Alim managed to cast "Arcane Shield" just before the door swung open violently in the mage's face. Out burst a familiar figure with a wild mane of red hair and a short blade drawn. Upon spotting the pair he'd aided earlier, the man froze, wasting precious moments to process the scene—more than enough time for Morrigan to rapid-fire the incantation "Corpus et animus separat", enveloping him in "Disorientation". A heartbeat too late, the warrior's instincts kicked in: a wild slash aimed at the elf standing closest. But the swing went wide, granting Alim ample room to evade. Even so, had the protective spell not deflected the blade's tip, the elf would've spent the rest of his days sporting a facial scar.
Next, a clod of half-dried mud—scooped from the road by the girl—smashed into the redhead's face. Dodging another blind swing, Alim lunged forward, driving his shoulder into the man's solar plexus. The impact knocked the wind from him and sent him sprawling back through the doorway of The Dane's Refuge. Chairs toppled as the warrior crashed noisily between tables, yet he clung to his weapon and rolled aside. Morrigan, gripping the doorframe, vaulted over her kneeling companion. In a flash, she closed the gap, denying the man any chance to regain footing. Snatching up a chair mid-stride, she brought it down on his collarbone and skull. The first blow caught him off-guard, flattening him anew; the second, despite his attempt to shield his head, forced his blade from numbed fingers. The third shattered the chair—yet the redhead, hissing garbled curses through clenched teeth, still struggled to rise.
Enter Ser Donall. Though dressed plainly, the knight held a naked longsword. His icy voice cut through the chaos, commanding attention:
— I assume there's a rational explanation for this?
From outside, an angry shout:
— Let me through, Sister—I must help!
A sharp retort followed:
— Quiet. You begged for aid, claiming weakness. Stay here and don't worsen things.
Morrigan, catching her breath, flicked back a stray lock and met the knight's gaze. Unlike the redhead, this foe anticipated surprises—evident in his taut stance and blade's angle, both screaming lethal readiness. The scene hung under a pall of danger. Alim crouched motionless, eyes darting between Morrigan and the knight. The redhead lay still, blood pooling from his head. The other girls remained outside. Seconds stretched. With each passing moment, Morrigan's confidence in her control grew. Despite the carnage, the knight hesitated. Somewhere beneath his resolve lurked doubt... and weariness.
Trusting her instincts, Morrigan spoke, slow and measured:
— A man with a drawn weapon burst forth, swinging at my companion. What followed was... hasty decisions in a fraught moment. Call it a misunderstanding, if you will.
Donall's brow twitched. His blade wavered but held steady. Undeterred, Morrigan pressed on:
— Doubtless, honor compels a knight to take sides. Yet this is no simple case of a brute assaulting a woman. No Templars represent authority here. You're no vassal to the local Arl. Why spill blood needlessly?
— You've a strange manner of speech, my lady.
Morrigan's lips curled.
— And that's all the noble Ser cares to note?
From the floor, the redhead spat blood:
— While we chatter, their allies loot this inn's stores. Danal's bound in the kitchen. It's obvious.
Morrigan didn't blink.
— Interpretations abound. Between life and death? A single word.
The knight's blade dipped almost imperceptibly.
— So... none are dead.
Seizing the lull, Alim straightened and interjected:
— Perhaps we might divert the noble knight from petty sausage theft to graver matters—say, the Blight's march through these forsaken lands.
Donall barely reacted, but Morrigan's eyes narrowed, scanning past his shoulder as if tracing an invisible thread. A smirk dawned as she grasped Alim's ploy:
— Clever.
The mage scowled. Donall's glare hardened—he disliked the cryptic remark—but Morrigan pressed on, honeyed and sly:
— My companion speaks true. In part. Certain words make men forget all else. For you, one such word is 'brigands'—those harrying the Imperial Highway. Ah! I see it now. But if Templars pursue them, what good comes of it? Unless... you wonder who pulls their strings?
The knight's swordpoint dropped to the floor, his features sharpening. Dryly, he demanded:
— Speak.
Morrigan turned to the doorway and called out:
— Leliana! Someone here wishes to see your evidence. Little Bethany? Time to confirm—has the thief fled, or not?
Crouching beside the prone warrior—who awaited the resolution of this murky affair—she whispered coldly:
— Stay still. Let the elf tend your head. Then forget this ever happened. I've recently discovered I know a particularly vile magic. So even if you somehow squeeze the life from me... yours won't last much longer. See these black veins on my nails? Not dirt. No. Each is a thread of your fate. And I've already begun... unraveling them.
She traced a finger lightly over the man's veins, her voice a blade:
— Care to see what happens when the last one snaps?
With a glance at Alim, still tense but unmoving, she added:
— My name is mine alone. Today, you've convinced this southern witch how perilous it is to ally with northerners.
The mage's cheek twitched. He turned away, scavenging for bandages, his voice sharp:
— Oh, we've both seen the 'exceptional' qualities of southerners lately. Filth rises to the surface, no matter where you stand. Save your venom for others.
The barb struck. Morrigan's fists clenched—but then Bethany and Leliana entered. Bethany darted past, vanishing into the kitchen. Leliana, with surprising professionalism for a Chantry sister, assessed the scene instantly and addressed Ser Donall with a graceful curtsy.
— Ser Donall.
The knight rested his sword like a cane, nodding respectfully.
— Sister Leliana.
A flicker of regret crossed Leliana's face at the title, but she pressed on, stepping closer:
— The... lady is right. These documents confirm what I wished weren't true. The Maker forgive me, but truth is rarely kind. They reveal a sustained, mutually beneficial link between Ser Evou and the brigands near Lothering. No direct proof, but they align with my fears. He may have orchestrated their formation, then turned a blind eye—using them to pressure locals, all while hiding their camp from the Knight-Commander. Clever, but reprehensible.
A leather bundle of letters thudded onto a table.
— If you wonder how I obtained these—
— No. I've outlived my concern for methods. Just the facts.
From the kitchen, Bethany's voice escalated to a shout:
— Carver! Open this damned door before I burn through it! Why's Ebryn bleeding?!
As Alim bandaged the sullen redhead—who watched with simmering hate—Morrigan stood detached, absorbing the chaos. The knight's restraint, Leliana's veiled emotions, Alim's flickering thoughts, Bethany's transparency—it all fractured before her like a shattered mirror, each shard a separate tale.
Leliana, ignoring the tumult, continued methodically: Ser Evou's manipulation of Templars, villagers, even the Mother, to build a network of informants. Using brigands for personal gain, silencing dissenters—all to burnish his reputation.
A sigh escaped her, drawing Morrigan's focus.
— Forgive me. I suspect why Ser Donall took interest. Though you're just passing through... Evou's papers mention a knight's murder on the Imperial Highway—one bearing House Guerrin's crest. And since you—
Donall cut her off, his voice heavy:
— Correct. Both of us rode under Lady Isolde's orders, seeking the Sacred Ashes of Andraste. Her last hope to heal her husband. We were to meet here, share news, and ride on. But... I sensed something amiss. Rumors... A lone traveler is no match for an ambush. Yet hope held me here. Thank you for the truth.
He weighed his sword, then nodded—more to himself. A glance out the window:
— You should go.
Morrigan and Leliana turned. Through the dusk, riders approached. Leliana exhaled:
— Templars.
— Leave the wounded to me. Hurry.
As Leliana gathered the documents, Morrigan and Alim slipped into the kitchen. Outside, Bethany finished bandaging Ebryn—a russet-haired girl in a simple dress, her freckled face pinched with pain. Nearby stood Carver, broad-shouldered and tense, a splitting maul grounded at his feet. He bristled at the newcomers, but Bethany barked:
— Carver! Stand down!
Morrigan's gaze flicked northwest, where an unnatural glow bloomed above The Dane's Refuge. Leliana's mask of calm cracked—beneath it, fury simmered.
— Does this concern us?— Morrigan murmured.
Leliana shook her head.
Hooves clattered. Carver dragged Ebryn toward the boats. The group followed, scrambling into the flat-bottomed vessels. Poles pushed them into the sluggish current.
From afar, the Templars emerged—angular shadows in starlight. Then the moon broke through, illuminating their grim faces. A hissed command, and they vanished inside.
Alim trailed fingers in the water, murmuring:
— Bad luck? Or...
Bethany said flatly:
— It changes nothing. We were leaving regardless.
Leliana whispered:
— Maker. Let it be so.
Morrigan frowned.
— How long?
— An hour by oar. Without? Three or four. The current's weak here.
Morrigan looked to the stars, silent.
* * *
Amidst the river's dark waters, time flowed as languidly as the current. If one let go of reality, it seemed the boats stood still while the world moved around them—the clouds, the shadowed shores, the cool wind carrying night's fragrances, even the stars overhead. All breathed with life. Yet dipping a hand into the icy stream, feeling the water slip between fingers, shattered the illusion. Motion returned.
From the neighboring boat came murmurs, too soft to decipher but rich with the intimacy shared between a man and woman. On the mage's vessel, silence reigned. The elf seemed to doze. Bethany was a curled shadow—asleep or merely withdrawn. Only Morrigan and Leliana remained awake, both peering into the dark, though their thoughts diverged wildly.
Morrigan's voice cut through the stillness:
— Rivers breed grim thoughts. At least in this darkness. But since my own worries are familiar company—what plagues you?
Leliana shrugged, the gesture lost to night.
— Many things. I scarcely know… Per'aps… I should be grateful for that?
— Unexpected.
— Agreed. Once, I needed refuge—from chaos, from events that outpaced me. A friend brought me here. Strangers took me in. That first year at the Chantry… it was peace. I thought time would heal all wounds. Simple lives. Petty squabbles over a goat eating someone's cabbages. Grudges that never grew beyond gossip. Harsh weather and wild beasts bind people, make them honest. But as years passed… I began to suffocate. Secretly, I longed for change. Foolish to think this turmoil answers those wishes—yet who am I to question the Maker's paths? The weight grew daily. More than I'd asked for. More than one can bear alone.
Morrigan tilted her head to the stars.
— Strange to hear a confession. Stranger still to learn of another's tangled mind.
Leliana's smile hid in the dark like a veiled secret.
— Well… Our circumstances excuse much. Visions pointed me to you and ze elf. And instinct whispered the only way to reach you is to bare my soul completely.
Morrigan's lip curled, disdain slipping through.
— Oh, visions… Spare me. Knowing your contradictions—like some madwoman's—should endear you to me? Flattering.
— Peut-être... Per'aps... Believe me, it surprises me more than you. And… who asked after my worries first?
— Worries. Only that.
— Very well. Worries, then… I've seen how a whisper can break the weak or make ze strong falter. I may have even wielded such words myself. Didn't you say interpretation shapes fate?
— Sharp ears. Good memory.
— My 'talents.' Not the only ones…
A bitter laugh.
— Once, I 'sang in ze Choir of Andraste.' Now I hunt a murderer. What glory. To watch a good man diminished by half-truths and timed whispers… It's a pain I've never known. Blinded by trust, I ignored the signs. That glow over Lothering? Non celebratory bonfire. Non justice. Only murder—by one who should have been the first to protect.
Morrigan trailed a hand in the water.
— Ah. A tale lurks here. Your hints beg notice. If we speak of northern 'virtue,' you mean the Mother?
Leliana nodded, slumping forward.
— Just so. The Chantry… It's more than faith in ze Maker's love, and less. It shelters orphans, tends the sick, fights hunger and horrors. Yet ambition festers beneath. The higher orders tasked the Mother of Lothering with turning folk against Arl Bryland. A burden too heavy for a gentle soul. At first, she only tempered his harshest decrees. It might have ended there—had the Arl not marched with the king's army, stripping the village of guards. The Mother protested, but… it was Ser Evou, lurking in the Knight-Commander's shadow, who seized the moment. He blamed the Arl for every woe, whispering 'reason' to the Templars—that their duty lay not with the people, but their own orders. Doubts festered. The Mother kept the Templars in Lothering, clashed with Elder Miriam over harvests. Then 'apostates' were found—harmless folk, I now know. Ser Evou wielded fear like a club. The Arl returned, demanded supplies for the north, and left again. A Hasind at the Chantry? Ser Evou claimed southern refugees fleeing the Blight were non threat. Dishonest merchants? He questioned confiscating their goods. And then… ze qunari.
Her voice frayed.
— A warrior slaughtered a family, then surrendered. Ser Evou declared him a monster, a lesson for the people. I begged the Mother to see—this was the Arl's matter, not ze Chantry's. But the lie had rooted too deep. Foolish sisters spread tales of qunari savagery. That fire? A pyre for the 'monster'—and for the good woman who burned beside him. We tell ourselves we can always turn back, choose another path. Yet each step makes it harder. My fear is… whether I can lead the Mother back to that crossroads at all.
Morrigan let the silence linger before raising her numbed fingers from the water, droplets glinting like shattered stars.
— My point is this: mind your own mistakes first. Others' are beyond counting. Trying to fix them is like wrestling the wind. Nobility is a luxury for those who've never starved—not some 'worthy path.' Know the difference between my mother and yours?
A cynical smirk curled her lips.
— Mine would never play the 'saint' while sending folk to the pyre. When a tyrant errs, it's expected. When a saint errs, it's tragedy. Choose whose mistakes to mend. But… our paths diverge. If you return, try. I suspect… the answer will guide you.
Leliana bit her lip, her voice a whisper:
— Advice no worse than any other. Yet it changes nothing of my intent.
— So visions outweigh answers?
In the dark, Leliana shook her head.
— They spare a lost lamb from dying indecisive at the crossroads. The fear of perishing uselessly, having chosen nothing… that terrifies me.
Morrigan nodded.
— An explanation I'll accept. Truer than drivel about 'destiny.'
Silence reclaimed the boat—until Leliana's voice rose, clear and melodic, singing:
"I am my own executioner, it seems,
My blood a murmuring lament of dreams,
Whose rhythmic sobs in distant echoes keep—
But where, oh where, does my suffering sleep?
Through city streets a crimson river flows,
Cobblestones now isles where the red tide grows..."
[Excerpt from "Le Flacon" — Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)]
The song cut off abruptly. This time, the quiet lasted only moments before Bethany spoke, hesitant:
— Beautiful. And sad. I'd never have guessed our ever-sunny Leliana had such… shadows.
Darkness hid Leliana's face, but all felt her smile—though what else lingered there (sorrow? regret?) remained for imagination alone. Bethany pressed on, testing each word:
— So… Ser Evou orchestrated those murders. The 'apostates'?
— Oui. By nurturing paranoia and zeal in weak minds, he harvested accusations—some with kernels of truth. The first was a mage who'd lived years on a farm with a family. None knew… save one fearful neighbor. When rumors spread, he fled—perhaps to protect his hosts. They caught him on the Imperial Highway. The second… A hunter took in a Hasind woman. They lived as man and wife. She was a hedge-witch. A trifle, but enough for Ser Evou to fan into flames.
Bethany's voice hardened.
— That mage—the first. His name was Seyd. He came to Lothering when Father lived. They spoke politely, as distant acquaintances might. After Father's death, he returned. Visited Mother. Always courteous. I… think he watched over us.
— Triste à entendre.
— Not as sad as learning a qunari slaughtered a family I broke bread with as a child!— Bethany's anger bled through.— What can we expect from Evou? Is he dangerous?
— Bien sûr. He bided his time, but I see now—he always had designs. Clever, ambitious, methodical. Impatient, perhaps. Yet such grand schemes… they're beyond his reach. Petty intrigues within the Templar Order? Oui. But this scale? If it unravels… I fear the true Ser Evou will emerge.
Alim's voice cut through, cold and alert:
— Too many pyres tonight.
All turned. Beyond the hill, a fire raged—its sparks clawing at the sky, smoke churning in black spheres. The wind carried the stench of char, mingled with river damp. From the other boat, Carver shouted:
— Sister! The farm—!
Bethany clutched the boat's edge, her other hand pressed to her mouth. A prayer, repeated:
— Maker, not Mother… not Mother…
Morrigan's golden eyes caught the firelight.
— Fear not. Your Maker has clearly chosen no side at all.
* * *
The rhythmic splash of oars and Carver's muttered curses—berating himself for his laziness and poor decisions—were the only sounds breaking the silence. Bethany bit her lips bloody, the unbearable anticipation gnawing at her. The boats swiftly rounded the hill, docking amidst a thicket of reeds. Abandoning their supplies haphazardly, the group scrambled up the shallow riverbank—only to be met with the grim spectacle of the burning farmstead.
Half a kilometer away, the farm was already collapsing into embers. The house and barn had caved inward; only charred remnants of the stable remained. The fire's glow painted the rye field a furious red, casting long shadows where three figures stood motionless against the blaze.
Carver hefted his axe, but Morrigan's voice cut through like a blade:
— Brave fools die first. Honor is vast. Usefulness—none.
— Not your mother out there!— he snapped, raw emotion stripping his words of courtesy.
— Will proving your sister right matter when Templars trample your skull?
Bethany's voice was hoarse.
— Templars…
— Three of them. Look closer.
The firelight glinted off their plate armor—unmistakable even at this distance. Few in these lands wore such mail, and now, only the Chantry's warriors did. Alim hunched slightly, muttering:
— This… is bad news.
Morrigan smirked.
— Among us, only I have slain the Maker's warriors, I presume.— Her gaze flicked to Leliana.— And likely the only one here who's killed at all. No bows. No swords or armor. Hmph. Normally, the answer is simple: turn and leave. Such suicide is… messy. Yet…— She studied their faces.— I understand your motives. And the tragic end awaiting you. Strangely, I find I'd rather not see some of you as corpses. If the siblings' resolve holds, I'll kill the Templars. But if lives are the stakes, I'll demand no less from you. Here are my terms.
Her words were brisk, tactical:
— Carver, you stay here. If we fail, your life ends with mine. Leliana—you walk the same path, since you've tied your fate to ours. Alim—I'll need you in the fight. No holding back. Bethany—you wait here with your brother's sweetheart. Decide. Quickly.
Bethany blinked rapidly.
— Wouldn't attacking together be wiser?
— You'd be useless. Walking corpses, no more. Trust me.
Carver glowered.
— What do you mean, I die if you die?
— How fickle youth is—'you' one moment, 'thee' the next. The answer is magic. We're wasting time. They've seen us.
One of the distant figures pointed toward them. Swords flashed as the Templars advanced.
— Three minutes, and we're dea—
— Do it. I agree.— Carver's voice was steel.
Bethany nodded shakily. Morrigan didn't wait. A spell tumbled from her lips:
— Tua vita mea est.
A translucent ribbon of magic lashed toward Carver, making him flinch. She repeated the spell for Leliana, who accepted it without a flicker of discomfort. Then—shocking them all—Morrigan stripped to the waist, her skin luminous in the firelight. The cold hardened her nipples, but she showed no shame, only smirking as she slapped a stunned Alim into focus.
— Strongest spell. When I'm a step from them, shatter their formation. Cause chaos. Burn yourself out if you must.
She sprinted toward the Templars like a vengeful spirit, golden eyes locking onto their lyrium-lit gazes. Two younger warriors flanked their leader—all bearing the braided hairstyles of Lothering's Templars.
Alim's magic surged ahead of her. The spell parted around the leader, faltered against the right-hand warrior, but slammed into the left, sending him reeling—though not disarmed.
Blades lanced toward Morrigan in perfect sync—one at her throat, the other her heart. She twisted right, but the leader's sword grazed her cheek, drawing blood. The second Templar adjusted mid-swing, his longsword biting deep beneath her ribs.
Leliana gasped as if struck herself. Yet Morrigan only grinned, impaling herself further on the blade, and spat:
— Nigrum putredo quad devorat anima.
As the last syllable left her lips, Morrigan's slender hand lashed out in a lightning-fast motion — more a slap than a true attack. Gritting through the pain, she threw her body rightward, wrenching the blade from her flesh as the armored figures stumbled past from their own momentum.
Somewhere behind them, a muffled cry of pain echoed. But more importantly, the Templar who had dealt her the grievous wound now staggered, his face paling as blood vessels burst in his eyes. He whirled around frantically searching for the witch.
Time refused to stand still. Pushing off the ground with one hand to keep balance, Morrigan spat blood and charged toward the Templar Alim's spell had repelled. The terrible wound at her side wasn't bleeding and was visibly closing. The hairs rising on her neck warned her — instead of pursuit, the leader and his remaining comrade chose to strike her back with "Smite," the Order's signature technique honed to reflex perfection. The one ability that could drain a mage's mana while inflicting excruciating pain.
Without hesitation, Morrigan threw herself left in a desperate roll. The wave of force meant to expel her mana missed by mere inches. Ignoring the bruises and stones cutting into her skin, she pushed up from all fours and charged again.
Alim's magic struck the men from behind once more. While it washed harmlessly over the leader, it sent the remaining Templar to his knees, his sword planted in the earth for support. Looking up, he saw only a dark silhouette with burning golden eyes looming over him.
Delicate hands moved with viperish speed, gripping his head as thumbs pressed mercilessly against his eyeballs. The coppery scent of fresh blood filled his nostrils as a voice dripping with malice whispered:
— Nigrum putredo quad devorat anima.
The Templar screamed in fear and rage, fumbling for his dagger to plunge it upward beneath Morrigan's ribs. She recoiled reflexively, mouth working soundlessly as she stared at the hilt protruding between her breasts. Then a throwing knife embedded itself in her left thigh with a sickening thud, drawing out a long, agonized moan.
As the kneeling Templar struggled to rise, blinded by pain, the wind carried excited shouts from afar — and much closer, furious cursing.
With a hoarse cry, Morrigan wrenched both blades free and hurled them blindly behind her. Though blood flowed from new wounds, it was less than there should be — her body now crisscrossed with rapidly closing injuries like some invisible spider hastily stitching her flesh with crimson thread.
Some distance away, Carver collapsed to his knees, choking. Leliana lay pale as death on the ground. Their strength faded with Morrigan's blood. Forcing herself forward through sheer will, the witch dodged left as the remaining Templars closed in — a storm of muscle, metal and fury.
"Strike!" the leader roared, thrusting his free hand forward in anticipation. His comrade tried to mimic the motion but stumbled and fell clumsily into the grass. Knowing she couldn't stop in time, Morrigan accelerated right instead, teeth gritted against her burning lungs. The Smite barely grazed her flying black tresses as she dove between the two men.
The leader moved with shocking speed for his armor, intercepting her. Morrigan twisted desperately to avoid the heavy fist aimed at her jaw — only to take a brutal spinning backhand that sent her reeling. She shifted just enough to spare her spine as a sword plunged wetly into her side from behind, slicing through flesh and organs barely an inch from her kidney.
This time there were no screams — only pain that nearly sent her into oblivion. But relaxing her failing body, letting it turn with the blow, Morrigan lashed out with her left hand like a whip. Bloody lips formed the incantation one last time:
— Nigrum putredo quad devorat anima.
Her fingertips brushed the Templar's mouth as she fell, giving him one last pain-twisted smile of triumph before darkness took her. Her once-flawless skin was now scratched, grass-stained and smeared with blood — pale and slick with sweat.
The Templar leader didn't look much better, though his bloodshot eyes still burned with fury. His sword trembled as he raised it for the killing stroke against the broken doll sprawled before him.
Then something slammed him aside with a pained cry, sending him tumbling swordless across the grass. By some miracle, Morrigan clung to consciousness despite the merciless mana exhaustion. Silver-edged clouds drifted indifferently across the star-strewn sky. Nearby, someone groaned and coughed wetly. At the edge of fading awareness came the sound of running feet and an angry voice:
— What in the—
Then darkness took her.
* * *
The first sensations to greet Morrigan as she emerged from merciful oblivion were gentle sunlight and timid gusts of wind. Then came the dull, all-encompassing pain that made her long for the darkness again. But her will remained unbroken, her mind sharp. Cracking open her eyes, she saw a blue sky dotted with indifferent sheep-like clouds. Morning had come — she hoped it was the next morning, and not some distant future day.
She lay in the grass in a posture more reminiscent of someone taking a nap than a survivor of brutal combat. Alim's travel robe had been draped over her bare torso. The elf's familiar voice came from her side:
— Welcome back to the mortal world. I must admit... you certainly know how to make an impression. Pity it's usually for the worse.
Turning her head slightly — the motion sending waves of nausea — she saw the mage sitting a few meters away, gazing into the distance with a relieved smile creeping across his face. Morrigan snorted at the sky, though even to her own ears it lacked conviction.
— Water...— she croaked.
— Of course.
Alim fetched a dipper of warm water, which she gulped greedily.
— More?
— No... Not yet. How long?
— It's noon now.
— Hmm…
The elf scratched his nose bridge before asking hesitantly:
— You know... normally I admire elegant magic. But what you did was like watching a venomous snake — beautiful yet spine-chilling. The plan bordered on madness, and seeing it in action... Did your... unique experience with the Order inspire such tactics?
Morrigan licked her cracked lips, taking a slow breath. Though pain lingered, breathing came easily.
— 'Experience.' A quaint term. Yes... Southern hunters rightly call witches 'sky-tricksters' — a compliment for those who can kill mighty beasts without weapons or even line of sight. Templars are no laughing matter, especially with lyrium boiling in their veins. 'Smite' is but their most obvious trick, like a leopard's spots. Their true danger lies in 'Purge' — that pretentious name for the space around them where magic dissipates. The stronger the mage, the quicker their power fades. Hence why mighty apostates become helpless as kittens against them. Mother always said: 'A predator without claws is just a big cat.' Though she forgot to add... even kittens bite when cornered.
Her fists whitened.
— My 'experience' revealed their secret — their power doesn't work inside their own bodies.
Alim ran a hand through his hair, piecing together the implications.
— Incredible. So that's why... Touch became the conduit.
After a pause, he voiced the inevitable question:
— It all makes sense. But even with your knowledge... Why in the Void did you strip naked?! Please don't say 'tactical advantage.' I can't fathom any worthy justification.
Maintaining perfect seriousness, Morrigan replied:
— I like my clothes. Didn't want them ruined. Though they still pierced my trousers. Should've removed those too.
The elf snorted, froze, then burst into full-bodied laughter, wiping tears. Collecting himself, he sighed:
— That's... disturbingly logical. And hilarious. Though only because the fight's over. Not exactly a laughing matter at the time.
— The others?
— Those bound by your spell... Carver fell first. Poor Leliana lasted slightly longer before fainting silently.
— 'Poor'? Is that concern I hear?
Alim coughed and continued:
— His girl tended to Carver — sweet creature. He woke at dawn and, despite looking dreadful, went to help Bethany. Leliana remains unconscious. I'm no healer, but her breathing's steady. Just exhaustion, I hope. That magic was meant for killing after all. Bethany...
He rubbed his face wearily, but Morrigan deduced the truth first:
— Their mother's dead. I guessed as much. Hope blinds better than any foe. The horses?
— One's lungs are torn. The Templars rode them hard to get here in twenty minutes from Lothering. Even if they dallied in town, they had over an hour here.
Morrigan winced.
— Evou?
— Their leader. Dark-haired.
— Every cloud...
— That's one perspective.
— You're alive. They're alive. Stop whining. Help me up.
Alim offered his hand. Gripping it tightly, Morrigan rose with a groan — first to her knees, then unsteadily to her feet. Without hesitation, as if grabbing bread from a table, she dug her fingers into his shoulder for support. The contact stirred nothing in her — no disgust, no warmth, just practical stability. After a minute of ragged breathing, she stood unaided. Then, with equal nonchalance, she returned his robe.
This revealed the full glory of her form — the muscular definition of her abdomen, shoulders blending feminine delicacy with trained strength, and breasts that needed no artifice. This time, Alim didn't blush. A fleeting glance sufficed before he tactfully turned away.
Examining the places where sharp steel had pierced flesh, Morrigan found only a faint pale stripe on her side where the final blow had landed.
— One of your traits that doesn't grow tiresome—somehow, you've managed to carry dignity and manners into adulthood. Combined with your wits, it makes you unique. But let's not waste time on niceties.
Raising an eyebrow and glancing over his shoulder, Alim saw the witch already pulling a woolen cloak over her shirt. Her gaze flickered to Leliana, pale as death, lying nearby, and she shrugged.
— Am I wrong to assume you've no objections to her joining us? Given the talk of visions and the Maker. And the fact that, like me, she's a killer. That behind the guise of a smiling 'sister' lies something broken. Tangled in contradictions.
The mage studied the figure on the ground—not as a "body," but as the sum of his companion's words. Slowly, the elf nodded.
— I don't see that deeply. Nor will I ask how you drew such conclusions. Voicing them only makes you seem all the more suspicious. But the answer is yes. Let her come. Honestly, I doubt a firm 'no' would stop Leliana from following anyway, given her convictions. Better to have songs and stories at our side than a pursuer at our backs.
— And there's that trait again. Remarkable. Just remember—it narrows your options.
— What? Are there even other choices? Wait… No, killing her is out of the question!
Morrigan sighed and shook her head.
— Overrated that wit of yours. A broken leg would suffice… No, a toe. One on each foot. That would end the redhead's plans. But never mind. Let's find the others.
Her gaze swept the surroundings. Nearby lay three armored bodies, drawn together as if in a macabre embrace. Each resembled a week-old corpse: skin translucent, revealing dark veins; flesh touched by decay; eyes sunken. Morrigan suppressed a shudder, betraying no reaction to the aftermath of the spell—one whose knowledge had appeared in her mind unbidden. Its brutal efficiency surpassed even her mother's repertoire. She'd anticipated the result, yet imagining it was one thing… The true discomfort lay in pondering the source of such vile magic, designed solely to inflict slow, agonizing death. On the bright side, the practice had been successful.
Her eyes drifted further—past a dead campfire with soot-blackened pots, toward the horizon. The ruins still smoldered, thin white tendrils of smoke curling skyward. The air reeked of char. The field and garden were scorched wastelands, save for a few stubborn plots and haystacks—exceptions that only underscored the devastation. Nothing remained worth holding onto. Soon, her wandering gaze found the others among the rubble.
Limping forward, Morrigan wasn't surprised when Alim stayed behind with Leliana. Bethany noticed her uneven steps first and turned.
— Oh! Morrigan. You're awake—
The witch's lips twitched in irritation at the casual use of her name, given so freely without permission. It reignited her resentment toward the elf and his motives. Again, she forced such thoughts down, her composure unbroken. The young self-taught mage missed none of it. Straightening, Bethany bowed clumsily.
— Thank you. We owe our lives to you and Alim. Whatever Carver says—I mean, when he inevitably blurts something disrespectful—please don't hold it against him. I saw. My magic and his sword would've been nothing against those three Templars. I just…
She swiped a soot-streaked hand under her nose, inhaling sharply. Her eyes flickered to the ruins of the house, her lips twisting against a surge of emotion.
— I don't… I… If only…
Morrigan shook her head and glanced at Carver, who was rummaging through a shed with his girl.
— Fight it or not, you won't win. 'What ifs' don't let go easily. I've little patience for attachments to family or home—I find it foolish. But seeing you… I understand. This pain is now part of you, like an arm or leg. You can cut it off, but you'll never be whole again. Better to face doubts head-on than flee. Saves time. Yes, trading your home, childhood, and mother for me and the elf was reckless. A poor bargain, frankly. Even I see that. But it's the only one you've got. Move forward. And don't be ashamed to hope the wound might heal someday.
Bethany stared, unblinking, as a tear traced a dirty cheek. Then another. Her face crumpled, and with a raw sob, she flung herself at Morrigan. Her fists beat weakly against the witch's chest—desperate, futile, like a nestling's last struggle. Soon, her trembling form collapsed into Morrigan's arms. The witch's hands closed mechanically around her shoulders, just enough to keep her upright. There was no sympathy in her gaze, only irritation at the emotional outburst. Beneath it simmered something akin to disgust—not for the touch, but for the snotty, sniveling weakness. Yet logic whispered coldly: this was inevitable. Patience was required.
— Shh… Did you find your mother's body?
Bethany nodded, but the tears kept flowing. Her shoulders shook, fingers clawing at Morrigan's shirt as if clinging to the last anchor in a crumbling world. Across the distance, Morrigan's eyes met Carver's. The boy had aged overnight—more inside than out. Not growth, but the first frost of autumn in his soul. His glare hinted at sharp words, even now. Sensing it, Ebrin gripped his broad shoulder tightly. With a pained groan, Carver seemed to wake from a daze. He gave a grim nod—to the girl behind him, or his own thoughts—and turned back to his task.
Finally, the sobs subsided. Bethany pulled away, wiping her face childishly with her sleeve, leaving smudges of dirt on her cheeks. A deep breath in—out. Another. Her eyes, still red from crying, suddenly took on an odd firmness.
— There... in the garden...
Her voice cracked on the first word. She swallowed, clenched her fists, and tried again:
— We... buried her there.
Walking slowly to the spot, Morrigan found a miraculously untouched flowerbed amid the charred trees. A shovel stood planted in the loose soil at the edge, and at the center of the trampled flowers lay a fresh grave, stark as an open wound.
— Carver helped... but he's still weak. Ebrin and I did most of it. Mother...
A shaky exhale escaped her before she continued:
— There were signs of a beating. Not much. She died from a clean strike to the heart. Probably... almost painless. They executed her. Like she was worthless. Then waited for us. She loved flowers... Father's grave is in the hills nearby. Maybe it was wrong to separate them, but... Mother loved this garden, and I... I...
— Memory matters more than the dead's whims. Don't burden yourself with guilt. What of this place? Sooner or later, others will follow Evou's trail. I've no desire to repeat today's 'heroics'—especially if more than three come knocking.
— Carver insists we head to the South Reach. Then either downriver to Denerim or with a caravan to Bannorn. It depends on Ebrin's family. They'll worry for her. And she's torn between them and Carver. My brother waits for my decision, but I...
Morrigan grimaced inwardly.
— Cut the dithering. The fact you're hesitating speaks volumes. You've another path in mind. Out with it.
The girl fidgeted, then haltingly began to explain. The more she spoke, the steadier her words became:
— Father tried to teach me everything he could, but I avoided true mastery. Being 'special.' His life proved it meant hiding, enduring, abandoning roots—forsaking any chance at greatness. Sometimes I even thought the Circle might offer more than skulking in the wilds as a rogue mage, forever a Templar target. Why bother? Better to be normal. Less knowledge, fewer mistakes. We had an elder brother—more gifted than me, Father's pride. After Father died, he left us behind like dead weight. I've heard nothing since... But perhaps he was right. By leaving, he spared us the danger of his presence. All this time, we were safe. Now... it's late, but I want to learn. You've shown me what's possible. I must face where I stand. I doubt another chance like this will come. Take me as your apprentice!
She turned, but one glance at Morrigan's face reignited her fear.
— Don't—don't refuse yet! What must I do to convince you? Swear loyalty? Serve you? If—
Morrigan recoiled, disgust plain on her face. Bethany clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified she'd made things worse. Yet the witch's revulsion wasn't for the plea—it was for the sudden memory of women groveling before Flemeth, writhing for power like worms in dirt. Willing to trade freedom for scraps of knowledge. A sight Morrigan had scorned, though she'd fed from the same hand. But a whisper in her mind hissed the truth: those women feared no shame in admitting their place. Purpose defined them; pride alone defined Morrigan. And now, she stood in her mother's role—object of devotion and loathing. A twist of fate she'd never anticipated.
Silence stretched, but her thoughts raced. Shock gave way to cold clarity.
— Enough,— Morrigan finally said.— From this moment until your last breath, remember: never swear oaths. Never barter freedom. Loyalty's value lasts only until surrendered. Oaths are nooses for fools. I swore them to my mother thoughtlessly, and paid a hundredfold each time. Decisions and consequences—all else is smoke. Yes, the gap between us is as wide as the Dragon's Peak. But if you've resolve, I'll not bar your learning. Yet your path diverges from your brother's.
She arched a brow, waiting. Bethany lowered her eyes, thinking, then nodded slowly—once, uncertain; again, firm.
— I'll speak to him.
Morrigan suppressed a smirk, settling for a twitch of her lips. With a curt nod, she turned back toward the elf.
By luck, Leliana had regained consciousness. Alim hovered nearby, torn between helpfulness and awkwardness. After drinking, the bard's gaze flicked to Morrigan, then to the three corpses. Voice carefully guarded, she murmured:
— Everything Ser Evou touched rotted. Those Templars once earned only respect—and smiles for their youthful zeal.
— Spare us trivia. We've a road to choose. The river must be crossed; north lies our path.
Alim glanced toward the siblings. Beyond earshot, Carver gestured fiercely while Bethany stood her ground. Ebrin shifted between them, lost. He frowned but stayed silent. Leliana, however, countered firmly:
— I must return to Lothering.
Morrigan cut in:
— No one's stopping you.
The "sister" wrinkled her brow and tried anew:
— Listen, Morrigan—
The witch turned away, skewering Alim with a glare so sharp he forced a nervous smile. Reading their silence, Leliana pressed on:
— Skirting Lothering adds days through hostile land. By boat, you'd reach the lakes near Calenhad far faster. With a fishing line, food's secured. I must face the Mother—tell her how her blindness cost lives. One last try... I've friends in ze Chantry. They'll hide me.
— How touching. May your epitaph read: 'Died for principles.'
Alim interjected with cold pragmatism:
— What of the Templars? Do you think Ser Evou kept our faces secret? Those who jailed us aren't among the dead here.
Leliana nodded.
— Oui. But there's a difference between a hunt and the risk of recognition. Without Evou, ze snitch network is headless. No one to shield his sympathizers from scrutiny. I'd call it safe—enough. Not that you should stroll through town, but if you stay unseen, trouble's unlikely.
Morrigan scoffed, hands on hips.
— 'Safe—enough.' 'Unlikely.' A heap of vagaries.
Undeterred, Leliana listed supplies with startling precision:
— You need a guide. A boat. Flint, rations, thick cloaks, spare smallclothes...
The men's brows climbed at her unexpected expertise.
—And that's just the start. Risk Lothering, or waste days bleeding your feet raw, starving, only to reach ze lakeshore—boatless. The northern woods thin; game's scarce. Don't count on foraging.
Alim turned to Morrigan, but her glacial stare halted him mid-breath. The witch drawled:
— Did you overlook the obvious? The river cuts through Lothering. Every boat's worth gold now. Wait for nightfall, then pray for blind, chaste guards?
Footsteps approached. Bethany joined them, somber but composed. Morrigan pivoted:
— Well?
— After a fashion. We parted without a fight. But... it was loud. We agreed on where to send letters. What's your plan?
— Ah. 'Plan.' Back to Lothering. For convenience and warm fuzzies. Sneak in by night—
Bethany touched her arm gently.
— Forgive me, but dawn's better for slipping a boat out. The fog lingers at sunrise—like this morning. With a pole in mist and half-light, splashes could be fish, not fugitives.
Morrigan's smirk was faint but unmistakable. She gestured to Bethany:
— Our guide.
As if punctuating the debate, the redhead clapped her hands. The younger girl blinked, suddenly aware of Leliana's unspoken role. Morrigan scanned each face, then growled in resignation:
— Fine. Have it your way.