Snow fell steadily, laying a fresh blanket of white over everything. Yet in one place the flakes vanished before they could reach the ground, as if they burned away in the heat rolling off a roaring bonfire. At a safe distance from the flames, on a half-rotted log fallen a couple of seasons ago, a lone figure warmed herself. Opposite, on a moss-covered stone likewise steeped in warmth, lay a neatly folded stack of clothes.
A woman's shadow slipped through the snowy veil of the trees. In less than five minutes, a fawn crumpled at the fire's edge. No nubs showed on its brow; it hadn't lived long enough to see even its first change of coat. The spots on its hide had begun to fade, but they were still there. Horror had set in the animal's glassy eyes. Its throat had been torn open, as though claws had sunk deep—through hide, muscle, sinew. A thin, pale scarlet ribbon of blood stained the snow and ran off into the winter woods. Breathing hard, Morrigan tipped her head back, offering her face to the falling snow. Steam from her breath mingled with the cold air, and her nudity seemed a challenge to winter itself. Her bare body burned—not from cold, but from adrenaline. Snowflakes melted on her chest, trickling down taut skin, but she didn't so much as shiver. It seemed the forest itself held its breath, watching her fingers sink into the deer's still-warm flesh...
Studying her companion—feral now, more creature of the woods than woman of the human world—Leliana said only one word:
— Why?
Morrigan turned slowly toward Leliana, so she could see every bead of sweat at her throat.
— Enjoying the view?
Without a word, the witch reached for the clothes warmed by the cheerful crackle of the fire and began with her boots, then the things meant for her hips and legs. Before an answer could come, a dagger thudded into the ground at Leliana's feet. Then the witch spoke again:
— We have a long, exhausting stretch ahead on foot. There's no hope of riding. And since I'm not traveling alone, and my companion is unwell, we must think of provisions in advance. In the foothills, the outcome of a hunt is less predictable. I suspect there will be predators more dangerous than I am. Likely...
Leliana gripped the hilt and wrenched the cold blade from the earth. After a single glance at it, she repeated—this time with an edge that meant something else:
— Why this way...?
Leliana's gaze swept over Morrigan's naked body, as if searching for traces not only of wounds, but of madness.
— One can kill... differently.
Morrigan tugged a shirt over her head, sighed, and went on dressing as she replied:
— Succinct. So much concern for me in a single word. You fear I've crossed a line. But... this is faster.
Morrigan ran her tongue over her lips, leaving a bead of someone else's blood on them:
— A spell that binds prey with ice is, in winter, rather useless—though of course other options exist. Let's set aside foolishness, like hunting with nothing but a dagger. Let's forget the bow and arrows we don't have. I could, for example, use a death-dealing spell. The trouble is, such spells don't care about leaving a body intact. Ah... If I let my imagination run, I ought to have opened a vein, and stolen the creature's life drop by drop. After all, it's not hard to time it so you don't bleed out in the middle of the woods. Probably...
Once she was dressed, Morrigan arched an eyebrow at her companion in silent question and went on before Leliana could speak:
— Why pretend we don't both know what's hanging in the air. You're right. There was no need for such magic. Yes, I remember our conversations, but now everything is different. Yes, it looks and sounds like an excuse, but listen: before, dangers and threats were shadows—either harmless or unknown. Now the list of what we've done is long, and it keeps snowballing. And our enemies aren't always even flesh and blood. It's easy to talk about preserving the 'self' from a comfortable distance. Even then, remember, I saw no point in preaching restraint. Practicality demands using every advantage and leaving fear behind. You are free to see this as another step back—into the abyss of madness or possession. But don't insult your own intelligence: admit it—your faith has lost its monolithic certainty, too. We are both changing. Since it's inevitable, I'm trying to ride it. And if you feared the unpredictability of the changes I'm dragging you into, you should have stayed at Redcliffe Fort.
Deftly spinning the short blade in her right hand, Leliana licked lips dried by the heat and gave a short jerk of her head, as if shaking thoughts loose.
— You are right. This path breaks even what seemed unbreakable. And it's not just about... how to behave, what goals to set. It's also about what lies deep within. This island of deceptive quiet I found within myself with such difficulty no longer looks like a safe refuge amid the crushing waves of turmoil and deceit. Remember: then as now, you insist—directly or indirectly—on control. And now as then, I fear you are playing with fire...
Leliana stepped closer, breathing in the scent of blood:
— But I see your pupils dilate when you lie to yourself. Do you like it when I catch you at it?
With an irritated rub at the corner of her eye, Morrigan nodded, then jerked her chin toward the carcass before them.
— Time to move from words to deeds.
As they dressed the carcass—skinning it, then quartering it—their fingers went numb with cold, and their breath iced on their lips. Silence reigned in the makeshift camp, broken only by the occasional curse when something slipped. Leliana tried not to watch as Morrigan drove the knife into flesh, but sometimes she couldn't look away. Each cut was precise, almost tender... Only after an hour did the witch straighten with a deep exhale, rub snow over her hands, and ask—as if on a whim:
— Incidentally, who ended up taking my things in Kinloch Hold? The Templars?
Not bothering to hide her surprise, Leliana answered briefly:
— I suppose... Irving. For a time, I knew where they were most likely kept. But... judge for yourself: they didn't fall into the Seekers' hands. Otherwise, I'd wager everything would have been returned to you in full. Gregor hiding or discarding something? I find that hard to imagine. That leaves one figure with the authority to take what he wanted for personal purposes.
— Ha... May Irving choke on my belongings.
Her voice was sweet—honey laced with poison. Returning to work, Leliana asked:
— Why do you ask?
— To keep the conversation going.
Shaking her head, wary, Leliana tried to steer the conversation elsewhere.
— Let's talk instead about...
— Leliana...
— Enough! — The red-haired woman cut her off, voice sharp. — Let me finish. It doesn't matter how repetitive I am. Yes, we can discuss probabilities... But even if we stop entertaining the chance that we're talking about the remains of the woman who laid the first stone of the Chantry's foundation—at the origins of the Chant of Light, the one who set compassion and hope in place of loneliness and fear—fine. Even if these are the remains of an unknown... No. The remains of some commoner who once lived. Just like that—abstractly. The act of defiling them with blood carried by a demon, even disregarding the moral side, seems unjustifiably risky. You have no understanding of the overall situation. Not a shred of control. It's... like letting an arrow fly at random, and that's it. Would it not be wiser for both of us, in this unclear situation, to ignore guides leading into the unknown?
Morrigan cracked her neck, sighed, and spoke quietly:
— Magic should serve man, not man serve magic.
— What...?
— It just came to mind. That very 'first stone' in the foundation of your Chantry—straight from the lips of Andraste. Oh, don't frown. Of course, as if I'd know the sayings of the 'Bride of the Maker.' At least, the ones attributed to her. Perhaps I wouldn't... But isn't it foolish to hurl onto the altar what is precious, just for the illusion of an 'equal sacrifice'? As if, together, we renounce everything—draw a line once and for all. Let me differentiate between the monstrous and senseless, the necessary and weighty... Although... with difficulty, probably. But I don't conflate those words with your declared 'morality.' I care nothing for principles that grew from abstractions of 'right' and 'wrong,' carrying no practical value in themselves. Take it or not. I'm being indulgent—the Chantry itself blurs the line between myth and truth. Miracles and holy relics do not bear scrutiny. What happened in the mists of antiquity? Who knows... But if you ask my opinion, prophets are kindling—someone else strikes the spark—and future 'martyrs' burn out quickly, like firewood, on their own or with a little 'help.' Let's look at it the other way around. There's Andraste. And? Even at her worst moment, the mysterious Maker preferred only a quiet whisper. Not for many ears, but for just one. It would look like a funny coincidence if it didn't sound so tragic. And what does the almighty creator and his beloved dead woman care for pitiful scraps of flesh?
Leliana turned away, her gaze sliding over the trees frozen in snowy captivity—as if seeking justification among them. Morrigan, however, had no intention of waiting for her companion to find the right words and continued:
— Let it go. How much in your life is truly your own? Not imposed, not wrought for the sake of someone else's idea—paid for in suffering. And faith, it seems, stands apart, or should, from me and from what's happening. A... pillar on the outskirts, with a well-trodden path to it. Isn't that what you called an island of quiet? I suppose... Such things in your past were interpreted as weakness. A place devoid of flexibility. Vulnerability. To what purpose these words... Give an inch and it seems I am destroying that 'quiet.' I set my own logic against your principles. But who first disturbed your 'quiet'? Not I, but those very voices that whisper to you of 'visions' and 'missions.' That's not a call to renounce faith. The Maker and the old gods, dragons and ancestral spirits, nature spirits and constellations... Oh, who cares. Believe in what you want, as long as it doesn't dull you, or turn you into an enemy. And what is the Maker to you? I dare say you were concerned with the principles of Andrastianism, not the pantheon. So it seems either you are again a blind tool, deserving no better, whose new master is the 'Maker' himself... perhaps. Or a victim... I know, an excellent choice, but there is no other.
With a bitter snort, Leliana parried:
— You strike with words like a knife—without mercy, without missing. But you twist it: from your 'blind risk' to my problems. You don't find that strange?
Morrigan opened her mouth to object, but instead nodded slowly. Now it was the witch's turn to shake her head, dejected, lips pursed. After a moment, she said:
— There is... some reason in that... But you see... Power truly is important. It is the tool of control, the guarantee of safety—the source of authority. Though not the only one... There is also knowledge. And we always pay in full: with time, health, sanity, sometimes freedom. How else could it be? And now, on top of that, it's like pieces of a mosaic scattered across a table—careless, but here and there you start to see a connection, and it's as if you're about to get your hands on the truth. The chance that the 'demon' knows something is significant. And for answers, we will have to pay, just as for power.
Her sad green eyes met Morrigan's burning golden ones—two coins thrown onto the scales of fate—and Leliana nodded.
— So, it all comes down again to Andraste's greatest gift. To hope.
Rolling her eyes toward the grey heavens, Morrigan couldn't help herself:
— Well then, propose another path—where nothing needs to be sacrificed!
— There is none.
Satisfied, Morrigan nodded, then frowned and cautiously added:
— Perhaps... this is what 'victory' looks like. Well, just in case... I think I should clarify. I can strive to persuade, appeal to reason, justify my point of view. But beyond that, I don't care. Whether you keep your personal opinion, or it is crushed, matters not. You make your choice, I make mine. And therefore, I have no need for victory as such, and I feel nothing from it.
Leliana—now freer, without her earlier caution or that shadow of restraint crossing her face—smiled:
— Your 'apologies'—they are like a rapier thrust to the heart: precise, deadly, and... elegant. Like everything you do. Chérie, there is a certain charm and freshness in that, which makes you who you are.
— Better tend to the deer, preacher. Its blood is real.
* * *
What had begun modestly—a spacious lowland between gentle hills where a stream ran over a stony bed—soon turned harsh. Where the watercourse bent and met the mountain's unyielding spine, grey rock walls began to rise, sometimes dozens of paces high. The brisk, shallow stream, its bed strewn with smooth fist-sized stones, deepened in those places, turning dark and stirring quick, fleeting eddies. The water foamed and gurgled around every boulder jutting above the surface—so it still hadn't frozen. Yet an icy crust already gripped the banks, the quiet backwaters, and the larger rocks. Despite the hardships of the journey, the eye was inevitably drawn to this untouched beauty: a river that, even in winter, never stilled for a moment. They agreed on that—and on something else as well: the trail would have been perfect, if not for the necessity of fording the icy water twice a day to reach the gentler bank, often backtracking over an hour of their own tracks.
The sky granted them a reprieve and cleared; for a brief two days, from dawn to dusk, the travelers were rewarded with a sun that barely warmed them—yet warmed them all the same. Fresh snow bore few tracks of animals, and no sign of human presence. The monotonous roar of the water gave an illusion of safety—as if there were no one in the world but them and this eternal flow. And one day, with bright melancholy in her voice, Leliana began to sing:
Beyond one snowy field—another snowy field,
Immeasurable white meadows;
Everywhere—unavoidable silence,
Snow, snow, snow, snow!
Villages scattered here and there,
Like stains in abysses of whiteness:
Houses crushed by snowdrifts,
Fences invisible beneath the snow.
Forests loom dark in the distance, bare—
A tangled web of branches.
Only the wind dares sing
Its cheerless songs through them, breathing frost.
A path winds, lost in snowdrifts:
Two furrows across the whiteness…
A horse, trotting uncertainly,
Follows barely visible tracks.
But the sleigh has vanished—white as snow—
Swallowed by emptiness;
And again the tranquil plain,
And again—silence forever…
And only crows, a vigilant flock,
Sometimes circle over the void,
While in the evening, in torpid silence,
Burns the orange sunset.
Lemon-orange embers
On the pale-blue sky
Tremble… But swiftly the long shadows
Wrap everything around.
["SNOWY RUSSIA" 1917 – Valery Bryusov (1873 – 1924)]
By the close of the second day, the surrounding terrain had completely shed its softness. Now the river no longer wound through an impressive landscape, but struggled against it, stubbornly carving its way through seemingly eternal rock. Jagged, often perilously fragile walls rose so high one had to crane one's neck to see the top. At times the cliffs parted suddenly, as if tired of their own weight, revealing steep slopes littered with boulders like someone's forgotten dice—and among them, sparse shrubs and felled pines. Picking their way over large stones and scree grew more difficult, but at least they had to search for fords less often. In the mountains' firm grip even the river had less freedom, and over ages it had smoothed the sharpest bends. Sometimes, mid-current, the eye caught fresh evidence of the river's work: a fallen boulder as big as a cottage back in Redcliffe Fort or Lothering, not yet sunk into the living riverbed, lying where it had come down—untouched by the violent spring torrents.
As they pushed on, finding firewood grew harder, but early in the second day's march Morrigan took pains to gather a hefty bundle of kindling and lash it to the mare, threaded through with thin hazel branches. Later, it saved the girls from the dank chill entrenched in the shadowy ravine, which seemed determined to leach warmth even from bone. There was no hunting here at all. Only occasionally did the witch's sharp eyes catch, against the sky, the silhouette of a lone mountain cat, watching the strange phenomenon below with interest.
When, despite the early hour, the ravine filled with shadow and gloom, a hint of open space teased them ahead. Soon the grim walls began to part—reluctantly—revealing the broad basin of an ancient mountain lake, now transformed into a wide valley with gentle slopes, cloaked in fir forest and snow. Leliana walked with her eyes lowered. Her legs burned; her eyelids felt glued shut—the valley's beauty existed somewhere beyond her awareness, like an illustration in a book kept shut. More often than not, it was sheer will that kept the bard on her feet. By evening, little remained of Leliana but a shell—empty, shivering, dull-eyed. She dropped by the fire as if cut down and sank at once into sleep, as if switched off. Morrigan, in contrast, was alert. Her eyes—sharp as a predator's—searched for the pillar, as if their lives depended on it. Crossing the valley would cost them half a day more, and upstream lay only impassable rapids and waterfalls. The landmark soon appeared where it should: to their left. The valley's slopes were brittle and, over time, had yielded—first to water, then to wind and sun and the turning of the seasons. But that pillar—the ancient marker Zibenkek had spoken of—stood alone among the firs. Built of hard slate, it had weathered centuries as if waiting for them. Grey, made up of rounded, knotted forms, it did not look impressive at a distance. Yet it rose twenty paces high and, beside the surrounding trees, would have been imposing up close.
Hoisting her companion—squinting toward the sun hanging above the ridge—Morrigan set off to find a stream feeding into the river. They needed a campsite near water before dark, and then there would be more work if they wanted any comfort. The path onward led southwest, toward a village hidden somewhere in that direction, and caution meant they couldn't risk a free-burning fire. For it was known there was only one deadly predator in the wild that moved toward smoke and flame instead of fleeing them.
When her work was finished in the dark, Morrigan was satisfied. An impressive bonfire, built to yield ample coals and warm the pebbly bank—the sun had cleared it of snow and dried it over the past couple of days. A supply of kindling for the night and morning. Meat roasting patiently. And perhaps the main achievement: a hollow scooped in the pebbles a few steps from the water, which over the past hours had filled to the brim. Her muscles ached; her joints creaked—her body warning her of tomorrow's pain.
Leliana dozed by the fire, so Morrigan herself had to move the heated stones with a forked branch. Each immersion was answered by a hiss and clouds of steam, and the stones rolling to the bottom became covered in bubbles like gooseflesh. After methodically sinking two dozen stones this way, Morrigan was confident she could later shove the pile of coals aside. Then she nudged her companion awake:
— Come on, let's warm up.
Leliana stared, sleep-heavy, her fingers fumbling uncertainly with the clasps. Morrigan, losing patience, stepped closer; the witch's cold fingers made short work of the knots, as if brushing the exposed skin by accident. Each touch raised goosebumps across Leliana's body—nothing to do with the cold air. Their clothes remained by the fire, and their naked bodies, flushed pink from the contrast of cold and warmth, sank slowly into the water. Leliana went rigid, feeling hot tendrils of water curl around her thighs, rising higher with each careful shift, while Morrigan tipped her head back and let droplets roll down her neck, disappearing into the dark water between them. Full immersion was out of the question, but by moving carefully they could sink as far as their shoulders.
Leliana parted her lips and exhaled, almost inaudibly:
— Watch me. I swear, if I'm left unattended for a moment, I'll drift off immediately.
Morrigan only shook her head, skeptical, working the stiffness out of her hands beneath the water. But when she glanced at her companion, already nodding off, the witch allowed herself a brief smirk and said, unhurriedly:
— These past days—have you thought about the reasons and consequences of finding the 'sacred' ashes? Why, in your opinion, were you sent to look for them?
On the verge of oblivion, Leliana's eyes snapped open. She tried to blink away the clinging drowsiness:
— Shouldn't have let my guard down…
Morrigan cut her off with a sharp exclamation:
— Was it not you who asked me to make sure sleep didn't claim you?
— Oh… My mistake. Well… You can teach a bard plenty, but unfortunately you can't—grâce à la providence—scrub the bard out of yourself.
— Is that so?
— Mhm… Speaking of pondering… The surface is clear. The question lies in the nuances. A sister of light might say: the Maker wishes the resting place of his beloved bride to return to his beloved children in this dark hour. You would no doubt object: something wants this place plundered by greed, fear, and envy. And the bard… She would emphasize: it's not that simple. For example. Suppose that, besides the two of us, no one knew where we were headed or why. Even then, it would be extremely difficult for me to keep secret for long a place like this—a place that ought to be shared with all who keep hope in their hearts and the words of the Chant of Light in their minds. It is a common shrine. Thus, word of Andraste's remains will spread beyond these mountains. Mmm… Let's leave motives aside. What are the consequences? Well… In times like these, when many find no answers to troubling questions, pilgrims and hermits will flock here at once. The difficult journey will become a trial, underscoring the importance of the destination. Such a thing will rekindle the religious fervor of the common folk, which has been waning for decades. It will likely become a serious boon for strengthening and consolidating the Chantry's power, from the bottom to the top.
— You really let your mind run, thinking about this impartially. There's another interpretation. Darker. Pilgrims will flock not only to the shrine, but toward the Blight as well—like moths to a bright light—willfully overlooking the obvious out of faith. It is kindling for the Chantry: a motive, a goal, and a pretext to protect fellow believers and the holy site. And then? An invasion of Ferelden and a crusade. Blight or no Blight, it aligns wonderfully with the steps taken by the Seekers. Kinloch, Redcliffe Fort… Ferelden would irrevocably lose the Frostback Mountains. And with them, access to Orzammar. Let's tally: major mines, a key trade route, a supplier of weapons, and a natural border against a dangerous neighbor. The beginning of a long road to the demise of an independent state. And the main thing… It seems that behind the veil stand no fewer than three significant players, and their goals do not entirely align…
Silence thickened between them, almost tangible. Morrigan watched as the mask of sleep slid from Leliana's face, replaced by keen interest—and something else that made her heart quicken. Leliana licked her lips and whispered, pressing her back involuntarily against the warm stone:
— This… — Her voice trembled, but not from the cold. — The Void… — Her hand clenched a boulder at the edge of the stone bowl. — It's so logical, but… So we're just… pawns?
Morrigan ran her hand slowly through the water between them, sending ripples that lapped against Leliana's breasts. Her gaze held on the droplets tracing her friend's collarbones as she agreed:
— Perhaps… only of different sizes.
— You know, I've no objection—yet. This needs thought. I don't want to accept such a thing on faith straight away. And yet… Have you pondered a similar 'reason' yourself?
Instead of answering, Morrigan nodded slowly. Then she lifted her hand from the unpleasantly fast-cooling water into the cold air and said:
— My 'patron,' as far as I can see, is straightforward. Though… might that only be an illusion? Obviously, this task, one way or another, helps strengthen or protect the woven web. Mortals are sustenance to such beings—the more of us, the better. And the war that approaches will be known only for its dead. Perhaps each time a pilgrim offers a prayer to the ashes, they unwittingly become part of a blood ritual. Who knows… What worries me is that these 'plans' touch me somehow. I hope it's only a turn of phrase.
— Strange to hear such thoughts from you. Thoughts with depth—politics, military strategy, consequences for a region and a country…
— From me… That is, from the 'savage from Korkari'?
— Yes.
Morrigan lifted her brows, then smoothed back to neutrality as she replied:
— Well… It isn't stray bits of lore I've picked up that give me away, however faintly. It's how power works. And that certainly interests me.
— Power?
— Of course. Strength, intellect, knowledge—power in its purest form. And it serves you faithfully as long as you feed the beast, unlike so much else. A Seeker moving Templars like pieces on a board. King Cailan—fool though he is—shaping history with a single word. Loghain making an army stir, and now an entire country. The Empress of Orlais, an equal player in a game where we are nothing but dust on the board. I'll say it plainly: I envy them. Even if they, too, are driven like cattle, they are not as helpless—alone before fate—as you and I.
— And the price that comes with power—does that not trouble you?
— There will be payment for every step. Here and now? No, it does not.
Leliana sighed and drifted closer without meaning to. Their knees brushed by chance; neither drew away.
— Freedom… You know… In Lothering I found peace. For a time, at least. A personal refuge. But also—these difficult days on the march, despite the cold and the weariness… For a long time—perhaps never—I've felt both in motion and in balance at once. Like comparing a pond to a river. Whatever happens, I am grateful for this time.
Morrigan snorted—without malice or venom—and parried:
— So that is what you think about all day, slowly putting one foot before the other.
— Well, non, of course not. And you?
— What I think about on the road?
Leliana nodded. The witch trailed her fingertips across the water's surface and answered:
— Almost always about magic. I let nothing else distract me. I concentrate on runic puzzles and on the tasks of the day. I only give my thoughts free rein by the fire. This conversation has been… worthwhile. But… — Morrigan's hand found her companion's thigh beneath the water. — Time to sleep.
* * *
Another morning broke into chores. For firewood, the choice here was between spruce and pine. Spruce was slow to catch, smoked acridly, gave little warmth, and its prickly boughs tore at their hands as they gathered it. Pine, on the other hand, not only gave the necessary heat and caught readily, but it wasn't hard to find a trunk felled a couple of seasons ago, with a crown still good for kindling. Its one flaw: it burned down quickly, leaving only fine coals. So they had to take turns keeping watch, lest the flame die and leave the travelers sleeping nearby at the mercy of the cold. Luckily, both day and night the weather was windless. The new dawn also broke quietly, but overnight the sky had clouded over—heavy with snow.
Leliana woke when Morrigan had already fed the fire, given the mare the last of the oats, and begun her stretches. Watching the witch's fluid movements—demanding coordination, suppleness, and strength—the bard couldn't help comparing them to the mages she'd known. The difference from a typical Circle mage was stark. After washing her face in icy water and warming her hands by the fire, Leliana waited for the "performance" to end before saying:
— For a long time I couldn't put my finger on what felt familiar in your movements. And this morning, the memory surfaced out of nowhere. Antiva. Something in that fluid grace—especially in these morning exercises—recalls the Antivan style of dagger work, even the rapier. Constant motion, a ceaseless flow from one stance to another, like quicksilver—not a single static pose. Rather than chasing lethal lunges the eye can barely follow, it favors an excess of parries and evasions, then strikes from unpredictable angles. An art that assumes survival—and a poisoned blade.
Wiping water from her brow after washing and taking her own place by the fire, Morrigan smiled, narrowing her eyes:
— An interesting observation… What could it mean? Though… from a bard's lips, it sounds flattering. Thank you.
Nodding, Leliana turned her gaze south:
— We part ways today?
— Yes, around midday. You and the mare to the settlement, and I… to the mountains. To the glacier… a day and a half's travel.
No remarks or questions came from the girl, and soon the modest party was on the move again.
If the main river had led them through a gloomy gorge, its tributary now wound through a spacious valley. Perhaps the land itself was older. The slopes had crumbled, grown over with grass, and finally cloaked themselves in thin but tenacious spruces. On the other hand, the forest on both sides did not seem ancient. This suggested that mudslides and avalanches still came down here, however rarely. And that hinted at why no one had ever reached the settlement hidden in the foothills. Morrigan frowned: in all these years, someone should have stumbled upon that place. So something had scared them off… Or they had vanished for reasons unrelated to harsh nature or predators…
Making regular detours to climb the slope and scan the horizon, about three hours into the journey Morrigan spotted ahead a scatter of boulders in random shapes and sizes, as if tossed about by mythical giants. They jutted up here and there, crowned with white caps of powdered snow. None of them fancied weaving between them through fresh snow without a guide. Using the gnarled roots of the spruces as steps, the girls and the mare climbed unhurriedly onto the valley's left ridge, finding themselves on a comfortable plateau. But the expanse, covered with flattened yellow grass and sparse bare shrubs, dotted here and there with white patches, seemed welcoming for travel only at first. Just as the girls found their pace, a piercing icy wind swept in from the left, sometimes carrying stinging spindrift. It was this wind that had kept the snow from settling on the gentle curves of the land until now. Suddenly the valley below seemed far more comfortable by comparison. After some thought, Morrigan kept to the plateau, placing Leliana and the mare on the leeward side as they went.
After several hours crossing the snow-dusted plateau, beyond the next hill appeared what they were looking for—thin threads of smoke rising from behind the ridge of the opposite valley. No clearer proof that the "Refuge" was real was needed. The witch narrowed her eyes, scanning the area for other signs or movement, and murmured softly:
— If we take our time, we can descend here. Then over there, to the left, we can climb safely back up the other slope. Two hours at most, and that settlement will lie before you in all its glory. For you, of all people, there's no need to speak of caution. But still, faith can cloud even your sight—it's easy to be deceived by what we wish for. Stay vigilant.
Leliana nodded, without a trace of a smile:
— Yes…
The red-haired maid fell thoughtful for a moment.
— Since we're trading advice… Don't let your curiosity lead you too far. Agreed?
— All quite reasonable remarks. We shall see what comes of it for both of us. In any case… When I'm done, I'll collect you here myself. It would be troublesome to return without the mare. Although… My intuition suggests someone will be waiting for us on the Highway.
— A Seeker?
— Well… Not in person. But whose will would it be, if not hers? Given the speed of messenger birds, an advance party of mounted Templars from Orlais is quite likely. We'll see…
Leliana let out a short sigh—a whitish puff of steam hung for a moment in the frosty air, as if reluctant to disperse. Surveying the gloomy horizon, the girl said haltingly:
— Then… good luck. And don't freeze.
Without waiting for a reply, the bard moved toward a spot where the mare could descend without balking at a misstep. So she did not see, behind her back, how Morrigan's lips stretched into a predatory grin, and in her eyes flashed that strange golden-red glimmer.
* * *
Alone at last, Morrigan fell deep into thought. Still wary as an animal, she no longer bothered to smooth her hair; the wind tore and twisted it like a crazed lover. These past few days, the witch had indeed not allowed herself to think of anything but the runic puzzles sparked by recent observations, guesses, and inspiration. But now her thoughts circled back to the personal. Around a single admission: power was not the only thing that interested her. Weighing the facts, Morrigan had concluded that certain questions—loaded, even when unspoken—had already surfaced in their talks. Fame. Or rather: a way to leave a mark on others' memories. To rise above others not only literally, but as someone people spoke of.
Examining her own thirst for fame and power honestly, the witch singled out the seething emotion that fed both urges. Envy—of what is crafted, what defies the elements, what proudly carries the legacy of its makers through time and still influences the minds of the living. As she had said once before: envy of the strong, those with the power to bring change in the broadest sense. And the same feeling for those behind the curtain of making—though few know of them, and no one fully understands such beings. Thinking it through, Morrigan added to that the "collection" of interesting personalities around her that Leliana had mentioned more than once: envy of others' knowledge, of talent, or simply… envy of the exceptional—of feelings rare in their purity and constancy.
The wind probed beneath her clothes with icy fingers, but Morrigan paid it no mind. Fame, power, envy—three peaks, three walls of her new prison. And the most terrible thing: somewhere deep down, she had begun to find a peculiar beauty in it. Like the pattern of a web that has caught a fly. Wasn't it ironic? This knowledge was liberating—now she understood the motives behind her decisions. What remained unclear was how those passions had mingled within her, how they had acquired such unprecedented edge; what was her own, and what had come from without. Had the dream of more always lived close by, quietly tucked away in the depths—beside the immediate, beside the thirst for knowledge, beside the careless study of the world and of herself; then beside the pursuit of freedom without understanding the cost; and finally… beside resentment?…
Morrigan clung with all her strength to the crumbs of her former "self," like a drowning man clutching at a straw. But now only stubbornness stood guard, for even logic whispered softly to her: let go. Morrigan had already accepted the changes that had taken place. Whatever new things came from that inexplicable void, the witch had no known ways left to defend herself. So she had to begin learning to live with it. If you can't beat it, join it. Ride it, if you mean to tame it. And the very last thing—to deny the obvious out of mindless spite. The worst of it was that somewhere deep in her soul, she herself saw these concessions as cowardice—flight from herself. And it was terribly hard to find balance when faint echoes of emotion did not fight one another, but simply coexisted.
And yet Morrigan could now say more about the purpose of her journey. Her talks with her companion about power did not cancel the selfish desire lurking in the shadow of rational plans. News of the "defilement" of sacred remains—wasn't that the perfect way to write one's name into history? Such tidings spread faster than the plague. Well—wasn't that fame? The witch also understood her further path. Step by step. Morrigan admitted it would be foolish to wish to climb where beings like Zibenkek dwelled. Certainly not now… But here, among the flesh-clad, there were still peaks worth wanting.
Thus the day ended quietly. Morrigan had to hurry to find shelter for the night, for she could no longer light a fire in the open. She could easily imagine watchful foreign eyes: not keen enough to pick out a lone figure on foot in the distance by day—yet how could they miss a flame in the darkness at night? Leliana needed, for as long as possible, to remain the only traveler who had reached the "Refuge" openly.
* * *
The next day, the witch was sullen, forcing her stiff body through stretches and struggling to shake off the clinging remnants of a fitful sleep. It was as if Leliana had taken all the light of the journey with her, leaving her companion only gloom. Nevertheless, necessity set her two hard tasks. First: make the most of time itself and push on at a punishing pace. It was foolish to expect the terrain ahead to remain fit for a stroll, or to think she could keep her former speed. Second: provisions. By midday at the latest, Morrigan needed to find something to eat at the next halt. She didn't want to reach the glacier on buckling legs. And hunting in unfamiliar ground—where sudden changes in elevation kept wrong-footing her—seemed risky and unpromising. All day she'd seen nothing bigger than squirrels and hares, and those, even at a distance, bolted and vanished behind the trees. A clear hint of the constant presence of other two-legged predators in these parts.
An hour into the climb up a hillside that seemed to mock her stubbornness, she suddenly remembered something amusing—her own caustic joke about hunting from that recent conversation with Leliana. Now, with undisguised spite toward herself, Morrigan admitted the idea hadn't been bad. It had simply come at the wrong time. On the next descent into another spruce grove, the girl, without a second thought, drew cold iron across her left palm and, clenching her fist, began to mark her path with occasional crimson drops on the snow. Brushing the spruce trunks with the edge of her hand, she scored them like a wounded beast. With each step, the "net" she'd cast widened as the scent of blood spread through the cold. By spite or by luck, the wind had died by then, and the scent lingered, settling into every hollow. With a light frost and a gentle snowfall, the air held its moisture—there was a chance the predatory cats would pick up her trail two or three hundred paces behind.
Three hours later, the sheer rock wall ahead looming larger by the minute, Morrigan was already growing concerned about her numb hand when the situation finally shifted. If anyone had asked, the huntress couldn't have explained what kind of tingling at the nape of her neck warned her of the uninvited guest. But a childhood in the woods had taught the witch to trust the instinct that spoke of a stalking predator—more often than not, it was right. She stopped two paces from the first spruce—like the others, impossible to approach closely without being scratched by its protruding branches—and waited. Frowning, she stood motionless, barely breathing. A lone predator would have been difficult to spot anyway, even in a bare deciduous forest; such a creature knew how to remain a ghost until the last moment, so the witch didn't even try. She frowned because the moment brought back, sharply, the fear she no longer had—the fear that had served her so well in childhood, and now proved useless. For one should fear the claws and fangs of a large cat.
A low growl reached her ears an instant before the blow that knocked the wind from her. You can prepare all you like, but when spindrift bursts into your face, your breath catches, and a living mountain of muscle and claws comes crashing down—for a moment you're utterly lost. Morrigan curled up at once, covering her face and throat as best she could, then gathered her thoughts into a single fist. All of it—in the few beats of her accelerating heart… A lynx's claws might not impress from afar, but they could slash through clothing and then into tender human flesh. Its fanged jaw could break thin bones or tear tendons and vessels. Fortunately, this time, magic didn't fail her. A barely perceptible connection sprang up between the lynx and the girl. Now Morrigan only had to fear a killing bite at her throat—or serious damage to the warm clothes she couldn't easily replace.
She drove her left fist into the cat's maw—and it clamped down with a sickening crunch, fangs sawing at her wrist—then drew her dagger with her right. Without pause, methodical strikes flashed toward the predator's belly, where bone didn't hinder metal from reaching the organs to the hilt. After seven minutes of resistance rapidly draining away, she shoved the barely breathing cat aside and irritably inspected her soiled boots, trousers, and outerwear. In the cold, the blood was already congealing, stealing precious warmth as it did. The spell pitilessly completed its work—sucking the last drops of life from the dying lynx while sealing the scratches on Morrigan's body. To an ordinary person, the plan would have looked like pure madness. But Morrigan only smirked: meat was secured, and a torn sleeve was a small price for a successful hunt. Magic had brought her back to fighting shape, but it couldn't fill her stomach.
Every drop of blood that fell on the snow drew a pattern that almost resembled runes. The irony didn't escape her—here was true magic: not intricate formulas, but simple animal fury, forcing her to grip a dagger even as her fingers went numb with pain. There was a twisted sense to it: to survive, one had to become a beast, if only a little.
Unfortunately, the dirty work now lay ahead, and fire was unavoidable. She might have risked eating a few lake fish raw; the meat of a forest predator, though, would tempt her only if she were at death's door. The risk of contracting some contagion the carcass had picked up from its victims, season after season, was far too great. Brushing herself off and trying to scrub away the blood with snow, she pondered the spell that today—again—had secured victory. Perhaps it was the first time her thoughts had taken this course. A reliable, unfailing tool—like nothing else—suited the southern witch, almost devoid of fear and so tolerant of pain. Of course, Morrigan's mind, in its habitual way, sifted through facts, arguments, questions; but what sparked her interest wasn't the strangeness of the "fortunate coincidence." It was the principles by which the spell worked…
The more the witch examined her magic from this angle, the more surprised she grew. Yes, she could pick apart the trick that chose the spell's target, or the cleverness that made the magic—almost alive—stretch like a ribbon toward the victim. Such an internal monologue would have made a neat demonstration of how combining disparate runes widened what she understood of their meanings. With enough diligence and time, she might even have built from scratch a spell to detect a living target nearby, modest in size—say, larger than a cat. It would have been trickier to add runes that kept the target from slipping away once it moved. And the real difficulties began where she had to decide how to draw life-force from the victim, and how much was needed to heal the caster precisely. For all her confidence, she hadn't fully grasped how complex that was. Now she couldn't even guess how many runes such a spell would require—certainly many times more than the portion that still remained largely opaque to her. And so an ironic question surfaced: how did this magic actually work? And yet Flemeth had taught her strict discipline—three clean layers, and not a trace of those "demonic," tangled connections that multiplied a spell's depth beyond reasonable limits. As Leliana might say: nowhere to hide anything.
Lastly, one simple question rose, slow and stubborn, from the depths: why had her curiosity latched onto this precisely now? Was the moment special? Frowning, Morrigan admitted the reason surely lay not in her own insight or knowledge. The push had come from chance remarks—those poisonous seeds of doubt the Pride and Zibenkek had sown so skillfully in her mind. Both entities had spoken of her magic in strangely pointed terms.
Morrigan released a puff of steam into the frosty air and shook her head sharply. Not the time for philosophical musings. She had work to do—before loneliness invited a new guest…
* * *
Another ice-cold night alone, without a fire, undid everything Morrigan had won in the fight with the lynx—her vigor, her strength, her alertness, her warmth. Wincing, she lifted her eyes to the heavy clouds that had swallowed the mountains to the west overnight. For hours in the night just past, the grey sky had spat snow from its cold belly, wiping away the lone witch's tracks and the bloody marks of yesterday's brief skirmish.
Less than an hour into her march, the forest around her thinned, and then Morrigan found herself at the treeline. Ahead lay only twisted, scrawny fingers of shrubs—barely waist-high—scattered sparsely across the slopes. The landscape was striking in its whiteness. Fresh snow had smoothed away the roughness, the imperfections, leaving only clean lines rising inexorably toward the misty haze of the sky. Pausing a moment to draw a series of deep breaths, Morrigan suddenly imagined herself beyond the Veil again, staring into a seething abyss. But the illusion dissolved: the clouds hung so low she could have reached out and brushed their damp shroud with her fingertips. Gritting her teeth and pushing through leaden fatigue, she forced herself to take the next step upward.
Closer to noon, she climbed yet another ridge and dropped to one knee at once. The wind had scoured the snow thin; it barely covered the scatter of stones and rubble, and sinking into it was easy. Rising again, she suspected, would not be. Ahead unfolded a breathtaking expanse. Even in such weather, she could have stared at it for hours, finding fresh details again and again. For instance… the edge of a giant glacier, creeping down into the valley between the mountain spurs to the southwest. It resembled a river frozen in mid-fury, poised to plunge at any second. And the farther her gaze traveled—sliding along the bed the ice had carved into eternal rock—the harder it became to judge the scene's true scale. The blanket of cloud hiding the surrounding peaks only confused the eye. Below and ahead lay a valley made entirely of fist-sized fragments dusted with snow, thinly ribboned by a thread of a stream, barely alive, caught in fresh ice. Not far off to the left, tight against the twisted, ice-sheathed shards of a shattered tor, a miniature lake of meltwater shone with an unforgettable milky-turquoise hue.
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Its surface had only recently been calm; new ice had sealed it, but a block as big as a mare—fallen not long ago—had smashed through, instantly feeding the watercourse that began there.
On the far side, when she looked west, the opposite slope rose—and soon ended in a sheer rock wall. There, in a narrow strip between snow and fog, an entrance had been carved into the monolith. A Temple? No. Morrigan flatly refused to call the place something so pompous. Yet the characteristic columns in bas-relief, the deliberately massive, old-fashioned ornamentation—it all hinted… The witch herself did not know why this composition, lost amid ice and stone, felt vaguely familiar. Not as a whole, but in certain features. Her gaze, as if drawn along a taut string, slid over the wind-smoothed curves of the rock, relentlessly stirring a strange, undefined echo within. Soon her keen sight picked out, in the single entrance's black maw, the faint curve of a human form. But it was far easier to be deceived at such a distance than to see the truth. Squinting, Morrigan strained her tired eyes, trying to separate imagination from reality.
Suddenly—a sharp crunch of snow behind her—and the next instant, icy grit dug into her face… A heartbeat, and the world went under—swallowed without a trace by a dark tide of oblivion…
* * *
A headache tormented Morrigan. With sickening clarity she felt her skull splitting. And yet the pain came in waves, crashing in again and again, only to break short each time at her feet, never quite reaching her boots. For all the strangeness of the witch's own flesh, this was no illusion: it truly muddied her thoughts and made it hard to focus.
Cracking her eyes open, she found herself in a modest room—carved straight from the rock, by the look of the walls. Her arms were stretched wide by ropes tied to ring-bolts set into wooden plugs. Her muscles ached; her joints felt aflame. The ropes bit into her wrists, and the dead weight of her slack body only worsened it. The smooth stone behind her leeched heat from the bare skin at the small of her back, though her clothing from the waist down had been left untouched. Her hair, tangled and loose, fell every which way, even across her face, making it hard to take in the room. But compared with the nausea that rose at the slightest shift of her head—or even of her eyes—those were trifles. Her right breast throbbed: five livid fingerprints stood out against her pale skin. Someone had handled her like property—squeezing, testing.
Opposite her stood three figures. To the left, in the far corner, squatted a bald, middle-aged man with weathered skin browned by the high country, a thick dark beard, and heavy hide-and-fur clothing. A quiver and a worn bow rested against the wall beside him. Apart from the others, leaning back against the rock, stood a woman in a heavy robe trimmed with fur, the hood thrown back. From what Morrigan could see of her face, she could not have seen more than thirty winters; and she had not been born to these lands—her skin was sun-warmed gold, the kind of tan you saw in those born far to the north. The massive carved staff she gripped in both hands left no doubt about her talent. In the centre, near a portable brazier whose flames licked greedily at the coals and threw light and heat, stood the most interesting of the three: a broad-shouldered, solidly built warrior with close-cropped dark hair on head and jaw. His hard grey gaze held nothing but restrained curiosity. Mail hung over a gambeson, as if he were ready to march straight into battle, and the heavy axe at his hip completed the picture.
Morrigan couldn't quite stop her mouth from twisting into a crooked smile, made lopsided by lips that trembled despite her. These people hardly belonged to some village lost in the mountains for decades and, according to the Seeker, sunk into the stagnation of brutal isolation. The metal showed no rust; the clothing was not all hide and fur, but fresh-woven cloth… and a mage besides.
The armoured warrior spoke in a hoarse voice—the voice of a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed:
— The highlands guard this place from fools better than any barrier we pitiful mortals could raise. Only those who have prayed enough beneath Andraste's hand, in her light, are freed from the shackles that settle on body and mind. So. Who are you? Why did you try to creep up on the Temple? A seeker of faith would have come openly. Only an enemy comes in secret—fear of retribution sits heavy on their shoulders.
— What a… pompous… opening. Morrigan forced the words through clenched teeth. — A devout warrior… a mage in service… an interesting company.
The man in the corner tensed, jaw working, but a single motion of the mailed gauntlet was enough to check him.
— A sharp eye. A sharp tongue. But you'll need a reason to talk.
Another gesture—and the hunter sprang up, giving Morrigan a vicious, gap-toothed grin. He snatched a short poker from the brazier—one she hadn't noticed—and crossed the space in two strides. Morrigan caught the narrowed eyes, the blown pupils, the quickened breath. Whatever "light" he walked in, it was not one she recognised.
The red-hot metal neared her breast. Her skin pebbled; cold fear cinched her body tight. In the room only two gazes clung to the heated tool—one full of hungry cruelty, the other cold with analysis. One gleamed with malice. The other, catching the gold of the fire, stared at the rough casting along the poker and the dwarven mark near the handle, almost lost under soot. A hiss. The air filled with the nauseating reek of scorched skin—cloying-sweet, with a metallic edge that made her stomach knot. Instinct tried to wrench her body away; the ropes only cut deeper.
Breathing out, slow and uneven, Morrigan lifted her head and looked up from under her brows into her tormentor's eyes. He hesitated, frown creasing with uncertainty. She tried to spit at the bastard's feet. It came out poorly—her lips shook, her body trembled, and much of it slid down her chin. Finally her dark-gold gaze found the warrior's grey, ice-calm eyes behind him, arms still crossed. The armoured man gave a brief nod and said:
— Well now. That commands respect. Or else it's pride. Any will breaks, like any body. In your case, the latter will give way before the former. Be that as it may, Andraste's light reaches every soul—her flame has only just touched this mortal flesh. You see: silence, unlike words, can't lie. Let us assume you have something to hide—something dearer to you than pain. Hmm. Your speech might tell me what tribe you come from, what land raised you… and yet I don't recognise the accent. Once you start talking, it's hard to stop, isn't it? You came alone?
Morrigan ignored the questions and looked at the woman with the staff instead—measuring what magic she might know. A thought flashed, unwanted but sharp: the Chantry had hammered the image of a mage so deep into everyone's skull—a robe, often a staff—that even renegades and maleficars dressed to the pattern without thinking. Meanwhile others in the Chantry's service, equally gifted, could pass unnoticed with a little care. As, by some stroke of luck, Morrigan herself had done—until now.
The hunter with the poker ran out of patience first. Even cooling, the metal still raised a livid stripe from ribs to navel across her sweat-sheened skin.
The unknown mage by the wall flinched under Morrigan's fogged stare and looked away. She took no pleasure in this. She endured—waiting for it to end.
Morrigan licked lips gone dry as dust and rasped:
— What an… interesting… company.
A hoarse chuckle scraped out of her.
— A sadist… a fanatic… and their squeamish accomplice. The first takes his pleasure. The second would do anything, because he thinks it makes him righteous. The third just… endures.
She turned her gaze back to the one who held authority and coughed wetly into the silence:
— So this flame—did Andraste herself stoke it for torture? I didn't expect such… practicality from a "saint."
The armoured figure's reply snapped like a lash:
— It is not for your mind to grasp the strength and greatness of the saint who overcame death and returned to her true followers in new splendour. We guarded the final refuge. Now she guards us. But this is empty talk and a waste of time. Hundo—send a couple of men to the Refuge. Tell them we have a guest and get news. And make sure they're quiet. We weren't supposed to… In short: tell them to use their heads.
The bald, bearded man nodded, returned the poker to the brazier, and Morrigan cursed inwardly. She would have liked longer to study them. The hunter seemed simple enough; the woman with the staff and the man in mail could hide any kind of rot.
She squeezed her eyes shut, dragged in a breath, and forced out a low incantation:
— Tua vita mea est!
The mage's staff struck stone a word too late. The familiar connection between victim and source dulled the sharpest edge of pain at once—only for Morrigan's muscles to turn to stone in the same instant. Barely breathing, heart labouring, she understood. Paralysis.
As the warrior lunged towards the woman—now gasping, staff slipping from her hands—the hunter had already jumped to block the prisoner. Ignoring a barked order from behind, he drew a long narrow knife in one smooth motion. The staff hit the floor as the blade flashed—opening Morrigan's throat.
Hot blood spilled across her chest. She met the killer's eyes. Despite the pain a mad smile quivered at her mouth—but the paralysis locked her face, kept her teeth hidden. He shifted his grip to finish it—
— "Hundo!"
The command tore through the chamber. The hunter's head snapped towards the warrior, who was lowering the woman to the floor.
That heartbeat was enough. The witch crucified against the wall found her voice and rasped, like a wounded animal:
— Nigrum putredo quae devorat animam!
The deadliest magic often comes without spectacle. No thunder, no flash—only the sudden, silent "stab" of rot. The hunter never even had time to be afraid. His flesh blackened; something inside him collapsed into ash. Before the armoured warrior could turn, Hundo was dead. His knife clattered to stone; his body folded face-first, as if cut down.
Even watching an ally disintegrate did not wring a cry from the warrior. Only his eyelids twitched—as if what lay broken was not a man but a cracked jug. His gaze locked on the dark gold gleaming through strands of black hair stuck to Morrigan's face. The smallest tell—a tremor at the lid—was enough for Morrigan to know he was weighing odds.
Her tongue felt thick; drool threatened at the corner of her mouth. Coherent speech was beyond her. So he spoke first:
— So. A witch. A maleficar. His voice was flat, as if he were stating the weather. — You are outnumbered.
Morrigan's eyes flicked to the exit: a black, demon-maw opening in the wall. No light. No sound. Only darkness, ready to swallow whatever hope remained. She looked back at him and tried—absurdly—to lift a brow.
The lack of doors, the absence of immediate footsteps, the way the noise hadn't drawn others: his allies were far off. The halls carved through the rock were not crowded.
He caught her glance and frowned, choosing his words with care:
— Maybe. But no one leaves here alive.
She felt the foreign magic beginning to loosen. Morrigan shifted her shoulders by a hair—enough to test, not enough to announce. A paralysis curse was vile: a tactician's delight, a finisher's tool. But Morrigan had lived most of her life relying on herself. And in the wilds, the best magic was the kind that did more than one job—or killed cleanly in a single stroke, without bleeding the caster dry.
Working her jaw, testing that her tongue would obey, she said:
— When only foxes are left in the forest, they like to pass for wolves. Pity their tails give them away. If you ask me, you're the one hiding. So no one sees the blood on your hands. That's why the "interrogation" happens out of sight… and the execution. First neglect and cruelty. Then the tidy choice: death or death. If you wanted the speech to land, you should have started softer—for contrast. But as you said yourself… what else is there to practise on here?
— What's your point? he said.
— Perhaps you're right. Will you risk it—your life? No witnesses. No glory. No pressure. Unless faith and conviction really mean what you claim.
Her gaze slid past him, then back again—measuring.
— Or maybe it's something else. Just a guess. That hunter—was he the one who caught me? Oh. Your face answers. His life meant little to you. But the mage… when you had the chance, you made sure she didn't crack her skull on the stones. Seems the loss of the northerner weighs heavier. Strange, isn't it? For a fanatically faithful outcast—assuming that's what you wanted me to think you are.
— No. You are no ordinary spy.
— Noticed, did you? Only you three knew about my capture, yes? You, him, and her. Two dead. One alive.
His jaw worked; a questioning lift of brow—almost despite him.
Morrigan went on:
— Splendid. And tell me—do you still need a mage? Or is there a replacement? Around here, you'd think you could spit and hit one.
At first he gave her nothing—stone-faced. Then he drew a slow breath, as if deciding something heavy:
— Easy to boast. Now try burning me alive without moving your lips.
— Wait… I'm meant to compete with a corpse?
He didn't answer.
Morrigan shook her head, letting sarcasm edge the words:
— This is getting tedious. Let's end it.
— Wait.
Her mouth curved—just enough to pull a flicker of irritation from him.
— There we are. So it isn't your own life you value most at this moment, but a mage. Why? What bargain did you strike? A witch from the north… and not a nearby north. Skin bronze, not coal-black. Tevinter. Did the snake-lovers sniff this place out before the Orlesian Chantry? It makes my head spin. Tevinter…
She spoke faster now, riding the thread of inference.
— Mother told me the road to Magister is long, thorny, dangerous. They flaunt what they've bled to earn—and only for real profit would they hide their rank. Even then they don't travel without an entourage. And if she were a Magister, I'd already be dead. So: an ordinary mage. A tool. But a free mage from that far north wouldn't come to the wild south for nothing. Power? Looking for it here is foolish—these days you go to Denerim for that. Knowledge? I doubt it. Power again… Tevinter's favourite itch: dragons. And there's at least one here. Or two. Funny coincidence.
His brows lifted a fraction. He couldn't quite hide it.
Instantly his face hardened.
— You know too much.
Morrigan tilted her head.
— Is that possible? Time and again I find I know next to nothing. Though perhaps, from where you stand, I look wise. Everyone keeps repeating that this, above all, is Andraste's final refuge. There's your second reason for Tevinter interest. So now I only have to guess yours. What hunger drives someone like you into an alliance like this?
Something pinched in him: breath catching, fingers clenching in the gloves, the rings of mail creaking with tension. He said nothing—waiting, stubbornly, for the moment he could kill her.
So Morrigan danced on with words:
— All this talk of a "returned saint"… it's meant to confuse. But you're talking about a dragon. Let's start there. Is the fate of a humble guardian not enough? What are you missing? The ashes. Did someone, long ago, make sure the relic stayed unreachable even to the faithful—cursed as they are by fickle human nature? Did I guess right?
— Your words are a poisoned stiletto. First: I think you want to touch the relic too—like the others. As if an urn in a children's tale grants wishes to fools. Second: nothing you've said solves the problem of trust.
— Like the others… Interesting. Trust? Doubtful. When you brought a northern witch into your circle, did you preach trust then? Or did you swallow your bitterness in silence, for what she might buy you?
Morrigan rolled her shoulders as far as the ropes allowed and pressed on:
— Fine. Before, oblivion protected you. But that northerner—she's an arrow shot into the dark. The archer won't forget where it flew. Me—I'm the spearpoint. In a few weeks, an army of the Chantry will march along the Highway below. And believe me, they won't leave a place like this alone, no matter how loudly you complain about the "faithless." Maybe you'll be lucky. What that northerner was good at, I don't know. But as it happens, I've learned a few things myself: climbing into sealed places… and crawling back out of traps that should be impossible.
The warrior looked at her as if she were meat. The pause told her he was wavering.
Then he said, low:
— You cunning bitch.
Quieter, and sharper for it:
— No one has ever made me want to shut a mouth so badly. When you let your tongue run free, the words almost sound like truth. And yet you don't slacken your attention for a moment. Like an experienced hunter. Trust…
Morrigan laughed—sharp, near-hysterical, like a demon unchained. When it passed, she said:
— Wait. Were you about to call it a "double-edged blade"?
He clenched his jaw and didn't answer.
— I see where you're going. Why wouldn't I put a knife in your back first, expecting yours—especially knowing the number of enemies is about to multiply? It's the same arithmetic. All we can do is make sure that if betrayal comes, our losses are small… and the other's are ruinous.
She licked her lips, tasting blood and dust.
— Go on. Make up a story. How you "heroically" escaped—and I "treacherously" fled. Make it believable. I'll wait here.
His mouth twisted, hiding displeasure behind a grimace. Then he took one careful step back, then another—ready to lunge, or to turn and run.
Morrigan could have risked it. She chose not to. Let him go. Let him poison his own people.
When the darkness swallowed him and the creak of armour faded, she realised her lungs were burning. She hadn't breathed properly in what felt like an age.
Her gaze slid to the bodies—one blackened from within, the other glassy-eyed—and she smiled, wry and thin.
— Well then…
She cast one last regretful look at the trousers still on her and turned to the magic of transformation.
Flesh boiled at the command of a spell she didn't fully know. Bones crunched and shifted; skin burned as if plunged into boiling water. But the pain was familiar now—like an old enemy whose blows you could predict. Whether it was habit, or deliberate blindness, she couldn't have said.
Even as her body twisted, Morrigan asked herself—honestly—why she had lunged so fast from waiting into conflict.
Leliana.
The name flared in her mind like a hot needle. The answer took no time: she didn't want to face any future where she lost her companion—or where that companion became a tool in an enemy's hands. And yet, by the end, she had let the warrior walk away, judging the risk to herself greater than Leliana's safety.
That chain—emotion into cold calculation—unsettled her. Fear? Fear of becoming what she despised? Fear that attachment might one day drag her to an edge… or that ruthless logic might turn her into a monster?
She shook her now hairless head. Even if that ill-fated messenger had left an hour ago, he wouldn't reach the Refuge before a day had passed. Simple arithmetic gave her a window for business in this mountain "temple."
With her second pair of hands she shredded the bindings easily. She slipped out of what remained of her clothing—hanging limp on the warped form—like a serpent shedding skin, then reversed the transformation at once. Familiar flesh and familiar magic mattered more than a twisted shape.
The moment she was herself again, she moved—no time wasted—towards the dead northerner. Her hands worked fast, shifting the body, not yet cold. She laid the clothes beside it. Silver trinkets clinked on stone—unworthy of a glance. Two lyrium potions, a pair of stilettos, a staff: she set them before her. Five swift minutes later, a new "northerner" stood in the chamber—an exact copy down to the smallest fold of cloth and the curve of a wrist. Paler than the original, yes, but the hood would show little more than the lower half of the face, and Morrigan matched the posture with meticulous care.
A dozen steps down the corridor, the passage turned right, and a pale light—almost like daylight—glimmered ahead. Each step through the dark tightened the cold's grip until even Morrigan felt grateful for the northerner's thick, warm clothing. Not even the open night had bitten like this. Stone walls drank warmth; dampness clung to the air. A vile combination. One brief look back made her wonder how many more such stone sacks—lightless, airless as crypts—the dead builders had strung along this route.
The exit opened into a colossal hall. By the ceiling's contours it had once been a natural cavern. To the right, a couple of dozen metres away—and a good twice her height below—yawned the tall opening of the sole entrance. So that was the "Chantry's" outer wall. A stern rectangular arch and four cleverly hidden light-shafts in the rock above flooded the space with daylight.
The hall rose in tiers and stretched left for about forty paces, ending above Morrigan's level at a pair of heavy doors, green with age—pure copper, or a copper-rich alloy. They stood ajar, just wide enough for one person to slip through. Underfoot, a marble mosaic that had once depicted a woman's face lay buried beneath layers of dirt and ice, as if history itself mocked the futility of human effort. A glaze of ice, glass-bright, covered everything except the winding, well-trodden paths. As Morrigan had noticed outside, clouds often sank to the entrance; wet air streamed in, warmer than the air flowing out and down into the valley with the glacial stream. Season after season, that moisture froze here.
From the width of the paths it was easy to guess: the most-used rooms lay beyond the corridor opposite. Admiring dead architecture was pointless. She needed to act.
Stealth or deception? Morrigan chose terror and chaos.
Crossing the empty open space, she caught flickers of living flame ahead—and the clank of hurried metal steps from the dark mouth of the corridor. Risk and luck, knotted together.
She recalled the formula, thrust her staff-bearing hand forward as the dead northerner would have, struck the butt on stone, and chanted loud—Tevene accent clear:
— Somnia dirae tenebrae, animum furentem.
From the staff poured darkness—alive, venomous—spreading like ink through water, swallowing space so fast and soaking into stone so thoroughly you could doubt it had ever been there. A chorus of panicked sound burst back: bodies in a tight place, stumbling, shouting. One or more torches fell—judging by the sudden glimmers on the walls—and fed the chaos.
Morrigan gave herself one heartbeat to consider the alternatives—then spun and ran for the metal doors. She had barely climbed two of the three tiers when someone burst from the terror-shrouded corridor behind her, cursing loud enough to shake the air. A pause followed—quiet with astonishment. Her masquerade had worked.
Footsteps answered from the left corridor on the upper tier. Four people ran out, warm clothes cut to one pattern and dyed dark burgundy—temple servants, perhaps. Short spears with honed, broad blades made them dangerous.
On instinct Morrigan slammed the staff down again, voice ringing like steel on stone:
— Somnia dirae tenebrae, animum furentem.
The men fled, faces transformed by fear, shouting hoarsely. Morrigan snatched a lyrium draught from her belt. Nausea crawled up her throat; dizziness threatened to pitch her from the ledge. She needed mana—now.
Chainmail clattered behind her: the familiar tread. Without looking back she flung the empty vial aside and ran again. From the left came new shouts—alarm and threat. The spearmen, in their panic, had burst into what they thought the safest room and stirred their comrades. Far behind, voices tangled; feet spilled into the hall; echoes multiplied. But the pursuer's tread remained steady and singular.
Morrigan pressed her staff close and slipped through the narrow gap between the copper doors. Inside, she turned and saw hinges as thick as her arm, glistening with oil in the lamplight. Dark streaks ran down the stone from each. She dropped the staff, seized the handle, braced her feet, and hauled the door shut.
Thanks to its makers, it moved almost silently. The leaf slid home into its groove. When it seated, the metal gave a low hum that muffled the chaos outside.
Morrigan jammed the northerner's staff between the handles—buying time.
Behind her yawned a staircase: four steep flights climbing up like a goat-track. No second door here; that meant another room would connect elsewhere. She couldn't afford to feel safe.
Gasping, heart hammering, she tore up the steps. Thin mountain air burned her lungs, as if she were that weak little girl again, winded by her first spell. The smallest effort turned swiftly into fatigue; she wanted to stop, to sit, to breathe. If her rhythm slipped, her head went heavy and a lump rose in her throat, forcing a cough. She climbed on stubbornness more than strength.
At the top she slumped against the wall with a groan, blinking hard against the dark spots in her vision. Her heart battered her ribs like a trapped bird. As she'd guessed, the stairways met in a single room—furnished plainly, utilitarian compared with the great hall. Worn stone slabs; severe lines; no adornment. Oil lamps gave a greasy light that barely tore the space from darkness. The air reeked of burning oil and damp stone—and beneath it, the unmistakable notes of a barn: rotting hay and manure.
Morrigan pushed off the cold wall and forced her legs to move. Beyond the only exit lay not a built corridor but a natural passage sinking into gloom. The only sign of workmanship was the stone floor—and the clearest mark of time was a groove worn into it by countless feet.
The next cavern explained the smell. Rings driven into the walls tethered a small herd of sheep, filthy and dull-eyed, huddled under a lone lamp. They barely reacted to her. Old hay lay in heaps; the place was tended, but carelessly. Why keep them here? Dragon fodder? Sacrifice? The thought slid through her mind and vanished. Not now. Though she knew exactly how she might use them.
She drew a stiletto and freed part of the flock. Then she took position near the passage leading deeper and drove the blade into the haunch of the nearest sheep, sending it bolting towards the stairways with a desperate bleat. As if on cue the herd stirred from its stupor. Still, it took another prod—then another—before the sheep surged together, bleating and shoving for the exit. Morrigan reasoned cynically: with luck, one of them might knock over a lamp. Fire would mean chaos. She loosed the remaining sheep in the opposite direction as well.
She didn't hurry after them, moving through near-total darkness at a steady clip…
So when the bleating cut off abruptly around a bend, she stopped dead.
Her brows shot up. She listened—nothing. Then, with utmost caution, she edged forward.
The next cavern came into view, lit as poorly as the "barn," and Morrigan froze again. On the stones lay blood spatter—still bright, as if it had only just burst from a cut throat. No bodies. No wool. Only droplets leading the eye into darkness.
Something had taken the sheep—killing with frightening strength, speed, and precision.
A curse shaped itself silently on her lips. Decoy sheep? Now she was prey. Stupid. Very stupid.
And at that moment, distant footsteps sounded behind her—the clank of metal, slow and sure. The pursuer was in no hurry, as if he knew exactly what waited for her ahead.
For a heartbeat Morrigan squeezed her eyes shut and turned, facing the one who likely thought himself master here. Better the known enemy than the unknown maw ahead.
But instinct warned her: the armoured warrior was no simple fanatic. Meeting him head-on would be a mistake.
Between hammer and anvil, there was no clean choice—only risk and calculation.
She looked up. These caverns had likely been carved by water—an old meltstream forcing an exit through weak rock into the glacial valley. Once the first trickle found its way, it had worn the stone down without mercy. Hence the smooth curves of the passages, and the sudden height of the ceilings—uneven, sometimes dropping low, sometimes vanishing into black.
Gathering what little strength she had, Morrigan braced hands and feet against the narrow walls and began to climb—fast, quiet, without fuss.
Breathing rough, grunting, skin and nails tearing, she managed four times her height when an armoured figure appeared below, moving slowly with an axe in his right hand. Two men followed—almost silent—wearing the same burgundy cut as the spearmen. But these carried bows; arrows already nocked; quivers swaying at their hips.
The archer to the left spoke low, hoarse, to the warrior:
— Was it the witch's doing?
He tested the bowstring and added:
— The Reverend Father was right to condemn—
The warrior stopped. The others froze with him.
Without turning, eyes fixed ahead, he spoke in clipped phrases—voice cold enough to freeze blood:
— You rush like a hare into a wolf's mouth. On that point… I have doubts. While chaos reigns behind us, there's been no time to check the cell where I left a woman lifeless. It may be the "witch" is in league with the prisoner. Or that the prisoner herself—so conveniently caught—is the enemy. Either way, we face something worse than a snake that crawls under your clothes for warmth at a campsite. And as for the Reverend—keep it to yourself. He is wise, but age and origin narrow the mind. The world changes. After dwarves nosing out the old descents to the Deep Roads under these roots, and the night visitors from… the Charter… it's foolish to think life won't shift. Pull yourselves together. Ahead are the caverns of Andraste's young scions. Younglings, yes—but still more dangerous than any of you. I assume our lady has already dealt with the witch, whoever she is, by scent alone.
The two men nodded at once, and the trio moved on at a measured pace. Soon they vanished around a bend.
Morrigan let herself drop back down—no grace, only relief. Hands and legs trembled. The urge to lie down was almost irresistible.
She frowned. She had never faced young dragons—nor full-grown ones. In her mother's talk, wild flying lizards had been mentioned only in passing. But there's a first time for everything.
She forced herself to move. Every step cost her: legs shaking, temples throbbing. But stopping meant dying.
Pressing to the wall like a shadow, she followed the men and soon reached the mouth of the cavern where the sheep had vanished. At the threshold there was no sign of anyone. No stray shadow. No foreign sound.
She shifted the stiletto to her left and took a reverse grip, then leaned out—eyes sweeping the space in a fast, practised cut.
The cavern was smaller than the great hall, but vast all the same. Six tripods stood at equal distances, giving sparse light. The floor was not paved; the rock had been carefully levelled. To the left, a raised dais with steps had been carved from the stone. On the dais, someone had built a grotesque nest from sheepskins, bones, and splintered wood. Inside lay six or seven dark grey eggs, each nearly knee-high to Morrigan.
On the steps beneath the nest lounged four young dragons.
She recognised them from Flemeth's brief, unflattering descriptions—"Tevinter idols." Even so, "young" was relative: the smallest was Morrigan's size.
Their wedge-shaped muzzles were smeared with fresh blood.
There was no sign of an ambush. No pursuers waiting here. Morrigan guessed the men, not finding the "witch's" bloody execution, had hurried on.
She had only one hope: that the younglings, heavy with their unexpected meal, would be lazy.
Still, her mind snagged on the strange symbiosis. People, dragons—and control. The Frostbacks had been considered cleared of dragons for at least a century, until Tristan's return had reminded pitiful bipeds who the apex predator was. And they, after a trail of deaths, had failed to bring the proud beast's head to Orlais. That winged lizard had been the only bright flare in a long era of silence. Yet here, under the noses of two nations, a brood remained—unseen, for now—while an entire settlement worked to feed the monsters. For religion, plainly.
And the paradox: dragons—creatures of appetite—showed restraint, as if held by an invisible bridle. They did not terrorise their keepers. They did not show themselves beyond the nearest valleys. Given what people said of their temper, it was so strange that Morrigan found herself thinking of mysticism… and of Zibenkek's words about Flemeth's research…
Unless it was another game built from unknown parts: bluff and deceit.
Facts rattled in her skull like dice in a gambler's cup—the fall impossible to predict, the outcome always a surprise. Sooner or later, the dice would stop.
But right now she had to choose.
Breathing in, breathing out, she stepped forward, letting herself flow towards the far passage. She kept the younglings at the edge of her vision while watching the ground. Old bone fragments lay scattered—no one had bothered to clear them. Oddly, there was no dung, no stench. The dragons kept the place clean.
Halfway across, she felt a faint tremor: one of the younglings had its eyes open.
Vertical pupils, black as wells, floated in molten amber—still, hypnotic. The creature itself lay without moving. Even in the thin light, the glints in those eyes seemed to obey their own laws, lending them an unnatural pull. Yet Morrigan sensed no hunger, no threat—only attention, detached and cold.
Something in her recoiled at the animal response rising in her under that gaze, but she did not look away.
Then her foot betrayed her: a bone crunched under her boot.
In the silence the sound was deafening.
The youngling did not move—only its pupils tracked her, all the way to the passage.
For long minutes, until darkness closed around her again, Morrigan couldn't shake one pulsing question: was what she wanted worth this risk?
The answer was not as simple as she would have liked.
The next two caverns were smaller, like the barn. Little light—but steady, from methodically placed oil lamps. Morrigan found herself wondering how so much combustible oil reached a forgotten settlement at the edge of the glaciers—and why the locals burned it without a thought for cost. Her mind jumped to the mention of the Deep Roads, but offered no answer. She lacked facts, knowledge, time.
The smell of burning oil had worked itself into her nostrils, but at least it didn't make her gag.
No new signs of domestic life appeared, which suggested this "Chantry" was a place of worship only—nothing like the remote Chantries or monasteries Leliana had described. Small details—a crumpled felt mat here, a scuff of fresh dirt there—hinted at recent footsteps. Each time Morrigan frowned, realising those people had likely been taken by the warrior. The group ahead was growing.
After five caverns and one fork—where she chose the branch that breathed cold freshness along the floor—daylight finally ghosted into view.
She paused to catch her breath and moved towards it. At first it was only a bright blot at the end of a widening passage. Then the passage opened onto a broad rock ledge dusted with falling snow.
At the threshold she could finally take in the space.
It was a stone bowl so vast it made the body feel small. A flat platform spread ahead—at least a hundred paces across—while sheer cliffs rose around it and vanished into the belly of the clouds. Once, she guessed, ice had pooled here; as it melted, it had carved the chain of caverns through the mountain.
On the far side of the bowl, a man-made arch had been cut into the monolith. Behind it stood gates of the same metal as the doors far below. Before the gates, a dozen people in identical clothing had gathered, most holding spears.
And there—among them—the warrior in mail, gesturing with his heavy axe as he spoke low to the crowd.
Morrigan's gaze didn't linger. It slid right and up, drawn by movement along the cliffs.
Two dragons lounged on narrow ledges—unreachable by any wingless creature.
One was elegant: smooth bluish-grey scales from muzzle to tail, deepening to rich azure along the belly. The second, half again as large, was pure white—sharp lines, rough protrusions, a massive jaw. Female and male, plainly.
And it was the larger, white one that watched Morrigan—amber eye a hard coin against the snow of its hide.
Slowly it lifted its wedge-shaped head from its paws and drew in a loud breath. For a moment that single sound seemed to fill the bowl, cutting through the people's murmurs and pinning Morrigan's attention to the creature.
Then the dragon moved.
Without spreading its wings, it leaned forward—and because of its size it seemed to fall in slow motion, sliding from a dizzying height down towards the stone.
Impact.
The mountain itself seemed to flinch. A tremor ran through Morrigan; her teeth clicked; nearby stones jumped; a thin veil of snow leapt into the air like a silver plume. In a few sweeping strides the dragon burst through the cloud and stood before her, regarding her with amber eyes.
Morrigan found no words for how lightly she had once spoken—there, to Tristan—of killing a creature like this. Nor for the depth of her anger at Zibenkek's demand. All of it fell away before a simpler question, bare as bone:
And what now?