Chapter 1 - "Coincidences?"

The girl slowly opened her eyes, focusing on the image unfolding before her. Uplands. The rolling grasses that characterised Korkari's desolate spaces soon disappeared from view as she moved downwards. And further on, the view was lost in the vast landscape. Old, sloping hills, covered from top to bottom with ancient coniferous forests, dotted here and there with glades of debris jutting skyward. These were wounds left by fires and fierce winter winds. But with the coming of spring, they were covered with fresh green.

The girl's gaze wandered aimlessly among the wild, primeval curves for a moment before it caught a familiar landmark. Recognition flashed in her eyes. Quick eye movements — from the prominent boulder to the memorable gorge and beyond. And then the graceful dark eyebrows crept upwards. Five or six columns of milky smoke rose lazily from behind a distant hill on the horizon. A sure sign of a forest fire. But it had little chance of gaining full strength because autumn was too close. Heavy cumulus clouds crept westwards, touching the tops of the hills, bringing down cold, heavy rain every other night.

The cool breeze carried the scent of damp woods and lazily ruffled her loose, raven-wing curls into a tight bun. The girl frowned — there was a house in the direction of the smoke columns. But her memory failed her, not a single fact from the last twenty-four hours. Instead, there was a blind certainty that there was nowhere to go.

The woman's body stiffened and stiffened. The first jerky movement was painful. A long rest on the cold, damp ground, leaning against a smooth wall of grey basalt blocks, was neither healthy nor good for the traveller. The girl looked around with a grunt. The wall behind her rose three or four metres before collapsing into rubble. The stones that had once made it up littered the ground, as if they had been slowly sinking into the grass for decades. And there was no other vegetation.

The girl's slender legs were clad in roughly made trousers and soft, silent deerskin boots. A tightly knitted sleeveless cloak of warm wool, with the hood pulled back, was thrown carelessly over her shoulders. The left shoulder was accentuated by a tuft of black southern raven feathers attached to the garment. The feathers were striking in their size — the wingspan of the bird that had once worn them seemed to reach a metre and a half. Of the undergarments — just a linen shirt on a naked body with rolled up sleeves, barely outlining the chest, which needed no support. Of the jewellery, the eye was drawn to the band on his left shoulder: rough leather with an elaborately carved ornament — a skull intertwined with curls symbolising wind or roots. Around his neck hung an ancient necklace of tarnished metal segments. A lanyard with an amulet skilfully carved from bone and a roughly cut garnet. Five bent iron rings were carefully woven into a short braid at his left ear. The earlobes were set with rings of tarnished silver. On the ring finger of his right hand was an inconspicuous band of scratched gold.

She picked up a sturdy two-metre oak stick from the floor and moved along the wall, touching the surface carefully with her free hand, trying to remember what this place was. Soon the wall crumbled into a pile of rubble: there was a break in the floor, allowing a view into the interior. The whole ensemble had once been an outpost with a single watchtower. Every surviving element bore the hallmarks of imperial architecture from the period of rapid expansion: chopped flat lines, ornate arches, naked functionality without ornamentation, extreme durability. There was little sign of the later buildings that had characterised Ferelden a century ago. Time and the harsh climate had erased four-fifths of the efforts to reuse the fortress.

Once inside, the girl looked around and began to climb the remains of the wall to get a better view of the ruins. Memory told her without hesitation that similar outposts spread out in a semicircle a day or two's journey into the depths of Korkari, with a single centre — the ancient fortress of Ostagar. But only the bones of one had survived the past winters and the wrath of the Khasinds. The one whose ruins were now inspected from above by keen eyes.

The memory was silent as to why the girl had awoken so far from home and in this particular place, rather than in the middle of a familiar forest. A shadow of doubt flickered across her face and her free hand went to the rustic leather pouch strapped to her hip. A thin, greenish metal tube, sealed with black sealing wax, protruded from it.

Pulling them out one by one, the girl studied the surviving engravings. Symbols in ancient Teven, the language of the Empire, were interspersed with the archaic script of Ferelden and heraldry indicating the ancient Order of the Grey Guardians. There was also a reference to the last surviving dwarven state, Orzammar, with a symbol of Paragon unknown to the girl. As well as the Circles of Ferelden as an offshoot of the Church. And separately, the Templar Corps. Four of the tubes were braided with the symbolism of the Dolian clans, though the girl knew of only three that roamed the surrounding lands. The last tube was marked with the heraldry of the royal family of Ferelden. The treaties of the Grey Guardians, which had been in place since the beginning of the Mora... Perhaps they were once kept in the middle of this outpost.

Looking towards the southern horizon, the girl grimaced. The encounters with the creatures of darkness in the surrounding forests were indeed becoming more frequent. With each new sunrise. Perhaps it was no coincidence that two months ago the Hasind tribes had moved either further south, into the marshy lowlands overlooking the cold waters of the sea, or west, closer to the Frost Mountains. Hibernation would be much harsher either way. Without seeing the whole picture, it is difficult to judge the threat posed by Mora, but coincidences rarely retain the innocent appearance of coincidence on closer inspection. The fort used by the Grey Guardians in ancient times, the treaties, the plague... And the smoke on the horizon.

Turning to the north, the girl blinked. There, behind the rising hills, was an ancient fortress, covering the only passage through the gorge, through the sheer cliffs that cut the surrounding countryside into a flat plain for a hundred kilometres from west to east. Even for a girl, such an obstacle meant death.

She sighed and looked west, towards the setting sun. The horizon was barely a finger and a half across. It must be three or four hours without feeling, barely five. In the middle of the day. That explained why the girl's muscles had stiffened, but she hadn't lost all movement. What had happened up to that point had confused her with uncertainty, a sense of threat and the sharpness of loss mixed with a vague need. Without context, this mess only added to the confusion. Normal rest might have helped to sort out her thoughts. Or maybe not. But sorting herself out should have been heading north. To put as many hills, rivers, settlements and perhaps armed men as possible between the spawn and the vague threat. On the verge of turning away, the girl froze. At the foot of the hill, at the tree line, her sharp eyes caught movement.

Four figures emerged from the forest one after the other, two warriors, an archer, the last one looking like a mage. Each was tired, worn, cautious. There was no doubt where they were headed. Chance again.

With a last glance to the west, the girl retreated from the wall to the ledge below, into the shadows. She crouched on the rocks, her legs overhanging and she was patient.

* * *

It took the panting party a dozen minutes to climb the hill and enter the ruins. As they passed under the archway preserved in the wall, the foursome dispersed harmoniously. The warriors moved forward — the mage in the middle, the archer behind. But not a single glance went upwards. A pair of watchful eyes glittered from the ledge above the arch.

As the early twilight slowly enveloped the old fort, the men made sure the ruins were relatively safe and began their search. The focus was on the remains of later buildings — the original Imperial structures were deliberately ignored.

The squad was led by a blond man with a short haircut. From his demeanour, his posture, his equipment and the way he softly gave orders, he was an experienced warrior. The blond man did not remove his unmarked shield and blade for a moment. He continued to pick at the rubble with the point. When he turned half to face the observer, his keen eye caught the amulet strapped to his quilted jacket and chain mail. A heraldic griffin, the symbol of the Grey Guard: a conspicuous feature that only the blond man wore on his chest.

The second warrior had a massive two-handed blade, muscle bulges under his armour and a thick neck. A stiff hedgehog of dark hair, shaved a week ago, stood out. But there was confusion mixed with fear on the man's face. And his movements were not half as menacing as the leader's. An archer, more than that. He hadn't even been able to catch his breath for ten minutes after the climb. Dirty, greasy hair of an indeterminate dark shade was in tatters, and a week's growth of stubble completed the picture of a careless, thieving man. There was nervousness in the man's movements.

Last in the group was a mage, a diva elf. No Vallaslins, who at least spoke of growing up outside the Dolian clans. Clothing was a knee-length hiking robe of thick woollen cloth with a hood of soft leather against rain and wind. He carried a staff the same size as the one at the girl's back. Nature had given the man hair just below his shoulders, and a colour no lighter than the stranger's. He was the only one of the group not wandering aimlessly, but patiently using the time for a methodical, attentive inspection.

Suddenly, the mage pointed to the middle of the rocks with his staff, and a pleasant-sounding voice called out to his comrades.

— I think I found it. Commander?

The blond man turned around and, muttering under his breath, walked over to the spot indicated. Nodding, the man plunged his blade into the soft earth, leaving his shield behind, and began to shovel the heavy debris aside. The strong man watched the work for a moment. Then he sighed, put his blade back in its sheath and joined in. A quarter of an hour later, beneath the rubble, a stone cavity was revealed, next to the remains of the building's wall. The kind traditionally used to hold massive, plated chests. Now it was a pile of rusty, half-decayed metal strips and rotting wood.

The commander's posture tightened. Digging his hand into the rotting remains, the blonde finally let out a profane curse. The elf sighed tiredly, ignoring the emotional outburst and, picking at the ground with his staff, asked.

— Somewhere else?

The blond man stood up and showed the dark roundel in his hand.

— No. This is the seal of the Order. Enchanted metal, untouched by moisture and decay. According to the Commander's notes, this is where the treaties were kept.

Muddy spat on the ground and grinned.

— They must have made a move. It's been a while.

— Treaties are of no use to an outsider. And nobody knew about them.

— That's true, Commander. But there are no treaties. But I would argue about the benefits. You don't understand anything. But when you know who needs it, it's a different story.

The elf lifted her eyes to the sky....

— It's getting dark.

...And he met the stranger's eyes, glittering from the deepening shadows, studying what was going on as some kind of curiosity, either containing some hidden benefit or meaningless. Nothing gave the mage away except the whitening fingers around the staff and the dilated pupils. Remaining calm, the elf turned his attention to himself.

— Commander. No nerves. We're not alone.

The three men turned in unison at the voice and raised their heads, clutching their weapons. The girl's gaze immediately shifted to the trembling arrowhead between her eyes. The stranger slowly pulled her legs up and stood on the ledge, showing her empty hands. Then she pulled them back. Leaning against the wall, she stretched. Slowly she shifted her weight to her arms, demonstrating excellent twisting. And completed the coup de grace on the wall with the staff.

Reactions to the performance were mixed. Only the elf remained focused, the others fell prey to the plasticity of the woman's body. That's why the mage was the first to take a step back, muttering a reasonable suggestion through his teeth as a warning.

— Sorceress!

Waking from his obsession, the strongman spoke more emphatically, his voice trembling.

— A witch! Look, wolf eyes!

The squad leader grimaced, either at the reaction of the squad members or at his own momentary weakness. Maybe for some other reason... But he waved it off and loudly, though not without excitement, announced a few questions.

— Who are you? How long have you been hiding here?

The girl crouched on her knees, holding her staff in front of her. The girl's voice, quiet, husky, haughty and powerful, was the first to be heard in the neighbourhood.

— Well, well... Should strangers be asking questions? Why have we come to disturb the ancient stones? Beneath us lie the wind-blown bones of an ancient outpost. of the Grey Guardians? But it is now swallowed up by the vastness of Korkari.

The Squad Leader blinked in surprise at the recklessness of his words.

— So you know.

But he immediately remonstrated and, frowning, launched into a verbal attack.

— Since we know about the past, we have more rights than the surrounding savages. This outpost was founded by the Order. It has served the Guardians faithfully for decades.

The girl pointed with her chin at the mage standing guard and commented on the blonde's lunge.

— Strong words. Here are mine. The pointy-eared comrade has more rights. As a mage, he is the direct heir to the empire that the Greys used as a foundation. As an elf, he's heir to the lands whose foundations are made of basic steel. And what about him? If you look closely, he's more victim than heir. Now that the rhetoric has turned to rhetoric, who's first, whose truth is stronger? I suppose we can expect no answers. No manners, no politeness. Truly vultures.

The strongman couldn't stand the flood of accusations and blurted out in emotion.

— We're here by right! We have an important mission — to find the...

A pair of yellow eyes focused on the swordsman and immediately jumped back to the blonde. The blonde's burning gaze closed the strongman's mouth before he could say anything. But before the leader could get a word in edgewise, the unkempt archer spoke.

— Boss! That girl could be a Hasinda. They say savages don't travel alone. I don't want to be ambushed while we're talking.

The 'girl' grinned maliciously, showing a set of teeth not characteristic of the fullness or whiteness of the southern tribesmen. And immediately she teased her interlocutors.

— Are you afraid of the Va-arwars? Mighty wars. Oh, yes.

Approaching the leader from behind, the mage placed a hand on his shoulder and gently reminded him of the paramount importance of time.

— Commander. It'll be dark soon, you'll be crying your eyes out. We'll have to camp in the ruins. On the one hand, not bad. On the other hand, I remember you complaining for hours about the visibility from this peak. A night without fire or light. No warmth. Maybe, just maybe, it's time to show your strong side and use diplomacy?

From the beginning to the end of the monologue, the elf spoke his thoughts without unnecessary emotion, with a steady intonation. He never took his eyes off the stranger. The blond listened in silence. He nodded at the end, but dropped the mage's hand with a flicker of irritation. The archer, demonstrating his unsuitability for his current role, distracted himself at the last words and looked at the elf with a look of surprise. The veiled sarcasm was also appreciated by the girl, who raised an eyebrow and looked at the elf with interest for the first time.

Coughing, the leader of the four turned back to the sorceress.

— So... Let's start with... Ahem. My name is Alistair. I happen to lead a squad of the Order of the Grey Guardians. There's only one full Grey Guardian... But it's only temporary. Our mission is to reach the ancient outpost of Korkari and retrieve the treaties that were once left here. Documents of great importance to the Order. The plague is coming to the lands of the south, and we must ensure that those who have sworn an ancient oath to help are paid their debt with the care and expectation they deserve. Unfortunately, our time is limited, and the documents have not been found in the place... consistent with the signs. So — if, in case... Ahem... you... Ahem... know anything about the more recent history of this place ....., we'd be grateful.

Standing to her full height, the girl shook her head in confusion and tapped the top of her staff against the rocks twice.

— Your order's alliances are fragile, Guardian. When you have to pin your hopes on ancient papers that have lain in a forgotten corner of the world for at least a century. But it's not for a southern barbarian to judge the ways of the civilised north. It is typical to show an ally a piece of paper that can easily become a harsh weapon in the hands of his enemies. Just for the sake of the bond. But let us begin with what is important. So you are in a hurry to succeed and return. Where to? And why the hurry?

The archer spat, tossing it aside as if by the way, but clearly for all to hear.

— Too few answers and too many hard questions. We're going to get shitfaced by a witch.

The stranger ignored the least groomed archer in the group, concentrating only on Alistair. The others, however, cast disapproving glances. As the blonde picked at his words, the girl pressed her lips together, barely perceptible in the light of the fading day. Too many facts were thrown into the air at once, and one had to catch them at random and take them on faith. Meanwhile, the blond man replied, albeit sullenly.

— Ostagar. There are the stakes of the armies of the Northern and Southern Banns, gathered under the banner and call of King Ferelden.

Hearing this, the girl even leaned forward, shifting some of her weight onto the staff.

— Much has been said and nothing done, but I'll try to catch the fox by the tail. I see that the Grey Order has not recovered from the fall of Dryden, for on the eve of the Mora and, I assume, a serious battle, such a pitiful band was sent to fetch the treaties. And the army of mention... Leading is not the Grey, is it? Thousands of warm pieces of flesh, gathered in one place as if for dinner. The creatures of darkness cannot resist the temptation for days. And you expect to crush the spawn at once, stemming the tide that threatens your lands, delaying the plague for a year or two. A dangerous and bold idea. What could go wrong?

She narrowed her eyes to the north, considering her own options. It seemed that the only bottleneck leading out of Korkari would soon become a place of unprecedented gambling. Wise would have preferred to wait for the outcome from a safe distance. However, as a result of this gambling, the forests of Korkari will begin to swarm with spawn in the coming nights. Coincidences... So it seemed that the only group of warriors capable of standing between the girl and her enemies, should the need arise, was down below. And the same strangers served as a pass to her own camp. The sorceress also took into account the strange curiosity she felt about the identity of the leader who had devised such a daring plan. And a disturbing sense of menace, somehow connected to her mother, the pillar of smoke on the horizon, and the dark rift in her memory. There was a subtle scent of fear that urged the girl not to hesitate, to walk away, until... Until... Until...

Turning her attention back down, the stranger said to herself with a slight surprise.

— Today is your happy hour, Guardian.

Smirking in response to four stern looks, the girl pulled a tube out of her pocket and tossed it to the blond man. Deftly catching the object in mid-flight, Alistair immediately realised what he had caught. Judging by the expression on the leader's face, the others had grasped the gist as well. But it was the strongman who was the first to comment, pulling a heavy blade from its sheath.

— Thief!!!

Fear and anger mixed in an uncontrollable combination, either trying to overwhelm each other or throwing the warrior's body into battle to get rid of the thoughts swirling in his cramped head. But before he could do or say anything stupid, the man was painfully cracked on the head by the elf's staff. Turning to the strongman who was scratching the back of his head, Alistair cut him off with the weight of metal in his voice.

— Calm down, Jory. Whoever that... the lady who never introduced herself. It's obvious where the documents are now. At least it's good to know they're safe and close. Isn't it?

The girl nodded affirmatively and continued the negotiations with a haughty tone.

— Now that we understand each other, here's the deal, Guardian. Thanks to the Norsemen, these forests are dangerous. I'll tell you more. Winter in Korkari is not for the thin-skinned or the stubborn, and the creatures of the dark will make this food inedible. You have my word that you will bring this humble witch safely to Ostagar. And at all costs, you will keep the savage's presence secret in the middle of the military camp. Until the army leaves for the north, at which point I'll certainly stop bothering you. In exchange, your treaties, here and now.

— Witch! They're ours!

— Calm down, I say!

Finding the contracts in the hands of a probably wild sorceress, unconnected to the Circles and literally at arm's length, unnerved the blond man. The man wasn't the least bit enthusiastic about the deal and didn't hide it. But the elf intervened again.

— I don't see why we're being so slow, Commander. A deal is a deal. As far as I know, we're not being asked to do anything objectionable from the Order's point of view. And it's a lot better than a duel with someone who might possess magic we don't recognise. Besides, since the treaties are in her bag and not in the ruins, the stranger has a better sense of the terrain than we do. If you've got a bone in your throat, pour ale on it when you get back to Duncan. In the meantime.

The swordsman, who still hadn't sheathed his blade, suddenly joined the conversation.

— What are you talking about? How can you bring a witch into a military camp? And... And even if... How can you even...?

Alistair stopped the flow of questions by raising his hand. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, the man replied.

— You're right. Both of you. But, Jory, I'm afraid you overestimate the difficulty. You should have noticed in the old days. Because of the number of people, who in normal times have a hard time tolerating their neighbours, the main forces have been thrown into quelling internal disturbances. The guards are on the lookout for spawn, that's all. And it's not out of negligence. The lands around here are empty, and spawn spies are unheard of. We should have no trouble getting into the camp. The lady's behaviour is more to be feared.

At these words, the blonde gave the elf a thoughtful look. The girl smiled at the abandoned hook.

— So much concern... for her own skin. I would have to assume that the savage is not lacking in intelligence and is not looking for acquaintances with evil warriors or Templars in foreign territory.

The mage shook his head as if to emphasise — 'you see', and returned his gaze to the squad leader.

— Yes, yes, you're right, Alim. We agree. I agree. You have my word. Now may we...

The girl tapped her staff against the rocks, interrupting Alistair's words, and summarised.

— Let there be a bargain between Morrigan, daughter of Flemeth, and Alistair, the Grey Guardian.

Jory groaned softly, and the unshaven archer cursed in a foul, cabaret-like manner, summing up the general feeling of the party.

— Take the abyss. With our luck, I bet it's not 'any' Flemeth. It's the Witch of the Wildlands of legend.

A large raindrop hits the grey stones. The first of many...

* * *

Before the sun had time to sink below the horizon, the source of daylight was obscured by a cloud. Approaching rapidly from the east, the cloud was the embodiment of the night approaching Korkari. The swirls resembled a sea turned upside down and frozen in a storm. The high areas seemed to emanate an inner light, transitioning smoothly to leaden, almost black hues at the crests of the storms plunging to the ground.

During the exchange of treaties, the wind seemed to die down completely, and the party hurried down the hill, accompanied by occasional drops. But as soon as they crossed the edge of the forest, there was a growing noise behind them. It was as if something was rushing through the woods, hills and glades. As Jory looked around in surprise, Morrigan defiantly pulled back the hood of her sleeveless cloak and quickened her pace as she approached Alistair.

— We must hurry, Guardian.

The blonde looked back at the girl irritably and interrupted briefly.

— I know.

At that moment, the sound of the 'witch's' laughter caught up with the group, bringing a cold, heavy rain down on their shoulders, drenching them instantly. The archer, who introduced himself as Davet, cursed through clenched teeth once more, then summed up.

— The end of the bowstring.

Without slowing his pace, the squad leader threw over his shoulder.

— Where did you put the leather that came with the bow?

— Oh... Southern bowstring, my goodness. All-weather. Very popular with the soldiers. I bargained for corned beef, a pair of strong gloves and five coppers.

Squinting in the rain, Jory frowned.

— I hadn't noticed any corned beef in the camp.

— Of course there was. He'd have taken it with him. Stashed it in Ostagar.

— Wax?

— Good thinking comes later.

Alistair drew a line under the dialogue, sighed sadly and gave a brief assessment of Davet's cunning.

— Idiot...

For the next hour the men walked in silence through the inhospitable forest. There were no known trails, so they had to keep their eyes on their feet. With no sunlight, moonlight or starlight, this was difficult. Heavy rain compressed the bleak world into five or six paces in each direction. Only the girl walking off to the side maintained a certain lightness, as if no water were falling from the sky. She glided effortlessly through the untravelled thicket.

The first to break was the Strongman, who sadly poured out his personal experiences on his comrades.

— Cold and hungry. Will there be a place to rest?

Alistair ran a gloved hand over his face, brushing away the excess moisture and tucking his wet hair back.

— No. If there's an overnight shelter, I don't know of it.

The Commander looked at his companion, leaving the unspoken question hanging in the air. But the sorceress just shook her head negatively, without specifying whether she had no desire to answer or no hiding places. After a moment's hesitation, the blonde continued.

— If we stop in the rain, we'll freeze to death in wet clothes without a fire. And even with magic we can't make a fire here. Right, Alim?

The elf behind the column brushed the drops from his eyelashes, adjusted his wet hood and hummed, wordlessly denying the feasibility of such a feat.

Four things happened in the next quarter of an hour. First. Davet slipped down another slope and, with a loud curse, disappeared among the roots of the spreading southern pines. The man was found a few dozen metres down the slope. Safe, unharmed, dirty, but extremely hurt by the general smiles and the Morrigan's contemptuous glare. The girl was the only member of the party to have slipped down without getting dirty from the waist down.

Second, the intensity of the rain began to ease. It was replaced by a drizzle, just as annoyingly cold, but not obscuring my vision. The air temperature continued to drop, turning my breath into puffs of steam that seeped through my wet clothes to the furthest corners of my body.

Thirdly, the party had come across a track, clear and fresh in the wet ground of another clearing. It ran northeast at right angles to their current course. The tracks were strange and deep. Alistair blew his nose and spoke his thoughts.

— Genlocks. A dozen or so. Marching in formation, not like a pack. I guess the leader's with them. No shoes, so no equipment.

Morrigan turned her attention to the footprints as well, adding a few words of her own.

— Less than an hour ago. Whoever was captured last month had at least some semblance of clothing and weapons.

The blonde nodded and scratched her chin.

— In a hurry.

— A hunch?

— I don't sense any spawn nearby. So we must have moved a good distance away.

Finally, as the group climbed another hill, a wolf's howl sounded behind them. It echoed left and right. The troop instinctively stood up and the men turned. Obviously, though — it was hard to see anything concrete in the darkness of the forest. With an irritated groan, the witch bluntly formulated her own attitude.

— Children in the forest for the first time. The pack surrounds the prey. Stay alert and keep moving. At the right time, the predators will catch up. This is a large pack, and the beast is a stranger to man or elf. They're just a slow and noisy meal.

Alistair slipped the half-extinguished blade back into its sheath, frowned, but continued in his original direction. The elf gave Morrigan a thoughtful look and followed. Only Daveth, unaccustomed to feeling victimised rather than hunted, and Jory, who responded with a hint of anger in his voice, hesitated.

— Your mates, witch?

The girl, however, did not even turn around at the words, but was already walking in line with the pack leader.

The pack caught up with the travellers as they approached the summit, keeping up the tension with a constant roll call that made it impossible to forget that beasts were everywhere. A massive wolf materialised from the tangle of darkness and bushes on the left flank, silently taking down the leader of the bipeds with a single bound. Alistair, however, was quick to react. Tearing his round shield from his shoulder, the blonde struck the beast with a left to the right, straight to the skull. The screaming female collapsed to the ground before she could finish her leap.

The first blood was drawn by the ever-frightened Jory. In real combat, the strongman gathered himself, drew his blade in one smooth motion and, without slowing his swing, plunged it straight into the neck of the approaching wolf, kicking the other wolf in the face. Davet deftly leapt away from the snapping jaws at his feet. The man wielded his bow like a club, fending off two opponents with one swing. The elf whispered something, covering the tip of his staff with his hand, and a firefly glowed dimly above their heads. Picking her own target, she crept between the trees, the girl said softly and curtly.

— Frius. Tenachi.

An outstretched hand clenched a fist. There was a low whimper, followed by the soft sound of a carcass falling to the grass, frozen to the bone. From start to finish, the result was hidden under a shroud of darkness.

Behind him, Alistair drew his blade and drove it into the throat of the rising beast with a swift and unpretentious thrust. With a final convulsive jerk, the female collapsed, but the predators were just beginning their attack. More wolves appeared, one after another taking shape in the surrounding darkness. The fastest one miraculously ducked under the whistling swing of a blade, catching Jory in a vulnerable position. The weighty sword continued to pull the man's arms and torso aside as the beast's jaws clamped down on a fleshy thigh, biting hard at the thick edge of a long gambeson and soft woollen trousers.

Seeing his partner's predicament, Davet threw his useless bow at the beast. He leapt, his own weight dragging the beast behind him as it tried to tear a chunk out of the swordsman. All the wolf had to do, it seemed, was twist and lock its jaws around the hapless archer's neck. But the duo rolled over a few times in the grass, and Davet leapt to his feet, brandishing a bloody dagger the size of his palm. And the wolf stayed there.

As Jory shifted his stance, shifting his weight from his injured leg to his healthy one, his eyes searching for a new target, the warrior slipped onto his back without asking, his jaws working for the vulnerable throat. The brief flash of Alim's magic arrow left a crater in the predator's body, right at the start of its right paw, causing it to drop dead at its partner's feet.

Morrigan wasted no time. She unfurled her staff and brought the tip down on the fleeing beast's skull with a crunch. The wolf's face was sent flying into the grass, and the carcass, inertially moving straight ahead, tumbled past. Without stopping its movement, the tip sliced through the front legs of the second beast, probably breaking a joint or two. At the same moment, the squad leader crouched down and leapt for the shield, only to be met by the open jaws of another wolf. Straightening up, the man threw it back into the bushes with a crunch, right into the faces of the reinforcements waiting to pounce.

And silence fell...

Davet turned sharply to one side, then the other, trying to see where the threat came from. Jory dropped the end of his blade to the ground and clutched at his wounded leg, trying to steady his breathing. Alim and Morrigan frowned at each other. Both were wracked with suspicion, but only the man turned to the leader, studying Alistair's vaguely nocturnal expression.

As the former archer licked his lips and shakily pulled rags and a vial of herbal medicine from his belt for Jory, the blonde shook his head and spat into the grass.

— Descendants. Many. They're coming.

The girl fixed the hair that was sticking to her forehead and added in a low voice.

— A surprisingly useful ability. You can sense your opponent without seeing him with your eyes. Does it work the other way round? Well... I think the wolf pack was drawn to the enemy by the call of the voices.

With a grim look in the direction of the proud and fearless even in such a situation, the blonde looked around and pointed his blade in a certain direction.

— The trees are thinning that way. Twenty paces. We'll be crushed in the thicket. Let's get to the clearing. Come on!

Alistair dashed through the bushes, shielding his face. Jorie and Davet followed, followed by Alim and Morrigan. The trees soon parted and gave way to a clearing typical of the area, with a few overgrown trunks lying in the grass and a dozen stumps that looked like crooked fangs sticking out of the ground in the darkness. Having chosen a more level spot, away from the edge of the forest, the group turned and waited.

A minute, then another. Time dragged on, seeming to freeze, threatening to bury them under its weight in the pressing darkness. The sorceress arched an eyebrow and cast a wistful glance at the blonde, but he stared tenaciously into the blackness of the thicket, not doubting the prediction. Jory, of course, was more nervous than the others. The strongman was sweating and breathing heavily. Even Davet began to twitch visibly.

Finally, a sound came from the forest. The crunching of twigs and the strange, muffled rhythm of footsteps approached. Followed by heavy breathing. Then, as if by magic, the western edge of the sky cleared. Through the torn edges of the clouds, the clearing was flooded with pure starlight. Among the dozens of twinkling lights, the bright constellation of Visus, the watchful eye that had watched the changing world from the eternal heavens since the beginning of time, stood out clearly. And then the darkness cast its own creatures into the light.

Alistair raised his weapon, shield at the ready, and shouted.

— Ganlocks!

The creatures that emerged from the forest were barely the height of an average man's chest and walked on all fours. But the massive forearms with their taut muscles easily embarrassed even Jory. Then his gaze moved to the broad shoulders and scapulae, noting the dirty, earthy skin, the deep-set eyes in the oversized skull, and the weighty, disproportionately lipless jaw. No sign of clothing or weapons.

A moment later, more quietly, the squad leader added to the first sentence.

— Behind them is the leader.

The first five of the creatures froze for a few heartbeats, sniffed, and then darted towards the group, maintaining a semblance of formation. The wall of flesh was impressive. But it wasn't the blades that met it, it was Alim.

Under Morrigan's gaze, which was a mixture of amazement and envy, the elf wove a complex spell and exhaled, "Field of Repulsion". Immediately, a translucent pulse spread from the mage's body in a circle, like spring water.

Two of the five thought to stop and crouch to the ground. The spell only moved them backwards. The remaining wave of power struck their foreheads, immediately losing the unequal battle. Caught and thrown, the bodies collapsed with a thud characteristic of a mass of flesh, tumbling closer to the edge of the forest, rolling over a few times and freezing near the bushes.

As Alim gulped for air, the wily Genlocks reached the group. The left one was hit by Jory's chopping blow, which the creature, not thinking too much of the consequences, took on its right arm. At the same moment, the limb, severed with a wet sound, disappeared into the grass, thick black blood spurting from the stump. Alistair picked up the second. Deflecting a direct blow from the fist with his shield, he slipped past it and, maintaining his inertia, drove his blade into the creature's neck.

Davet, seeing that his partner's opponent was wounded, lunged at him from the side of his injured arm, his dagger in a comfortable grip. Noticing the movement, the Genlock ducked and swung his stump towards him, spraying blood in a wide arc. As the man, blinded by the black drops, slowed, Jory's powerful swing punished the genlock. The monster's head collapsed at the same time as its body, but separately.

The events at the edge of the forest continued to unfold. The discarded creatures rose, joined by four reinforcements, followed by the largest of the monsters. For the time being, the latter stayed cautiously behind. The seven of them let out a mixture of shrieks and gasps, and rushed towards the group as a single mob.

Closing his eyes, Alim tensed and a new translucent impulse rushed towards the genlocks. The five of them were thrown back into the air and flung away. The rest broke through the barrier with a vengeance, not even wasting time to regroup. With a muffled groan, the elf collapsed into the grass, unconscious. The firefly hovering over him blinked and disappeared.

Jory tried to counter again, but the creature was very agile. It dodged to the right, almost catching the warrior in the arms, who retreated immediately. Alistair was unable to repeat the swift approach either. The blow to the shield did not slip, but entered the upper outer quarter, almost twisting the blonde's arm. Grimacing, he moved half a step closer to the monster. Instead of a stabbing attack, he swung outwards and upwards, slicing through the monster's cheek and eye.

The Morrigan was quick to orientate herself in her choice of target. She spat out the right words and chilled the Genlock, who was charging at Jory, with a frosty grip on his insides. A couple of moments of disorientation of the hissing foe and the swordsman had enough time to turn around and deliver a downward blow to the neck. The blade sliced through the shoulder blade, plunging between the creature's ribs and lodged in the middle of the closed flesh.

At the same time, Alistair flew a few steps away from the side with an awkward sound. He was thrown back by the shoulder of a creature blinded in one eye. Ignoring the threatening blade, the blond's opponent slammed into the shield, using his solid body mass to good effect. That was what finally knocked the commander off his feet. Luckily, he managed to keep his balance without falling on his back. Davet was just in time to take the chance to plunge his dagger between the Genlock's ribs. The swift lunge succeeded, but did not end the creature's life on the spot. The furious monster demonstrated the power of its massive arms, sending the hapless man flying five metres with a single swing of its fist. The impact itself and the crunching sound of the fall didn't bode well, but there was no way to distract himself from the wounded man.

The genlock's head jerked unnaturally as its jaw met the end of the staff. The Morrigan swung the staff over its head, distracting the creature and touching Jory's sword as it retreated, cooling the metal with her Ice Weapon. The blade came out of the dead creature's body with a squeak, allowing Jory to twist it around without interruption. With a whoosh, the blade passed over the girl falling into the grass and cleanly blew off the head of another monster.

The earned respite stretched for a single heartbeat, after which the last five of the spawn burst into the shaky formation of those remaining conscious. Jory immediately caught the strongest blow to the jaw. A mixture of blood from a shattered lip and teeth from its mouth splattered to the sides. The snake charmer spun around in the grass, escaping the feet of the two genlocks. Alistair sprang up and slammed his shield into the last of the pair, who were choosing who to attack first. Crouching under the right one's blow and throwing the other one's blow upwards with his shield, the blond even managed to scrape one of them with the tip of his blade on his torso.

As the creature that had attacked the strongman hissed familiarly, thanks to the witch, and was covered in a thin crust of frost, Jory grinned grimly with a mouth like pulp. With the full force of his arms and the inertia of his spinning torso, the man brought the weight of his blade down on the Genlock's massive skull, crushing it to the cervical vertebrae with a sickening wet crunch. Breathing heavily, the man struggled to pull the blade back and, no longer holding it in front of him, dragged the end of it across the grass. Just in time to find himself face to face with the two mages.

A blow flashed, stabbing Jory in the shoulder and almost knocking the warrior's blade out of his hand. The man slowed with each passing second. At the same time, Alistair, still flailing between the two massive opponents, managed to strike one in the face with his shield and pierce the other's throat with a sharp lunge. Unfortunately, the creature, dying in convulsions, jerked backwards, snatching the weapon from the Commander's hands and leaving him alone with the second Genlock with only his shield.

In one fluid motion, the Morrigan leapt to her feet and scanned the battlefield with an expansive gaze. The threat was there. For the companions needed for Ostagar. A moment of doubt and disorientation caused the genlock to blurt out a punch aimed at Jory's nose. The man walked away from the second monster's blow, greeting the muzzle with his own fist. The first blow was followed more confidently by three, knocking the creature onto its side. A few metres to the side, the blond did not falter without a weapon, deflecting another blow with his shield and lunging forward. A shoulder blow. Shield up. And, on pure adrenaline, a series of edge blows from top to bottom. In the end, the genlock protecting his eyes was confused.

She slid her staff between the legs of the creature flanking Jory, knocking it off balance and giving the swordsman precious seconds alone with his own monster. With a lurch, the man swung his blade down, slicing through the genlock's entrails and nailing the carcass to the ground. At the same moment, Alistair, using his body mass against the creature's defences, knocked the creature to the ground as well. And immediately lunged for his sword.

Slowing the frost grip on the tangled genlock, the Morrigan grabbed the staff like a club and began to methodically beat the rest of his brains out.

Moving at the limit of his strength, the Squad Leader snatched the blade from the corpse as he fled and, returning in an arc to the standing Genlock, drove the sword as deep as he could, twisting the blade in the wound with a vicious growl.

In a sudden pause, each turned to the empty clearing. Jory, exhausted and bloodied, looked frightened, Morrigan irritated, Alistair disengaged. While the swordsman looked around nervously, the sorceress immediately turned her attention to the blond man. He inhaled, exhaled a cloud of steam and shook his head negatively.

— I can't feel it. Must have left in the middle of the fight, but it was too busy. Clever creature, not like this. More dangerous than the rest of us put together.

Picking up a generous bundle of wet grass, the commander carefully wiped the black blood from the blade, wiped it on his gambenzon and sent it to its scabbard.

— I'll check on Davet. Check on Alim... please.

Morrigan arched an eyebrow and grinned fiercely.

— Courtesy, how challenging and new. So be it.

While Jory wiped his own weapon away less skilfully and looked around glumly, the stars that had briefly appeared began to disappear again behind the clouds, robbing the clearing of its already meagre light. Meanwhile, the girl bent over the elf and pressed two fingers to the man's neck. After making sure there was a faint pulse, the sorceress tucked them behind her back.

— The mage is alive. Looks like exhaustion from a momentary depletion of mana reserves. The body couldn't take the strain. Dangerous magic. Rare.

When she didn't hear an answer, Morrigan turned around, glumly, and met the dark gaze of the blond squatting man. He shook his head in slow denial, closed his eyes and raised his face to the clouds. The strongman, preoccupied with his own business, was unaware of the silent conversation. And the girl, guessing the background, decided to come and see what had happened for herself.

Fortune had turned away from Daveth in a prosaic and uncomplicated way. The grass of the clearing hid the trunks of the once proud forest that had fallen for one reason or another. Some were rotten, others, though whitened by the weather, were still as hard as the bones of the dead. And it wasn't even a broken branch, its sharp end sticking out half a palm to the right. He had just fallen and hit his head on the stone-hard trunk of the pine, breaking his neck in the process.

The sorceress pressed her lips together and finished dryly.

— A smaller unit means less chance of getting to Ostagar in one piece.

— I don't know if I should be happy that a witch from the backwoods of Korkari cares about our lives.

Morrigan snorted and put her hands at her sides.

— The witch only cares about the word she gave in exchange for the papers. Can the warrior keep his word now?

Alistair wrinkled his nose squeamishly but nodded, mouthing the syllables.

— Don't even think about it. I'd rather die than give you the benefit of the doubt.

— That's what worries me. The typical knight — honour, word, principles. A pinch of what's honourable and a heap of courage. Well, you should take this opportunity. Think of it as goodwill to make things easier when you arrive at the army camp.

The squad leader looked up at the sorceress, both annoyed and surprised by the sentence. He did not fully understand the meaning behind the words. The girl's further actions, step by step, began to clarify the plan. Leaning her staff against the trunk of a once collapsed pine tree, Morrigan deftly began unbuttoning and undoing the clasps of the dead man's clothing. Under the blonde's bewildered gaze, and then Jory's outraged but silent stare, all but the undergarments disappeared from the corpse.

Then, not in the least embarrassed by the shocked faces, the girl began to undress. She soon left her shirt on and showed her modest audience the length of her slender legs, used to long cross-country walks, and began to dress in men's clothes. Tying and tightening the laces and belt, Morrigan made the clothes feel a little big, but they fit. Rolling the rest into a bundle and fastening it around her waist, she looked around at the men, who had forgotten their wounds with fatigue and were embarrassed by the unexpected spectacle.

— I'm done. Wake the elf and let's go.

* * *

15 days earlier.

Vincent tapped the old oak table with his bent forefinger. There was no impatience, no anger, no demand in the sound. Just a statement of completion. It was a typical gesture for the «Cold-Blooded Bastard», as the overseer of Aeonar, the prison for mages, was known. He knew all the nicknames and the culprits whose mouths had brought the filth into the world.

Leaning forward, Vincent handed the parchment with the signed order to the old Templar. He was marked by a painful red scar that ran across his empty right eye socket. He also had an irregularly twitching cheekbone, a sign of increasing deterioration as he could no longer abstain from the health-killing lyrium compound. The man clicked his bound boots and bowed his head respectfully. The silence in the room was broken by the dry, commanding voice of the overseer:

— About that. Any progress on Benedict's disappearance from the prison grounds?

— No. The Seeker has left no trace. It's been a while.

— Yes. The case has been... Three years and seventeen days. That's unfortunate.

— It's true.

Turning on the spot, the Templar hurried out of the room. It was easy to guess from the strained back how uncomfortable even a veteran was under the steady, unblinking gaze of Vincent's once blue, now faded eyes. Ignoring the one who had come through the heavy double doors, the overseer leaned back and turned. The chair creaked pathetically under the weight of his full armour. The man's eyes found one of the narrow loopholes that served as windows. The view outside was breathtaking, at least to the casual observer. The ridge that stretched along the coast of the Waking Sea dominated the surroundings. Snow-capped peaks were almost non-existent at this time of year, but mountains were mountains. Below, a narrow gorge darkened, branching off from a small, barren valley that didn't even have a name. A place that didn't exist. Because of the frequent rock falls, winter avalanches, spring mudslides and autumn landslides, there wasn't even much vegetation here. A patch of green here, a stunted bush there. Just a few birds in the sky and a dozen or so rodents. Vincent liked the harsh landscape and the isolation that came with it.

The leaden clouds in the sky to the north portended bad weather for the night. The roads might be impassable for a week or two, or they might even disappear, requiring the work of the scouts. This didn't go well with the overseer's plans. But he could only grimace at the vagaries of the weather. Vincent, accustomed to measured preparation, always had alternatives. 

His square jaw moving from side to side, the sturdily built man rose and walked with a firm, wide stride towards the rich collection of edged weapons. It was arranged in perfect order on the bare stone wall to the right of the door. Nothing fancy, elegant or expensive. But every piece was well cared for, sharpened and in full working order. The point of the collection was to send a message to visitors: the owner valued order, practicality and a willingness to use his weapons. If you looked closely, the scuff marks on the hilt of the flanged mace and the classic Ferelden long sword indicated Vincent's preference. But now the Overseer's hand was confidently reaching for an untouched Orlesian slender rapier. With a slight rustle, the bare blade slid into his palm as if it had been made to fit. With a single glance at the point pointing to the floor, the man opened the doors and stepped out into the corridor.

On the other side, on the right, as always, was the only guard: Nakari. A temple maiden of twenty-five, brought from Orlais by Vincent for this cursed mission. A woman of faith and loyalty. Standing there alone, the girl resembled a flawless statue. Armour and robes in perfect condition, short haircut, eagle features, straight back... When the Overseer appeared in the doorway, she did not even move her head, maintaining a stern posture and silence.

— Was Daniel in a hurry?

— Yes.

— Good.

Standing beside the Templar, Vincent noted with a shadow of disappointment that the girl didn't see him as a threat. Trusting Aeonar was considered an unacceptable oversight. The man remembered hammering that lesson into the maiden every day since their arrival in the ancient fortress of the Old Empire. But some people just don't get it.

A quick stab of surgical precision pierced the larynx and ligaments without damaging the blood flow. The warrior's eyes widened in horror, but nothing more than a gasp and a few drops of blood escaped from her throat. Drawing his blade, Vincent delivered a crushing blow with the hilt to the maiden's temple, sending her crashing to the soft carpet that muffled the sound of a falling body in full armour. An accompanying crunching kick from the heel of his boot to the head sets the stage. Polished steel with white on red with orange. The one bright spot in a realm of cold grey halftones that had once reminded Vinseth of home. A small weakness from the past. He remained silent for a moment, staring at his victim, before finally dropping to his right knee and wiping the blade on silver-rimmed white cloak.

— It is impossible to achieve greatness without great sacrifice.

Vincent was well aware that talking to himself was a bad sign. But it was no longer necessary to keep himself in impeccable strictness. With Nakari out of his mind, as he had been with Daniel, the Overseer strode out of the office. The man was in no hurry, but he didn't hesitate either.

Only the upper three levels of Aeonar were on the surface. They were all living quarters for the few guards, concentrated in a single, inconspicuous building near the monolithic rock. All for the people, so that without sunlight, sky and familiar sounds they would not go mad too quickly. Vincent remained focused as he moved along the empty rooms to the central staircase. The full garrison of the prison meant forty selected Templars, in addition to the overseer himself. Apolitical, devout believers, they had had dozens of encounters with magicians or the possessed. Yet within the last month, two had perished to the vagaries of the surrounding mountains. Acceptable losses. Three had shown too obvious signs of mental instability and, accompanied by two trusted warriors, Vincent had sent them all to the Central Temple in Denerim. That too was the norm. 

The steady footsteps echoed through the empty rooms. Six months ago, the overseer had scheduled the traditional annual exercise for today, to practice manoeuvres on the grounds. Otherwise, the frowning men and women would forget how to navigate the gorges, passes and boulders. They even stopped looking under their feet. For twelve, even thirteen hours, most of the Templars were away from the fortress. And a week ago, the expected news of the inspection arrived. Once or twice a year, a member of the native order, unknown to Vincent, visited Aeonar for an «impartial assessment of security and discipline». In anticipation of the guest, it was wise to take an «inventory». Since early morning, this task had sent the remaining Templars down to the «pit» for two successive shifts.

The overseer paused near the first steps of the staircase and clenched his free fist in his left hand. Then he took the first step down. After the upper levels of the staircase, there were only a dozen locked cellars. Further flights of stairs led deeper and deeper without a single branch. Vincent moved confidently in the total darkness, having learnt in three years to make such descents with his eyes closed. Occasionally a faint, warm breeze blew in, smelling of coughs and carrying the faint echoes of moans and unhealthy laughter.

Three hundred steps later, the staircase ended at the edge of a circular hall where a few heavy bronze candlesticks held thick wax candles for light. Elsewhere they must have cost a great deal of money. Vincent's attention was drawn, as always, to the bare, smooth walls. He'd always had respect for the architects of the fallen empire. He cared little about what it had taken to melt Aeonar into a single basalt monolith in the middle of the wild mountains, little about why, but the result... Impeccable, practical, eternal. A true legacy in stone. Ostagar was already looking pitiful, the Kinloch Fortress aging inexorably under the weight of time. Aeonar hadn't changed a bit.

Six underground levels. Five galleries enclosed in rings, one below the other. The lower the ring, the smaller the circumference. From each ring there were perfect chambers, two by two by two metres. And each had its own round hole, a metre long, blocked by iron bars as thick as a man's arm. The metal was rusting, but without moisture it would take forever for rust to weaken such a barrier. It was never quiet here: crying, moaning, laughing, talking, shouting, screaming... And talking, in Vincent's opinion, was the worst of all. At least at first. No matter how hard you tried to ignore it, sometimes you could pick up the thread of another monologue. And whether it made sense or not, it made it harder to go to sleep.

The Church cynically divides mages by threat level. Circle members are safe, while backyard and free mages require more force to capture than they can harm. Apostates are attempted to be subdued. Direct violation of the Church's prohibitions, malefic, will only result in extermination. Sometimes, however, the Church is too interested in the contents of certain mages' minds to allow them to live, as this would be unacceptable for the reputation of the religious organisation. They are tossed from one Circle to another until they disappear somewhere along the way, only to wake up here. Aeonar has no past, no memory. But plenty of an indescribable atmosphere of sticky madness, a concentration of ugliness and nothing diluted: boredom, loneliness and interrogation. Whoever the prisoners are at first, this place soon reduces them all to a common animal level. And each new lump of misery presses against the thin Veil here. One spontaneous possession a month was, in the overseer's opinion, about what was to be expected.

As he entered the upper gallery, Vincent followed a well-planned route. The Overseer had personally devised the current order of patrol, recognised as the best by his pedantic brethren in the Order, and even by the conservative Templars. And the trick is to ensure that, under normal circumstances, everyone stays in someone's line of sight. Right now, more than half the cast was missing, creating a lot of blind spots that no one was paying attention to. But Vincent wasn't angry; he knew the weaknesses of the mind well. Leave something out of sight, and soon the lazy mind stops noticing. Repeat an action a hundred times and you stop noticing how your hands do the job at all. Habits, labels, patterns...

The first victim didn't even notice his superior approaching. And Vincent had to admit a certain annoyance, since he had personally trained each of these men... On the other hand, if they had the chance... The man killed in cold blood, caring little for the cacophony of new screams. It's all about rhythm. The next two also died cleanly. The third had a brief struggle. The fourth was a bit of a struggle, but it was the last, and Vincent took his time. The overseer even closed the man's eyes as a sign of respect, though the slight hint of nobility in his own actions made the man angry, like a bad habit he couldn't break.

There was no need to massacre every level. The dead here were only needed to keep the patrols in the pit while they searched for the cause of what had happened. And the order sent earlier with Daniel had added the finishing touches by moving some of the patrols from their usual positions to bring some prisoners closer to the bottom of the pit. That was the name of the sixth level, a large cylindrical hall at the centre of the underground part of Aeonar and at its lowest point. In ancient times, the Imperials had made sacrifices there. Nowadays, the room was almost empty. A year ago, the overseer had ordered it to be cleaned and all the prisoners' phylacteries to be collected in one place. Vincent had managed to get to the door of the room without spilling a drop of blood.

As the double doors slammed shut, the overseer lowered the bolt into the bed of massive iron supports with an effort. Without stopping, the man set to work. In total darkness, he had to get to the candles that had been kept here and clear the centre of the room of the two tables and a dozen vials of thick, stiff blood.

When the deed was done, the Overseer slowly drew the blade of the rapier in his clenched palm and sprinkled the centre of the room with his own blood. This served as a reference point. Opening vial after vial of the prisoner's blood, which thanks to the magic had not curdled inside, Vincent began to draw complex abstract glyphs on the floor. The glyphs folded into a unique, hypnotic pattern. The man realised it was time to hurry. But he did not allow himself to, for accuracy was more important than speed.

After about twenty minutes, almost before the patrols changed, Vincent was done. He had a few minutes left before the first bodies were discovered, but it didn't matter. The Overseer remained the only Truth Seeker in Aeonar, and only a fellow Order member could stop him now. For the first time in years, Vincent let out the faint shadow of a grin and shook his head. It still seemed strange to him that this time it wasn't even necessary to recreate the Flaming Vow. This time, however, the targets were different.

Without any introduction, words came out of the man's mouth, a mixture of forgotten words in Elvish and Dwarven. Vincent was no sorcerer, but he knew how to use the free power around him. And now there was a magical construct before him, woven from the blood of dozens and dozens of talented people. Blood magic. Fools only interpreted it as a foul form of magic, a kind of malefic. And yet, even the phylacteries that surrounded Vincent were only born through the use of blood magic. It was the only form of magic that didn't bother the Titans. And so remained invisible to the Templars. For a man, thinking about things Vincent shouldn't know for the first time in three years was painful, but also pleasant. Like pulling the scab from a healing wound. Meanwhile, the glyphs on the floor began to weave and shift within the pattern, as if they had taken on a life of their own. There was a growing pressure in the room. It had nothing to do with physical sensation. But the man knew that the Veil would not last long. And with the first soundless tinkle, resonating to the point of toothache, a rupture formed. A shapeless, slowly pulsating blob of non-reflective blackness. It seemed flat, but it actually had volume.

Such a result was not the goal, only an intermediate step. And then, even through the thick and tightly closed double doors, came the first of the wailing cries. The man knew exactly what was happening in Aeonar at that moment. Blood was being squeezed from every pore of every living creature on all six levels. And the souls of the spellcasters, bound to the ritual by phylacteries, were being torn away to be thrown into the rift.

Vincent's quiet voice said:

— The gift is given. The deal is done. Show me the way.

All sounds fell silent, as if the strings of a marionette had been cut at once. Through the deafening silence came a clear, unaccented voice:

— I can smell it. It burns. It's eating away at the core of my being. It eats away at caution and patience. It tears attentiveness apart. Understanding must be found first. Inclusivity is not a place, a thing or an essence. A state. Shaky, fleeting. Thousands of lives, one after another, many at once, form the chance for a single moment to become extraordinary. For this kind of work, diligence is above all other virtues.

The man gritted his teeth and spat out the demand angrily:

— Price paid!

There was so much power and authority in a simple human voice against the otherworldly background. And then came the answer:

— It's true. The strong take. The wise build their own. Remember where the path begins. Roundabout, narrow, full of traps. Cunning as a shield. Harvested strength for a weapon.

— The moment is close... Too close! Formless!

— Time is precious when it's scarce. It's a gift.

The crack retreated into itself, disappearing with a soundless rustle, as if something were scraping the inside of the skull, sending waves of goosebumps from the top of the head and down the spine. Left to his own devices, the man let out a low growl, a sharp contrast to his previous behaviour. Without wasting a moment, he ran for the door. The man was in a hurry, even late. The original plan had been to start a fire and prepare the body for his own exchange. Now he didn't care that the tracks behind him cooled down, leading to suspicions and unpredictable complications...