The darkened wood of the floor and ceiling beams, grease-stained and scratched tables, old melted candles on wooden trays—the establishment had long ceased to look fresh, let alone presentable. Yet, the hall retained a sense of coziness. Perhaps the atmosphere was woven from the warmth, the thick scent of roasted meat from the kitchen, and the aromatic haze of pipe smoke. Or maybe the feeling lingered in The Dane's Refuge simply because, compared to the mud and weather outside, a traveler didn't need much to find rest and contentment.
At that moment, three patrons sat scattered along the long tables. A reddish-haired man in a plain linen shirt, likely not yet thirty winters old, with the build of both a warrior and a lumberjack. He lazily stirred his spoon in a bowl but snapped his head up at the creak of the door. His assessing gaze swept over the newcomers, shamelessly weighing and judging.
To some surprise, a knightly figure stood out among them—a broad-shouldered man of middling years with rigid posture. The ser wore expensive burgundy flannel and puffed leisurely on a pipe. Short dark hair, a square jaw, and a gaze that feigned relaxation while retaining professional wariness completed the image. The last patron hunched in the far corner: a balding, slightly paunchy man in worn clothes, nursing a mug of ale, indifferent to his surroundings.
At the sound of new arrivals, a figure emerged from the kitchen—either a worker or the owner. A dark-haired man, his fifty winters etched into his face, sporting a greasy apron and neatly trimmed mustache and sideburns. He offered a practiced smile—like donning a polite mask—and introduced himself:
— Danal. How can I be of service?
The elf stepped forward before his companion could speak, relief palpable in his voice.
— Amica Familia. Glad to be at…
He paused, waiting for a response. Morrigan turned away, covering her mouth as if stifling a cough. Danal answered with pride:
— The Dane's Refuge, dear guests.
— Excellent. We're road-weary. Any rooms available?
— Aye, got a couple. Twenty silvers a night, half upfront.
Alim cleared his throat, locking eyes with the owner, but the man didn't so much as blink. His gaze held thinly veiled indifference to the elf's reaction. So Alim tried another angle.
— Pleasant to find such a high-class establishment. Your rates could rival Denerim's.
A muffled snort came from the red-haired patron. No one else reacted.
— High-class or not, dear guest, I wouldn't know,— Danal spread his hands.— But tents outside the village? Plenty, and free. Morning breeze off the river, too. So...
— Your logic is sound. We'd like a meal and a bath.
— Glad to hear it. Ten silvers now—six for food and hot water, another ten tomorrow.
Reluctantly, Alim counted out the coin from their spoils and handed it over. Danal pocketed it with a slick motion and a smirk.
— Always happy to serve. Sit—food's coming. I'll heat the water.
Once seated in a corner, Morrigan leaned in and whispered:
— Amica Familia?
Alim dropped his gaze, barely suppressing a smile.
— Doubt anyone here speaks Tevene. Thought it'd... Well. Yes, it was foolish.
— Clearly. I saw your face. The price shocked you?
— Hardly. More like outraged. He's charging five times the usual.
— Hmph. Small villages like this—everyone knows each other from birth. Grudges and cheats are remembered for life. Simple rules bind them, like branches from one root. But the Blight? A gale. Some branches snap, others bend. Yet... Southerners have owners for every scrap of land. Is it so bad if they stop looking to them for answers?
— Arl Leonas Bryland rules here. Never met him, but camp talk says he took the local guard and followed the King to Ostagar. Whether he died there or under Loghain's command—no one knows.
— But the hounds smell the master's absence.
Alim nodded, but before he could reply, Danal returned with two steaming platters. The fare was simple but plentiful. Still, both travelers would've been grateful for hot gruel. Morrigan shot Alim a look, nudging him to speak. With only a flicker of irritation at the charade, he turned from the clayware to the emptying plates and carefully asked:
— All anyone talks about is the King's army passing through Lothering. Did the Arl of the South Reach truly leave with them, without staying?
Danal's face twitched before settling into indifference.
— Aye, dear guest. When His Majesty called the levy, Lord Bryland summoned guards from every major settlement to form the Reach's contingent. He arrived in Lothering days before the main force and marched to Ostagar under Teyrn Mac Tir's command. After the army's return, the Lord met once with Elder Miriam. Then he left with his men, following the army.
Leaning in, Danal lowered his voice, genuine irritation seeping through.
— Rumor says the Arl ordered the Elder to organize evacuations—but first, to ship grain and dried fish stored in the chantry cellars for winter north. A retreating army needs supplies... Though no one says it plain, the battle's outcome is clear. When nobles flee, what's left for the common folk? Thankfully, the Revered Mother and Knight-Commander took charge, keeping order and aiding the Elder. Else, all would've collapsed.
Alim nodded grimly.
— Then why are you still here? Why not leave, like us?
Danal sighed.
— The Dane's Refuge has stood in Lothering three, four generations. Since before the occupation. My father got it settling a debt—gave him reason to settle down, start a family. It's my inheritance, the reason I exist. These walls raised me. Abandoning it at the first sign of danger... would be betrayal. But you're right. When Blight rumors started, everyone weighed their choices. Folk here hope for the best but prepare for the worst. So when silent nobles and downcast soldiers marched through, people began packing, saying goodbye.
— So the chantry and Templars hold power now. But the Order's stretched thin...
— Aye. They do what they can. But it's not enough.
Alim feigned alarm.
— So it's unsafe?
— Ser Bryant, the Knight-Commander, focuses on keeping folk safe in town and prepping a caravan north. His lieutenant, Ser Evou, insists on hunting apostates—the Templars' true duty. Two weeks back, they found one hiding at a farm. Charmed a family, lived quietly for months. Ser Evou cornered him on the Imperial Highway and slit his throat. Rightly so.
Morrigan barely masked her disgust, pretending to eat.
— Another case, a week ago. A farmer named Vlasom—quiet but decent—took a Hasind woman. Folk thought him odd. Turned out she was a witch…
Danal nearly spat but caught himself:
— Beguiled him with magic. Ser Evou dealt with her, too. Problem is, he didn't clear it with Ser Bryant. Caused a stir. Only then did folk realize enemies lurked among them. Now bandits plague the highways—a dozen or more, armed, shaking down refugees. Templars can't spare the manpower.
Alim leaned back, grim.
— Dark times.
— Aye. And worse... Five days ago, a live qunari appeared. Here. Can you believe it? Like the tales come to life. Showed up weeks ago, but no one knew. No one saw the giant... till he butchered a family that took him in. Man, wife, ten-year-old daughter—all dead. They caught him sitting outside, covered in blood, staring blankly. Strange times. Not in a good way.
Alim nodded gratefully.
— Thank you for the news and the meal. If it's no trouble—
— Of course. Eat well. Need anything, I'm in the kitchen.
As Danal left, Alim raised a brow at Morrigan: «Well?». She shook her head, eyes flicking to her cooling stew.
* * *
Alim and Morrigan lingered at the table for over an hour, savoring their first proper meal in ages. Neither was in a hurry, basking in the warmth of the dry hall. By unspoken agreement, they postponed discussing Danal's revelations until nightfall, when the absence of prying eyes would make it safe.
During that time, a dozen or so patrons drifted into The Dane's Refuge. The first was a well-dressed local—likely a prosperous villager—who exchanged pleasantries with Danal before announcing his departure for Crestwood the next day. The rest were a motley crew: craftsmen, farmers, hunters, all hardy men under thirty winters. They arrived singly, locked eyes with the red-haired patron, and huddled in murmured conversation. Terms were clarified, agreements reached. After a handshake, each visitor left.
Facing the hall, Morrigan noted something peculiar: the knight's reaction. Motionless save for the occasional puff of his pipe, his stony face betrayed more than any grimace. Each time a newcomer approached the red-haired man, the knight's gaze sharpened—alert, expectant. Then came disappointment, followed by contempt as their backs retreated. His piercing eyes would drift to the rafters, clouded, as if sifting through old wounds and doubts.
At some point, Morrigan lost herself in the smoke curling toward the ceiling. The room seemed to flatten into a stage, its occupants reduced to caricatures—shallow masks that would inevitably notice the one who didn't belong. The thought coiled like fear in her gut, formless and cold, until the door slammed. The noise jolted her back to reality.
Two unshaven men swaggered in, the first patrons openly armed: grimy gambesons, sheathed knives, cudgels. Their threat was performative, unlike the redhead's or the knight's. After demanding mead and tossing coppers at Danal, they scoped the room and locked onto Morrigan.
She nudged Alim. One glance told him all he needed. The men gulped their sickly-sweet brew, then launched into lewd boasts about imaginary conquests, culminating in a slur against the elf:
— Hey, pointy-ears here's the lady's errand boy.
— Bet she's tired of his twig. Might prefer real steel.
— And if he objects, he can cry about it in an alley. Right?
A calloused hand clamped Alim's shoulder, reeking of sweat and ale. Morrigan's frown deepened. The pattern was familiar: Alim tensed, magic-less and outmatched. The redhead watched sidelong, spoon gripped white-knuckled. The knight set down his pipe, rigid but waiting—for provocation, for imbalance, for a victim.
If violence was inevitable, she'd dictate its terms.
Morrigan shot up, her chair clattering. Before the thug could react, she slapped him hard.
— La puante et merde,— she sneered.— Swine. Begone.
Silence followed the crack. Alim stared as if she'd shed her skin—grace replaced by crudeness, caution by contempt. The redhead's jaw dropped; the thugs gawked. Then a fist smashed into Morrigan's face. Blood speckled the table as her skull hit the wall. She crumpled like a cut puppet.
Alim lunged for her, drawing both men's attention—until a bench, formerly occupied by the redhead, cracked against the lead thug's skull. The knight moved like lightning, driving his fist into the second man's mouth. Teeth flew. The fight was brutal, one-sided. The knight and redhead traded blows but never let their opponents draw steel.
As Alim crouched by Morrigan, checking her head, a shout came from the kitchen:
— Templars coming!
The doors burst open. Two plate-armored figures strode in, swords at their hips—summoned, no doubt, by a kitchen boy's sprint for help. The brawl died instantly under their weighty presence.
The knight, introduced as Ser Donall, gave a blunt account: the men had insulted a lady, then struck her unprovoked. But the Templars hadn't come for ale. They were tracking two armed suspects seen entering the village from the north—tips from swift-footed runners.
The redhead, still unnamed, checked Morrigan's steady breathing. A nod to Alim, then he returned to his table.
After curtly thanking the knight and eyeing the battered troublemakers with suspicion, the Templars kicked the bruised strangers out. Judging by the dour expressions of Lothering's sole lawkeepers, the pair's future looked bleak.
Ser Donall turned to the elf, glanced over his shoulder, and asked politely:
— Are you unharmed?
Morrigan had already propped herself against the wall, gingerly probing her split lip. She looked up at the knight and nodded her thanks.
— Perrhaps... ahem... Thank you.
The man frowned, keeping his composure, and offered carefully:
— I carry salves. For wound inflammation and healing on the road. Not a healer's work, but...
Before the witch could refuse, Alim nodded eagerly.
— Gratitude. We'd welcome your kindness. Though my companion should rest now. Might I fetch the salves from you later?
The knight inclined his head in assent. Supporting Morrigan, Alim guided her to their rented room.
* * *
The room was unremarkable and drab—a square space barely large enough for two cots flanking an absent table. The small window seemed designed more to prove it wasn't a shed than to admit light. Not that it mattered; in the South, keeping warmth in winter trumped views. The beds, while worn, were clean enough.
Alim finished applying salve to Morrigan's split lip and stepped back to assess his work, lifting the oil lamp higher as night claimed the room.
— Could've been worse,— he muttered.— Care to explain?
She winced but spoke.
— One moment you boast of logic, the next you dance around words... Yet the well of foolish questions never runs dry.
— Well—
The elf rubbed his nose bridge, shaking his head in mock wonder.
— You took that hit on purpose,— he hissed through clenched teeth.— Violence against a woman stirs more outrage than beating an elf. And since those two targeted you from the start, avoiding a fight without magic became... difficult. Spare me your concern for my pride.
— As if I would!
He exhaled silently, refusing the bait.
— Thank you. Though... their reaction was surprising.
Morrigan snorted—then regretted it, grimacing.
— Why? Both men—knight and commoner—are slaves to external rules. Brutes offend them, but they need pretext to act.
— You say that like it's a bad thing.
— Bad?— She scoffed.— A childish word. There are only choices and consequences. Donall and the other made theirs within imposed limits.
— Hm. Fine. Suppose I believe you predicted them. But my real question: Where did that act come from? Hard to believe a backwoods witch from Korkari is a polyglot.
Her brows arched.
— Act?
— That phrase. You called one a swine, then something in Orlesian.
— I threw his own filth back—called the motherless wretch a whore. Nothing more. I speak only Trade and Tevene.
They locked eyes—hers tense, his jaw working silently.
— Fine. Suppose I misheard.
She nodded, barely relaxing. The slip hadn't escaped her. Walking here, she'd cataloged it with dawning dread. The true horror? Though she didn't know Orlesian, she'd flawlessly reproduced the phrase—understanding every word.
With a tired sigh, Alim set the lamp down and smoothed his blanket.
— Given the rumors, we shouldn't linger.
— Ah, Ser Evou's... enthusiastic activities?
— Yes. We lack details, but by all accounts, the Templar's sweeping every crumb from under the rug—even as it strains relations with his superiors.
She threw up her hands.
— What's strange about a wolf hunting prey? Every season, witch-hunters scoured the Korcari Wilds. Until the Wilds—or Mother—or I—devoured them.
Alim frowned, choosing his words carefully.
— Those raids weren't about glory—or even hunting. The Chantry cares nothing for the Wilds or its witches. Only indifference. Those sent there are exiles—given one last chance: return with a witch's head. The South made it a tradition by being... expendable.
— So the fact that barely one in ten returned... made it appealing?
— Exactly. There's a Tranquil phrase for it—'guaranteed high attrition rate.'
Morrigan growled, driving her fist into the cot.
— Disgusting—to be their unwitting tool.
— Welcome to the club. Back to Templars: they usually ignore minor offenders. Why? First, it's not worth the hassle. Second, antagonizing villagers risks backlash. Some hedge-witch with barely enough magic to light candles? But if she's beloved, removing her means bloodshed—petitions to the Bann, grudges. Next time, the Order finds closed gates, lame horses, endless waits. Small rebellions wrapped in deference.
She narrowed her eyes.
— But here, the owner fled. No one to complain. And Ser Evou seizes cheap glory. Though... is his leash truly held only by Ser Bryant?
Alim scratched his chin.
— You mean the Revered Mother? The chantry's head?
— The huntmaster leads the pack. But who opens the kennel?
— True... True. That paints a grim picture. The Mother is pure politics. If she's silent, letting the Knight-Commander—or worse—run unchecked... She means to stir panic and shape opinion.
— Against the merchant?
— Perhaps. Prices, the Hasind at the chantry riling frightened folk. Done right, blame falls not on her, but the land's owner.
— The Arl.
— Yes. But why? What grudge could the Chantry have against Bryland? The only rumor is he's half-Orlesian—old politics. Best to stay far from such games...
A polite knock interrupted them. They exchanged glances. Alim approached the door.
— Who's there?
It was Ser Donall, with boys hauling a tub and buckets of hot water.
* * *
After the tub was centered and filled with steaming water, Morrigan and Alim found themselves alone. Without hesitation, she shook loose her raven-black tresses, shrugged off her woolen cloak, and began unbuttoning her shirt. The elf's face slowly lengthened, flushing despite his efforts. He turned sharply toward the darkened window—perhaps too sharply—and asked over the rustle of discarded garments:
— A foolish question, but... Do you possess any modesty, tact, or decency?
Her bare feet padded across the floorboards. Water sloshed as she sank into the tub.
— Modesty?— Her voice dripped amusement.— Fear of being seen? A masquerade to appear better than you are? Mother cured me of that when she stripped me bare, mocking my girlish shame. Words are like nettles—first you fear their sting, then it burns, until... the scars harden. Tact?— A derisive snort.— Foolishness spills so easily from your lips. As for decency—useless. Only choices and consequences matter. Or did you think a witch too simple for layered motives?
Alim clenched his fist, exhaling slowly. When he turned, she lounged against the tub's rim—amber eyes glinting in the gloom, wet hair clinging to skin, the perfect curve of her breasts displayed with deliberate provocation.
— Well? Am I pleasing to look upon?
He met her gaze—though his eyes took a heartbeat too long to rise. Her laughter chased him to his cot, where he scowled at the ceiling.
— You're unusually witty tonight. Must be the hot blood... or that knock to your head.
Fingers trailed through the water.
— Or perhaps I enjoy watching you blush. A rare talent.
She might have continued the game, but Alim's next words stilled her:
— Your mother... is an extraordinary woman. By any measure.
The smile froze. Only water's whisper filled the silence.
— Sing praises all you like. She'll never hear them.
— I didn't mean—
— Nothing is ever simple.— Her sigh carried a hint of sorrow.— 'Extraordinary'—a fine word. Precise. Empty. Worthless, in the end.
— Why? Is there no pride in—
— Fool.— The water trembled.— When I spoke of dreams, you didn't listen. What use is epiphany now? A child cares not for complexity. Try explaining truths to your younger self—would you have listened? Or called yourself a cruel, tedious liar?— A pause.— No more talk of her.
Alim nodded grimly.
A splash. She rose, lingering just long enough for him to glimpse her silhouette before draping a blanket over skin and memories alike. Water dripped from her hair as she tilted her head.
— Your turn. Before it grows cold.
Wincing, Alim sat up. Her narrowed eyes tracked his every move as he undressed—slowly, methodically—folding each garment before slipping into the tub. Only his clenched jaw betrayed him.
Morrigan studied him openly. Elven frames lacked human bulk, and Alim had clearly never pursued muscle. Yet Tower discipline had left him lean, if stooped. The road to Ostagar had bronzed his face, though his body remained pale beneath clothes.
Teasing him wasn't her aim—though it amused her—but she knew his true shackles: not magic, but the Chantry's taboos. As Mother had said with pity, intimacy in the Circles was forbidden until a certain age... or forever. Some dared anyway, but Alim? He bore the marks of one who'd never risked it.
Yet when she'd mentioned Mother, something had shifted. A weight in her chest. The game was over.
Alim submerged briefly, then surfaced.
— The matter of payment remains.
She paused mid-wring of her hair.
— Ah. We'll leave at dawn. Without farewells.
— Theft.
— After battlefield looting, is this the gravest sin? If guilt plagues you, we should've slept in a ditch.
— ...You win.
* * *
In the pallid morning light that leached color from the world, Morrigan woke first. Dressed and silent, she approached the small window where a sliver of dawn's blue peered through the glass. But her thoughts wandered toward the retreating night, solidifying like unyielding stone, eroding her mind with relentless persistence.
Her gaze flicked to a trembling tree branch outside, then back to memories of their journey from Ostagar. Each time she'd stolen solitude, she'd tested spells painstakingly mastered over years. The results chilled her:
"Lightning" was gone—vanished from memory—along with its weaker cousin, "Shock." Fragments of runes surfaced, but their sequences had been excised as thoroughly as if she'd never known them. Only "Horror" behaved abnormally, its effects grotesquely amplified beyond its design. Blood magic? She dared not touch it after... that experience.
Then came the true terror.
To feel robbed was familiar, even if the stolen thing was unusual. But how does one feel upon finding a foreign object by their bed—something impossible, inexplicable? Among her known spells lurked one utterly alien: "Death Hex." Its runes burned in her mind with cruel clarity. A spell for killing. Pure. Uncompromising. Requiring living flesh.
Her eyes darted to Alim's sleeping form. Her fists clenched—not from desire to test it, but from horror at the thought itself. No, even in theory, using it on her only ally was unthinkable. Yet to ignore this knowledge... She swallowed hard. Would that it had been stolen rather than planted.
Can memory be trusted when it trips over unfamiliar corners?
Explaining selective memory loss was easy. Explaining gained memories? She had no comfort there. In her darkest moment, she wondered: Is this mine? New? Old? Only willpower kept her from that precipice. Yet one explanation loomed, inevitable:
Possession?
A shuddering breath escaped her. Dawn came, and with it, the fears should have weakened. But her trembling betrayed her.
The bed creaked.
— Morning already?
Alim yawned, scratching his ear. His gaze lingered on her by the window.
—Up long?
— No.
He dressed briskly, and soon they were ready to slip from The Dane's Refuge at first light—as planned.
Then footsteps thudded down the hall, halting at their door. The latch shattered as the door burst inward, and suddenly the room was cramped with three armored Templars, blades bared. Their commander's voice was steel:
—Keep silent and follow. Any resistance will be met as attack.
Alim shot Morrigan a worried glance, but her face was calm, almost docile.
In the hall, they nearly collided with Ser Donall. The knight's jaw tightened as the lead Templar explained:
—By Ser Evou's orders. The bandits captured here yesterday named these two as associates.
Donall's face darkened—with anger? Regret?—before he turned away without a word.
Outside, Lothering stirred fitfully. A northern caravan readied for early departure; its workers ignored the Templar procession. Only one figure gave pause: a red-haired sister emerging from the chantry, her pale green eyes tracking them thoughtfully.
Through a discreet annex, they descended a spiral stair into subterranean cells—a cramped, grimy space beneath the chantry's bulk. The Templars shoved them into the same cell. The door clanged shut, plunging them into gloom pierced only by stairwell light. Fresh straw covered the floor, its grassy scent masking worse odors. Two buckets sat in a corner.
Morrigan stretched against the wall and murmured:
—Notice our neighbors?
—Yesterday's troublemakers? Must be exhausted to sleep through that.
—Or at home here. Unlike us.
—Given what we heard... likely.
—And no other prisoners? With refugees flooding in?
—Implying...?
—Stating facts. Either Templars grew harsher overnight, or petty crime no longer concerns them.
Alim managed a weak joke:
—At least we saved on lodging.
—Silver linings?
In the dim light, his frown was barely visible.
— Got a better plan than keeping our spirits up?
Silence.
— If it comes to it, could you—
— An elf's wits fail when survival demands them,— she cut in.— If you've nothing useful to say, say nothing.
* * *
The hours crawled by. At some indeterminate point, the two men who had falsely accused the mage and the witch awoke to find new neighbors. The discovery didn't seem to delight them, but neither did it stir particular concern—as if patience alone were required. Yet no one came—no guards with news, food, or threats, nor Ser Evou himself. As time stretched on, the so-called "bandits" began fidgeting with nervous impatience.
Neither Alim nor Morrigan were at ease either. Uncertainty gnawed at them, fertilizing the darkest gardens of imagination.
Near midday—by Morrigan's estimate—footsteps finally echoed down the stairwell. But the visitor was unexpected: the Hasind from yesterday, the one who'd prophesied the Blight's approach before the chantry. He leaned casually against the cell bars, grinning with grim satisfaction.
— Well, witch?— he sneered.— How do you like your cage? No escape now.
Then, in his native tongue:
— Den arrogante toyta khyerer yemme i et merkt yorne.
Alim tilted his head.
— Was that Hasind?
— Yes,— Morrigan replied flatly.— The coward said I belong in the dark.
The Hasind spat.
— You talk brave. Not for long. When our chief brought gifts to Flemeth for you, she scorned us. Shame was all our tribe got from your blood. And you...— His grin widened.— Twice our hunters met you in the woods. This one was there. You only laughed. Now it's my turn to laugh. My tribe is dead, but I live—to see your end.
Alim stood, stretching.
— True?
— As if Mother would waste time on petty thieves,— Morrigan scoffed.— His bravado lasts only while iron bars protect him. So—it was you who had us arrested, not those louts?
— Them? This one knows nothing.— The Hasind puffed up.— I told the Templars: a strong witch, child of greatness, walks among them.
Morrigan slapped her thigh in irritation.
— Of course! He'll mock me to my face, yet speak of Mother with respect, even in hatred.
— Never mind that,— Alim cut in.— If he informed the Templars, why were we detained as bandits, not apostates?
The two actual bandits listened intently, reassessing their predicament. Morrigan shrugged.
— A fair question. But conclusions are premature. Had the Templars proof, they wouldn't investigate. Other factors are at play.— Her eyes narrowed.— A better question: how did this coward enter the chantry dungeons? Where are the guards?
— Hah! Because this one is cleverest! This one spits on rules! Goes where—
A wooden club cracked against his skull, smashing his face into the bars. He slid to the floor with a groan. Behind him stood two chantry sisters—neither older than twenty nor physically imposing in their floor-length wool robes. But their leather shoes were silent, their grips on the clubs firm despite trembling hands.
A third woman emerged—the redhead with pale green eyes. One bandit whistled; she ignored him. Lighting a candle shielded by glass, she unlocked first the outer gate, then an empty cell. Together, the three women dragged the Hasind inside and dumped him unceremoniously.
Dismissing the sisters with a bow, the redhead waited until their footsteps faded before speaking in a husky, melodic voice:
— My name is Leliana. Though I wear a sister's robes, I've taken no vows, non? The Revered Mother lets me stay without them.
Her gaze flicked to the bandits, then back.
— I overheard this southerner and Ser Evou. Yet ze good ser did not act immediately—he sent a rider first. Per'aps to confirm some... arrangement?
While Alim processed this, Morrigan—still seated—responded first:
— You cram facts down our throats, hoping we'll choke—then offer aid. A pretty picture, but the shadows snarl with questions. Why would a chantry girl care about a Templar's affairs?
Leliana's frown sharpened.
— Because one might care, non? About these people—better than they seem. About the Mother, who shelters me. She is trapped in politics with ze wrong allies.
A gloved hand touched her chest.
— And about my own conscience, chérie. To stand by and do nothing? That, I cannot.
— Ah, noble pups grow teeth.— Morrigan's smile was knife-thin.— So Ser Evou is your enemy. His scheme involves that bandit camp, yes? Your word against his won't suffice.
— Faith guides me,— Leliana said softly.— But I also know men like Ser Evou. The entire garrison left Lothering at dawn—Commander Bryant included—to raid a 'bandit camp' he reported. They won't return before nightfall.
At these words, the two prisoners in the adjacent cell flinched and paled but held their tongues. The redhead continued:
— If ze Templars return victorious, Ser Evou will cement his reputation with the Revered Mother. Nothing will shake her trust then, and Ser Bryant's authority will exist in name only.— She adjusted her gloves.— Before, Ser Evou always kept loyal Templars nearby. He needed only opportunity and time. Your arrival provided both. And this Hasind's fate—fool enough to disrespect ze chantry—demonstrates my capabilities, non?
Alim scratched his neck.
— One thing puzzles me. Why such effort? Are you certain you've chosen the right audience for such weighty matters? We're hardly in a position to refuse. Or do you mean to open this door?
Leliana flushed but steadied her voice.
— It's... a vision.
Alim smirked, but Morrigan cut in sharply:
— A vision? What meaning do you assign to that word?
Lowering her voice, Leliana explained:
— In ze chantry garden, I sometimes... see things zat are not there. Recently, when dark tidings piled high, it happened again.— Her fingers traced the air.— A drakeweed root—thick as my arm—coiling around an old but sturdy pillar. It both supported ze stone and clung to it, straining for sunlight. Yet both were choked by a shadowed thicket. But one could simply... part ze branches. Let in ze light.
Alim narrowed his eyes.
— Drakeweed—'elfroot' to commoners?
— Oui.
Morrigan exhaled.
— Visions come to you alone?
— Yes.
— A cruel gift. Were I you, I'd doubt. Wishful thinking often drowns harsh truth. Self-deception becomes second nature—especially for those skilled in deception.
Morrigan leaned forward, eyes glinting.
— And you are skilled. Sometimes perfection betrays more than clumsiness. What do you want from us? Be brief.
Leliana tensed, then relaxed.
— Brief won't suffice. You're stray stones—easily fit into any wall. To Ser Evou, outsiders are perfect: your disappearance won't be questioned, your identities malleable. Zat Hasind merely sparked tinder, but Evou fans it to flame.— She hesitated.— Your story is small, but framed as apostates tied to bandits? It becomes his final argument. Two spies become four—two of them dangerous mages. Such a triumph would crown him and ruin Ser Bryant.
Her fingers twisted.
— I won't let ze chantry become his tool. So non, you're not ze main players, but through you, he'll win everything.
Morrigan snorted.
— How wise—leaving snakes to guard henhouses. My companion's question stands: the door?
Leliana eyed the lock and shook her head.
— Not yet. At dusk. Your sudden appearance would cause panic. And trust—
— …is a double-edged blade,— Morrigan finished.
Leliana's brows shot up.
— Zat's a bard's saying from Orlais. How would a supposed witch from Korcari know it?
Alim studied Morrigan, but she only laughed darkly.
— And how would a supposed 'sister' know Orlesian bardry? Best go. Never postpone the inevitable.
Leliana whitened, nodded jerkily, and fled—but not before relocking the door with precise turns.
Once her steps faded, Alim chewed his lip.
— You know...
— How odd it all seems?
— Yes.
— Exceedingly. Clever. Quick. But visions? Like blood smeared on innocent sky. Or perhaps... performance.
* * *
The light seeping into the dungeon from the stairwell dimmed. Bellies growled. Evening approached.
Hours after Leliana's visit, the Hasind stirred. Predictably, shock gave way to curses, accusations, and threats before the man retreated into his cell's shadows. Morrigan smirked, imagining his grim realization: his usefulness to Ser Evou had expired. The bandits, too, had lost their swagger, whispering anxiously. The witch privately agreed with Leliana's assessment—these men's fates looked bleak, whether their gang bested the Templars or not. Even victory would brand them snitches. Alim, like the others, brooded in the gloom.
After a prolonged silence, Morrigan addressed the bandits:
— What think you of yonder coward's claims? Did his words hold weight... or not?
A pause. Then the one who'd struck her at The Dane's Refuge growled:
— Drivel about you being a witch? We're more concerned with that girl's prophetess fantasies.
— Strange. Self-preservation should scream at you: What if it's true?— Her voice dripped mock concern.— Then you're caged with something rumor says scorns your laws. These bars?— She flicked the iron.— To a mage, they're air. I could drink your lives dry. You'd writhe until the last drop fled your veins.
A tremor entered his voice:
— Empty threats.
— Is it?— She laughed sharply.
Alim leaned in.
— Is this necessary?
— Must all things be necessary?— she purred.— My head's full of dark ideas. This is... diversion.
Light footsteps interrupted them. A figure emerged—not Leliana. A woman in rough-spun linen, her shirt loosely laced to emphasize curves bolstered by hidden corsetry. Knee-high boots, a raincloak, and two belt pouches completed her utilitarian garb. No jewelry.
She clapped twice—her palms flared burgundy—then seized the door's lower hinge. At first, only her labored breaths filled the silence. Then came the crackling. The metal under her hands darkened to umber, then crimson, finally blazing scarlet. Shadows danced like dying embers.
With a gasp, she kicked the door near the hinge. Once. Twice. On the fifth strike, the frame groaned. A prybar appeared in her hands, wedging into the gap. A final heave—the hinge snapped.
Panting, she slipped inside and squinted into the dark.
— You!
Alim blinked.
— Us. But who are you?
She eyed the other cells.
— Not here. A moment—
Morrigan rose smoothly, intrigued. Up close, the intruder's face was soft—librarian's features framed by sweat-damp chestnut curls—but her brown eyes burned with fearful resolve.
— I'll help,— the witch offered.— We'll alternate—you, then I—on the lock.
Relief flooded the stranger's face. She clapped again; the lock glowed cherry-red. Morrigan assessed the crude ironwork, then nodded.
— Now.
A glance at Alim, then she cast a frost spell. Metal screeched as ice battled fire. The stranger reheated the weakened metal. On the second freeze, the lock shattered under the prybar's tap.
— Thank you,— the woman panted.— I... overestimated my strength.
— Your fire control is rare skill,— Morrigan mused.— As my learned friend would say: such spells mark the bold, the desperate, or the curious.
Alim sighed.
— Which am I, I wonder?
— Unique, I'd wager.
The stranger stifled a tired laugh.
— Quickly,— she urged.— I'll explain en route. The Templars could return any moment.
Alim hesitated, then nodded at Morrigan's questioning look.
— I see no point in deception, now that we're here. Especially after going to such lengths.
Passing by their fellow prisoners, Morrigan cast them a glance brimming with contempt and a hint of mockery. Both men looked grim. Even the Hasind hadn't screamed. Each understood the threat posed by two sorceresses—especially after the "Witch's" earlier words. And what good would screaming do, when the girl who freed them had descended unscathed?
As they ascended and hurried through the long evening shadows along the flagstone path toward the temple's corner, the trio collided with Leliana, who came barreling around the bend. The redhead was rifling through a massive keyring without looking, while somehow clutching a conspicuous leather bundle of documents under her arm.
The woman leading Alim and Morrigan gaped in surprise and blurted out:
— Sister Leliana?
— Little Bethany?
"Little" flushed instantly and retorted sharply, though incoherently:
— Haven't been 'little' in years!
Blinking, Leliana took in the others and quickly composed herself.
— I was coming to you with proof of Ser Evou's misdeeds. But it seems another savior took an interest in your fate.
Her pale green eyes returned to Bethany, now cold and detached.
— There were rumors about Malcolm and his offspring… Never thought— Well, lesson learned. So, you're a mage?
The brown-eyed girl tensed and spat out the question with veiled resentment:
— Does that change anything?
— What?.. Non. How could it change the girl who hung on my stories, mouth agape? The one who'd pelt me with endless questions till my head spun? But it's vital information. It affects—
— No.
Bethany clenched her fists, chestnut curls flying as she moved. Her eyes burned with resolve, fueled by more than mere nobility.
— Father always said, 'When the hunt grows fierce, we stand together.'
Her voice wavered, then steadied:
— Today, I risked not just myself, but my family's safety. When I heard the Hasind denounce you—
She cut herself off, as if catching her own recklessness:
— I couldn't do otherwise. Even if you're strangers. Especially because you're strangers—with no one here to help. That's why we must leave Lothering. Tonight. And since fate brought us together, Sister Leliana comes too. Neither the Mother nor the Templars can know until we're at least a day away. Then you can return and do as you please.
— By then, it'll be too late! You can't possibly—
The young mage frowned, projecting unwavering confidence. Leliana turned to Morrigan.
— Listen—
But Alim's quiet voice cut in:
— Truth is, we could leave now. Far from this mess. But… the only way to avoid mounted patrols here—unless we head south—is by river. Boats aren't exactly lying around. And Lady Bethany owes us an explanation. That tale promises to be more interesting than Ser Evou's crimes… and likely includes an escape plan.
Morrigan nodded and added:
— I say we follow the one who risked her hide. Not the shadow-dweller with her schemes. Relax and keep up.
The elf eyed the three women, then mouthed "sorry" to Leliana with a shrug. The redhead pursed her lips but stayed silent, frantically weighing options. Assured she wouldn't bolt, Bethany pressed onward.
— About the boat—you're right, ser elf. Anyone with a rotten tub sailed for the South Reach a day and a half ago. Father had three, but the oldest is worthless. Two will suffice. I hid mine in the reeds behind The Dane's Refuge, on the far bank.
As they crossed the bridge, the group noted the eerie absence of townsfolk—as if they'd hidden at Bethany's approach. Yet a crowd had gathered near the departing caravan Alim and Morrigan had spotted that morning. Whatever was happening there worked in the fugitives' favor, drawing eyes away. But Morrigan caught Leliana's tense stare—as if she expected no good from the mob, or knew something grim.
Nearing The Dane's Refuge, they heard a man's furious cursing, a woman's shriek, an axe splitting wood, and shattering glass. Bethany paled, eyes wide.
— Carver… Idiot! He followed me with some suicidal robbery plan!
Leliana gave her a disbelieving look.
— That's Ser Donall—a battle-hardened knight—with a Blackstone Volunteers recruiter. Your brother hasn't a chance.
The young mage bit her lip and whirled toward Alim and Morrigan. Tears welled as she met their gazes, but she steadied herself.
— Please—help me save him! Just buy time! That fool will listen to me. The boats are twenty paces past the yard. I… I don't have enough mana, and—
Alim glanced at Morrigan, who seemed lost in thought. He nudged her shoulder.
— Debts repaid, no?
Morrigan scowled and muttered:
— Idiocy… Do as you like. Count me out.
Leliana stared at them, aghast.
— You're mad!
Already striding toward the inn, Alim called back without hiding his tension:
— Don't judge yet, sister. This might aid you too. Trust's a double-edged blade. Right, Morrigan?
Face twisted with fury, the witch stormed after him, venom in her voice:
— Shemlen bastard! Selaerat!
* * *
Three years and a handful of dawns before.
As twilight bled into night, Benedict climbed steadily toward the encroaching darkness. Since his last visit, every trail here had shifted, forcing the man to rely on instinct, skill, common sense, and agility. Fortunately, the Fereldan stallion trailing behind him—guided by reins clenched in his fist—was calm and bold enough. Had the horse panicked or balked on these slippery ledges, Benedict might as well have kissed his means of travel goodbye. Ahead, nestled in the deep shadows of a narrow gorge, lay Aeonar, the secret prison for mages. Not the most pleasant place. But the man secretly rejoiced at the clear weather—the first days of summer had been dry and bright.
After twenty arduous minutes, the traveler stood before a modest gate that allowed passage for exactly one rider—and only if dismounted. The doors stood hospitably open, twisting Benedict's lips into a wry smirk. Of course they'd spotted him long ago. No doubt two or three crossbows were trained on him right now. He'd have been disappointed with less.
Inside, he found himself in a cramped courtyard. At its center loomed a single structure of massive basalt blocks, partially built into the sheer cliff rising a hundred paces behind it. The stone slabs were lined with dozens of Templars in full armor, standing in disciplined ranks. Before these seasoned warriors, the prison's overseer paced with measured precision: impeccable uniform, broad shoulders, average height, shaved head, and a square jaw. His Orlesian heritage was faint but detectable. Benedict didn't recognize him—evidently, the Knight-Commander had appointed a new overseer in his absence. The theatrics, however, weren't for his benefit. Leaning against the gate, Benedict waited patiently.
The inspection ended swiftly, conducted in utter silence. With a curt nod, the overseer dismissed the Templars and strode toward Benedict. His posture, gait, and gaze radiated wariness and readiness for combat. Good. That's exactly what Benedict expected in Aeonar.
The overseer halted precisely two Fereldan sword-lengths away and spoke first:
— Brunet. Sloppy or indifferent about appearance—judging by the hair. Distinctive Orlesian nose, but clothing favors practicality over fashion. Stance, lack of visible scars, and wear on your scabbard and sword grip suggest frequent, proficient weapon use. And you're acutely aware your life hinges on my next decision. State: your name, purpose here, how you know of this place, and who you've told. This is an order, not a request.
Benedict offered a conciliatory smile—futile, but habitual. Slowly spreading his hands to keep them far from his body, he replied:
— You're mostly right, colleague. I'll admit, a year in Kirkwall's sewers left little time for grooming. That's where we differ. But practicality? That unites us. Nicoline drills that into all her subordinates. As for the sword—sharp observation. A hundred swings each morning, and if the day's lucky, another hundred at night. We're not Templar hunters, brawling every other day. Ours is a subtler tool. And you'd likely best me in blade work. Fine inspection for possession, by the way. Between us, your predecessor never commanded such respect. My name's Benedict. A Seeker of Truth, like you. This isn't an inspection—those don't happen here. I'm returning home to report a failure. Detoured to Aeonar on slim hope of salvaging something useful. All Seekers assigned as overseers or inspectors know of this prison.
The man frowned and enunciated slowly:
— Therinfal speech.
Benedict sighed, nodded, and recited crisply:
— Many complain. They don't understand why we train in a remote castle if our duty is rooting out impiety among the masses. You—
A dry voice cut in:
— Who sits on the throne at Therinfal's heart?
— None. The throne awaits the Maker. But remains empty, for He has forsaken us.
— Suppose so. Seekers informed of Aeonar aren't barred entry. But unwelcome. Especially by me. Vincent, at your service.
The overseer gestured toward the stables hidden within the building.
— Your mission, if you'll share it.
Benedict rubbed his stubbled chin.
— Hardly secret. I was to find Kirkwall's 'mythical' Black Emporium. Result? Drivel—tall tales warped with each retelling. Tristan and I scoured that cursed city for a year without a real lead. Hard to believe Xenon the Antiquarian—not even a mage—could hide such a 'shop' so thoroughly. Though the man himself is as grotesque as the rumors. My partner's less skeptical, so he stayed despite our deadline passing.
— Hm.
— Appreciate the restraint.
After stabling his horse and checking its hooves, Benedict turned to Vincent.
— Truthfully, this wild nugs chase wouldn't sting so much if not for Cahail breathing down my neck.
The overseer raised a brow, guiding him toward the living quarters.
— What of Cahail? Before my posting, I knew him as a seasoned Seeker.
— You crossed paths?
— More like ran errands for him. Different generations. But he had much to teach. That black mane of his—
— Ah… more of a blond, really. Saw his team a month ago, before they descended into Kirkwall's crypts again. Some grand-scale blood magic from the Old Imperium. Far weightier than chasing rumors. My grumbling's just sour grapes. Ha! So much focus on one city, while we've an international scandal brewing.
Vincent opened a narrow oak door—thick enough to withstand an assault—and gestured Benedict into a spartan yet functional chamber. Jaw tensing, the overseer asked:
— What happened?
Dropping his pack by the bed and unbuckling his sword belt (never turning his back to his host), Benedict continued:
— News travels slowly here. There's been a coup in the Tevinter Imperium. I've my own troubles, but when a high-ranking Templar got involved, I dug deeper. Lambert van Reeves—liaison between the Imperial Templars and the Chantry of Andraste, their official ambassador. Somehow, routine anti-corruption efforts escalated into overthrowing the entire political and religious elite. Not my place to dissect the intrigue, but no one saw this coming—not the Templar Order, the Chantry, the White Spire, or the Imperial Palace. Chaos reigns. Got any food?
Vincent nodded absently, processing. To him, the coup was distant, irrelevant to Aeonar's operations. Leading Benedict to the kitchen, he remarked:
— When was your last inspection here?
Benedict's eyes gleamed with knowing amusement. Trust was a luxury Aeonar couldn't afford.
— Hmm. Let's see… Maker! Four winters—no, four and a half—ago. How time flies. This place terrified me then. After Kirkwall's sewers, though? Pfft. Seen worse. And your autumn roads—vivid memories. Suppose I must've pissed someone off to get assigned here so late in the season.
In the near-empty kitchen, Benedict loaded his bowl with porridge, bread, nuts, and berry-infused liquor. As they sat across the oak table, Vincent pressed:
— What do you hope to learn here?
Benedict shrugged between bites.
— Anything about the Black Emporium that isn't the same tired tales I've memorized—origins and all. With your permission, of course. No official request exists.
— So this detour was just… a gamble?
Disapproval laced Vincent's tone. Benedict grinned.
— Ah, you prefer certainty—no room for failure or luck. Nicoline trained you well. Me? I'm a hound. Sent where they point, sniffing what they want. In this world, you must account for chance. Take Kirkwall: plans flawless, until a stray crossbow bolt finds your skull during some alley scuffle between nobodies fighting over beggar turf. Poof! No report, because you never pondered your own mortality. Days of investigation—gone. Bad luck, eh?
He winked over a mouthful of bread. Vincent's brow twitched—acknowledging the logic without endorsing it.
— Where will you start?
Benedict leaned back, swallowing loudly.
— Frankly, I'd rather not spend days in your pits. Heard you've a dozen guests from Kirkwall.
Vincent narrowed his eyes.
— Seven now. Incidents happen. All linked to blood magic, incidentally.
Benedict's delayed grimace left it unclear which fact disturbed him. Pushing away his empty bowl, he sighed.
— Seven it is. If you've no objections, I'll hunt by day, work by night.
— Game's scarce here. And I dislike frequent excursions.
— Birds still fly, yes?
— They do.
— Then I'm set.
Downing his liquor, Benedict gathered both their dishes with a smile, earning a glare from the cook—a full-fledged Templar. Vincent shadowed him to the exit.
— I'll escort you to your room.
Benedict gestured for him to lead.
— From your tale, Kirkwall brought you nothing but misfortune. A streak of ill luck?
— Well, I'm alive…
Vincent turned, skeptical, but met genuine bewilderment.
— That bad?
Benedict weighed his words.
— Tristan and I weren't mingling with nobility. Kirkwall isn't just filth, stench, blood, whores, addicts, and crime—but scour the slums and sewers, and that's all you'll see. It's not Orlais, where even backwaters spare you the 'floating corpse at dawn' greeting. Let alone a corpse you know. Kirkwall's overcrowded, impoverished, corrupt, inept at every level. Never recovered from Perrin's assault on the Templars, nor the Qunari occupation during the Storm Age. Maker—I doubt it's recovered since its founding. But you're right. There was one bright spot. Immoral to admit, but… Melsendre. A gorgeous Orlesian bard with raven hair. Three glorious nights. I'm no charmer, but mystery sufficed. Yes, her 'profession' became obvious swiftly. Thankfully, her aims never crossed mine. We parted without paranoia… or attachments.
At the guest chamber, silence fell. Vincent had no reply; Benedict traced the seamless basalt walls, murmuring:
— You know what truly astonishes me about Kirkwall? Centuries of darkness, violence, horror—yet the Gallows, the harbor, its countless statues stand as silent tributes to its founders. Soaked in innocent blood, yet… timeless. Like this place. Don't you think?
Vincent's gaze skimmed the walls.
— I value their practicality. Nothing more. Sleep well. Rest is rare in Aeonar.
Once alone, Benedict rubbed his eyes and sighed:
— Yes, I remember…