale beyond Morrigan's comprehension—and she'd have been collateral damage. Yet her steady pulse and breath disproved that. The only plausible scenario was an improbable one: something had saved her, shielding her so completely that not a scratch remained before whisking her away. But how? Hundreds of clues, yet no proof...
A pained groan escaped her as she massaged her temples, dispelling the throbbing headache constricting her skull like a vise. Opening her eyes, Morrigan resolved to return to the present—where the immediate threat wasn't some enigmatic stranger, but the impending carnage of northerners and darkspawn.
After half an hour with no sign of the men emerging from the baths, the free-spirited daughter of the Wilds grew restless. Scanning the soldiers, she sought women among their ranks—a rarity in Ferelden, though Orlesian occupation had eroded some traditional prejudices. Soon, she spotted two archers on duty, their identical braids, weary postures, and tired expressions providing perfect templates.
Loosening her hair, Morrigan swiftly replicated their hairstyle. Upon landing, she mimicked their gait and mannerisms—though she doubted the performance, the transformation was seamless enough. Adopting the harried air of someone rushing to unpleasant duties, she crossed the bridge unchallenged. None cared to stop yet another weary soul.
With sunset hours away, the mages' segregated area became her sole point of interest. Choosing a spot just beyond the templars' sight but within earshot, she settled casually, unpacking her belongings with deliberate slowness—nothing drew attention like an idle soldier.
The templars, like all thinking beings, couldn't maintain stoic silence forever. Their fragmented conversation revealed tensions in Kinloch Hold since a quarter of their order departed for Ostagar. With guards stretched thin, relations with certain mage factions had deteriorated rapidly. Both men suspected conspiracy, though they absolved the First Enchanter—a staunch Chantry ally—of blame.
After a dreary detour into assessing female mages' appearances (reminding Morrigan of villagers comparing cattle), they circled back to intriguing news: a Seeker's arrival in Denerim. The term carried weight—this was a Chantry operative of immense authority. Whispers placed the event a fortnight prior, the news only now reaching the front via a commander's leaked letter. Speculations abounded: ties to the Blight, a rogue hunt, or—most compelling—the sudden silence of Aeonar, the mage prison. If even a Seeker took notice...
Just as Morrigan pondered this, Duncan emerged from the mages' tents.
With a nod to the templars, Duncan left the cordoned area and vanished behind nearby tents. Even with her sharp hearing, Morrigan couldn't discern the Grey Warden's footsteps over the camp's din—until he suddenly spoke behind her.
— Felandaris? I see you've transformed. That suggests certain... intentions.
His voice carried dry amusement.
— For our safety, you'd do better staying close—preferably where I can see you. But since youth favors recklessness, you'll endure an old man's company. Walk with me. And tell me: what do you seek?
— You think I have but one goal?
— Ah.— Duncan adjusted his gloves.— Alistair may have many thoughts, but only one purpose at a time. That doesn't make him simple—just methodical. Step by step. You? Your eyes betray you. Even mid-conversation, they dart—weighing clues, analyzing surroundings. Multiple aims. The question is: do you steer them, or they you?— He chuckled.— But no soul reveals itself at once.
— Hmph.
— No offense meant. Philosophy comes with outliving comrades. Or with seeking a worthy death.
— Is that what you seek here?— Her tone prickled like thorns.
— Now I see why Alistair called you 'prickly.'— He gestured toward the ruins.— Having seen death intimately, I question if any end is 'worthy.' Hence my idle musings. So—your goals?
Morrigan shrugged, following him into the skeleton of Ostagar's central hall. Surprisingly, its burgundy brick floor remained intact, the geometric patterns still crisp.
— For now, Alistair's approach suits me,— she admitted.— Survive this mess. Escape north. Then—
She froze, startled by the blankness where plans should be. As if she'd forgotten something vital.
— Then... find sanctuary. Sort through doubts. Simple enough.
Duncan stopped before a massive slab—perhaps an ancient table or grim altar.
— A respectable plan. May you achieve at least the first steps.
Reaching into his belt, he produced a cloth bundle.
— Not porridge, but filling. No queues required.
Unwrapping it revealed two grayish bricks of... something. The lumpy texture defied categorization as food.
— Trail rations,— he explained.— Dried beef, salt, oats, vegetables, nut flour.
Brushing dust off the slab, he added:
— This will serve for the ritual. The Joining's mystique has faded to old men's posturing, but the location suits.— He nodded toward the steps.— Rest until sunset. I'll be there until the others arrive.
* * *
As the sun kissed the horizon, painting the ruins of Ostagar in crimson and casting long shadows, Morrigan's three companions arrived—cleaned and refreshed. Duncan halted Alistair at the steps for a hushed exchange. The blond shot a glance at Morrigan, who leaned against a broken pillar, but nodded silently.
Soon, the other participants of the Joining appeared. First, the Grey Wardens—a pitiful dozen, all Duncan's age or older, their eyes haunted by varying degrees of madness. Not a single Fereldan among them. Then came the mage, robed in the Circle's traditional garb—a deliberate handicap, Morrigan mused, to mark him as a target. His Grey Warden medallion glinted in the dying light. Notably, no templars shadowed him.
As Alistair, Jory, and Alim lit torches around the ritual site, the last rays of sunlight gilded Ishal's Tower. The camp's noise dulled, but its smells grew sharper—smoke, sweat, and fresh-cut wood.
The two surviving recruits stood before Alistair while Duncan accepted the chalice of Tainted blood from the mage. Jory trembled but resolved; Alim looked hollow, as if realizing there was no escape.
Jory drank first. A grimace, then—his body seized, collapsing bonelessly. Convulsions wracked him until, abruptly, he stilled. Duncan checked his pulse and shook his head.
— Dead?— rasped an Orlesian Warden.
Alistair cursed under his breath, fists clenched. Morrigan watched, silent. Wasteful stupidity, but fascinating.
Then Duncan turned to Alim.
The elf recoiled.
— This… isn't what you promised.
Alistair stepped forward, but Duncan cut him off with a look.
— You swore this had meaning,— Alim hissed.— That I'd be protecting her. Instead, it's just… knives on a table. Sharper tools for your war.
Duncan's voice was weary.
— You came to me. Chose this.
— To keep her safe! You never said it might kill me. What are the odds? One in two? One in four?
A tic in Duncan's eye. Alim paled.
— You were going to send her into this blind.
— It's the best we have.
— No. I refuse.
The Wardens tensed. Duncan exhaled.
— The Order doesn't deny the right to refuse. But understand the consequences.
Alim's smile was bleak.
— Oh, I do. Refusal means death. Acceptance means probable death. But you're not just threatening me, are you?
Duncan's jaw tightened.
— No. If the Blight isn't stopped, no Circle will shelter you. But for now… swear silence, and you live. Until spring.
— And if any of you survive, I die.— Alim extended his hand.— I swear.
The ritual ended.
Alistair avoided Alim afterward, lost in thought. Morrigan drifted closer to the elf, feigning indifference.
As the Wardens dispersed—Jory's body destined for the pyre—a messenger approached Duncan.
— Ser! His Majesty summons you. The darkspawn advance from the northeast. The camp prepares for battle.
Duncan's gaze flicked north.
— Alistair—see to quarters for the rest.
Alistair stared after him, then turned to Morrigan. Her smirk was all teeth.