Chapter 10 - "Pinnacle of insanity"

Morrigan stopped suddenly and crossed her arms under her chest, saying casually.

— We're here to discuss business.

The trio of Templars stood in sync. The leader turned to the sorceress, casting a questioning glance at Alim first. The man's expression was mostly hidden by his helmet. But even the little that was visible showed surprise and caution. A hard, clear voice, vibrating with tension, spoke.

— There is no time for delay. My brothers and I must fulfil our orders and return....

The girl pressed her lips together and shook her head negatively, interrupting the warrior's formulaic tirade. Bethany clenched her fists and glanced nervously around at the Templars who had stopped at her side and behind her. Leliana stood still, relaxed, as if only watching the spectacle with mild interest. Only Morrigan noticed out of the corner of her eye that she had barely changed her position, her right hand moving closer to the hilt of her dagger. The elf looked dazed, barely able to cope with the influx of emotions, disturbing thoughts and events. Meanwhile, the sorceress was formulating a follow-up.

— There seems to be a misunderstanding. On the docks or in the camp, the words of the Templars carry weight. But we are at least a hundred paces from both places.

— Alim, would you ask your companion to keep going?

— I'm afraid I...

The sorceress rubbed her eyes defiantly and waved her hand, cutting off her companion's excuse.

— I see. The condition of the warriors must be ignored. And who would take the words of a strange Chasind woman seriously?

The elf let out a short, barely audible groan, followed by an exhale.

— That's not what's scary.

Having caught the Templar's attention, and before it turned to irritation and hasty action, Morrigan began a measured presentation of the facts.

— It seems that what is happening is a mystery to the uninvited guests. Four travellers from afar. What could they know of the problems here? Even Alim has been away for at least two months. The others are new. But when you think about it. A whole corps on guard at the Tower. Then an unknown incident. And the only answer is a siege.

The same Templar who first raised his voice tried to object.

— Nothing from this...

He was half-heartedly stopped by the enchantress' bright, triumphant smile. The man realised immediately that he had allowed himself to be drawn into the discussion instead of maintaining control and obeying a direct order. Frowning, he tried to make another point. But by then the girl had already launched a series of conclusions at the trio.

— According to the Companion, two things could have caused the Church warriors so much excitement. Look, your commander let a few facts slip from his tongue before sending the guests out. Firstly, the Corps Commander ordered the fortress to be isolated. And he was mentioned as being alive. I've learned that it's normal for the Commander to be on the fourth floor of the tower. So, under the onslaught of the enemy, part of the Corps was able to retreat together. Down and out. In such a scenario, casualties are hard to avoid. Still, look at Alim calmly, even if you "twitch". Personal contempt, it is hard to invent a reason why defeated mages would save the skins of Templars. And hatred is a sticky thing. So rebellion is unlikely. But then, under what circumstances would creatures fighting from the shadows not blame the mages for their appearance? Only if the mages had fought on your side. And died in the fire without being counted.

None of the three Templars could hide the signs of stress and genuine surprise. The leader of the three raised his free hand to stop the flow of words from Morrigan, but even in that movement there was uncertainty. The sorceress, on the other hand, was not about to be interrupted halfway through.

— But is that all we've been told? No. Second, reinforcements. It's not enough that the Corps was pushed back. They didn't finish them off. That's where the best part is hidden. Three guards, all nervous. But discipline, concentration, no complaints. Clean armour and no dirty beards sticking out from under their helmets. Since the incident, they've had time to recover and send for reinforcements. At least three or four days. That's how long the breach in the veil was limited to the tower walls. A paradox. On one condition, there is someone inside the tower who can control the situation. As taught, there are no leaders, no understandings, no agreements, no compromises among the shadow creatures. Only strength. In this case, strength and intelligence. That's not all you can guess. But enough to take me seriously. Or not?

The leader of the three Templars nodded slowly. Morrigan's words left no one indifferent. The elf, taking a little longer than usual to digest the meaning behind the words, shifted his tense gaze to the dark outline of the huge fortress. The expected conclusions made the mage twitch. He vividly imagined the worst possibilities for his sister. According to the old books, the chances of survival for ordinary mages within the Breakthrough Borders were close to zero. It was easy to imagine that in five or six days this would be true even for powerful mages. A small glimmer of hope came from a single assertion. That something was holding back what was happening in the breach, preventing it from growing. But that same conclusion asked— what were the chances of a favourable resolution? Licking his dry lips, Alim asked slowly, dreading his own words.

- You don't wait for reinforcements to rescue those lost inside. You don't wait for reinforcements to rescue those lost inside. Isn't that right?

The leading Templar looked back at the elf without answering. He didn't need to. The other two men lowered their eyes. A grim determination and a subtle hint of guilt began to permeate the silence. The mage covered his mouth with his hand and squeezed his eyes shut. With a twitching motion of his hand, he swept his face up and down, trying to brush away what had happened like the cobwebs of a nightmare. But of course the cold reality did not care. Bethany reached out to touch the man's shoulder with her fingertips, but stopped in her tracks. The girl took a step back, back to the safety of the Morrigan's back. The older sorceress shook her head with a hint of irritation and clarified.

— "The right to destroy." Meaning flows from the words like blood from a wound. It tastes. As if the Templars will no longer play by the rules. You hope to burn the fortress from within, to drive every creature you see back into the shadows? Whether it's alone, in the body of another, or in a thing. The plan is good. Cold and rational. But I'm afraid the fire will be the straw that breaks the Temple's back. Not that that's the point. It's more a pity for those who have taken refuge in their own minds and lost their bodies. And desperately hope for outside help to keep them alive. What's the point of this conversation? You may have guessed by now that you're dealing with more than just a bunch of hungry people. From this point on, it is better for you and for us if the Hasindka can talk to the Commander. But I'll make it clear, not in the camp. Here.

The Templeman, who had originally spoken, shook his head in disbelief and cut him off.

— This is absurd. First of all, it's nonsense. You are only guests. Secondly, even in quiet times, the Commander is the one you come to. Not the other way round. Thirdly.

The man didn't have time to finish. This time it was Leliana who cut him off.

— You're right, partly. Our companion has a tendency to express and realise wild ideas. But most of the time it only seems so at first glance. I've heard different stories, talked to different people. And although I have not directly encountered the combat side of the Order of the Templars, I can say this with some confidence. Your three is the standard formation for fighting a traditional mage. Two cover and surround, while the third enforces hand-to-hand combat. And since you're not confused by the pressure of our comrade, you're not green rookies either. But when such a squad faces a superior threat of, say... two... three mages… The first priority is to survive and retreat. So that the new threat doesn't come as a surprise to your fellow Order members.

The Templar frowned at the red-haired girl. Then he glanced at the elf. And again to the Morrigan.

— Are you saying...

The warlock's sharp reply seemed to be spat out.

— Three.

The warrior, unable to contain himself, gritted his teeth in annoyance.

— What a bad habit to interrupt...

— Manners have been shown enough. Quiet conversation in the woods instead of humble carnage.

— You can't win.

— You convince yourself. It is easy to read the truth in the quick glances you exchange. The three before me are neither hunters nor fanatics. The first, the six remaining silvers, I'll wager, are guarding the stronghold. The second would not have been sent by the commander to escort a wizard in good standing, after all. Otherwise, the dialogue would have ended in bloodshed long ago. Engaging in battle now is a game that can only be lost. Pride, anger and self-importance do not make good servants. Let's do this. Two will follow the commander. For two, defeat is as inevitable as for one, but they will bleed back. One is still the eyes and ears, but less of a threat to us. Besides, two Templars returning with strange news will cause far less trouble than one. I can already imagine the next argument. Assuming I'm telling the truth, that's the risk of three mages on the loose. But remember, this is an island. Under full control of the Corps. A few days and it'll be autumn. And the clothes we're wearing won't keep us warm.

The Templar let out a long breath and looked back at his companions. The man had his doubts. But it also showed that the Morrigan's arguments had fallen on fertile ground. Recent events had definitely shaken the Creator's warriors of their arrogance, their self-confidence and their willingness to take unnecessary risks. He asked, not agreeing but not denying the suggestion.

— What if we came back as part of the full ten? Not to talk.

The sorceress curled her lips slightly before answering. The conversation was beginning to bore her. Paranoia was eating away at her mind, demanding that she do something other than continue the dialogue, wait for the denouement or fight. Then came doubts about the wisdom of the idea and jealousy of Liliana's talent, who could surely conduct such negotiations more gracefully, more subtly. Envy of the position of the commander, under whose hand these fools, who did not need to be clarified in response to direct orders, were completely subordinated. Envy... The girl rubbed the middle of her forehead with her index finger.

- How you return is up to you. I assure you, after hearing your story, the Commander will take only a few aides with him. Or prove me wrong. The main thing is that you don't shout about the news in the camp. It'll only make it harder for the Commander to make a decision.

— That sounds... Even with your demonstrated foresight and verbosity, there's a lot you're asking us to take on faith.

Physically feeling a surge of irritation, Morrigan spoke up, not caring for the amount of venom seeping into her voice.

— But isn't that exactly what it is for your brother... .....

Giving the sorceress a worried look, Alim took a step towards the negotiating Templar and, anticipating disaster, stepped in.

— I propose a compromise. I'm the only one known to have mastered this art. Therefore, I will also go to the camp. It will serve both sides well. As further proof of our willingness to talk. Besides, the Commander knows me by sight. I suppose so. And the point of view of a circle wizard won't be out of place in this story.

After casting a cautious glance at the elf, the Templar nodded slowly. Then he repeated the gesture more curtly to Morrigan. Gesturing to the warrior behind him, the man turned and continued down the path. As he passed the mage, the Second Templar indicated with a wave of his metal gauntlet that he should hurry. Noisily sucking in air, Alim turned to the sorceress. The man opened his mouth... But he only pursed his lips and followed the warriors with a tense step. The gathering darkness swallowed the three figures without any dramas. Lifting her eyes to the few stars and silvered edges of the clouds that peeked through the gaps in the branching crowns of the oaks, Morrigan stretched out.

— The dice are cast. Now we wait.

The red-haired girl at the edge, treading softly on the grass, came closer and asked a question in a low voice.

— It was partly about surprise. It's about a peaceful outcome and... What I'm trying to say is… I've seen you solve difficult situations by taking risks, by mixing violence with magic. And suddenly… Negotiation. With the Templars.

Leliana glanced at Bethany warily, but she didn't notice. The eldest of the wizards, on the other hand, responded without taking her eyes from the mysterious sky. The eldest of the wizards, on the other hand, responded without taking her eyes off the mysterious skies and the soft rustling of branches.

- If there is no need, my choice has always been to avoid the fight. Note the condition, if that works. Loneliness. But I'm no stranger to combat. Now the circumstances are such that it is more difficult to avoid, and vice versa— easier to engage. So it turns out that the contents of the soul— darkness, but the guts and blood for all the same. That's why, when there's an option to decide by force, without payback or price, it's easier to use it than to avoid it. But to fight your way through here... It'd be hard. It's a good thing we had a chance to talk. Maybe.

In the silence of the night, her grin sounded as loud as the words. Leliana said, fixing her red curls.

— If you can get through the circumlocution, you value the companions around you. I wonder what that says about you.

Without turning, Morrigan shrugged and replied.

— I used to have a fondness for shiny things. We were comfortable together. Let my mother struggle tirelessly with that trait of mine. And then. Let's say he died. But emptiness is abhorrent to the living. I don't want to part with those who arouse envy and interest. It could be seen as a new manifestation of greed.

— For a comparison with the thing .... That's funny.

— You have to be careful. Otherwise things break. And there has already been a separate conversation about that.

Leliana sighed heavily. The obvious reference to the conversation she'd had earlier stopped her from continuing. She turned away and studied the surroundings with a grim expression. Bethany, meanwhile, shivered and quietly shared her more down-to-earth concerns.

— It's cold.

Without taking her eyes off the sky, the older sorceress nodded.

— Autumn is upon us. Soon, not even a campfire will brighten a wonderful time in nature. Warm clothes won't hurt either. I admit that fate has not chosen the best place to hibernate.

Bethany glanced at her companion and raised her eyebrows in surprise.

— Why does… The stronghold look... more substantial than other castles? I can't say I've seen any castles. Well… The kind of castles I've seen from books. Of course, you have to take into account that this is a rather dangerous place these days. I suppose.

Morrigan bit her lower lip and accepted the list of arguments with a slow nod.

— That's true. I don't know much about castles myself. But Alima has been listening to me. So it turns out that in winter it is more a pile of damp stones than a cosy shelter. The mages huddle in tight circles around sparse hearths with blazing fires. This is how they spend their days. And at night, they fan the embers according to seniority. It is the only way to warm blankets and beds in freezing cells, to keep from freezing to death in the morning. Fire mages and healers gain a lot of weight before spring. Everyone gets cold and sick. And vice versa. This fact may make you, Bethany, more important than all of us put together. Unless the path leads to the casemates in the next few hours.

While the girl blinked in surprise, digesting the news about the winter life of mages in the stronghold, able to literally bend the laws of existence known to ordinary people, time continued to run...

* * *

The sound of footsteps announced the new arrivals before their eyes could make out torchless figures in the thick darkness beneath the canopy of the grove. The absence of light made each of the three girls instinctively tense. The open footsteps, however, only spoke of the three approaching. Of course, it had to be taken into account that a dozen of them could be silently flanking them in an arc.

The first to emerge from the darkness were the guards. Two stocky figures in full uniform, chain mail gauntlets on the hilt of their swords. Even the few faces that could be seen through the slits of their helmets in the ghostly starlight suggested veterans with a battle-scarred past. Lips like an open book of agonisingly hard blows and attempts to chew through an enemy blade. Noses — repeatedly broken. One had only to glance at what these two had been through to see the main point. Both warriors embodied the ability to survive longer than the enemy.

The commander followed. He moved between the two warriors, but slightly behind them. In contrast, he did not emit a similarly thick threat. His head was not covered by a helmet at all, revealing the abundant grey hair, the neat haircut and the trimmed beard that covered the lower part of his face. Sharp eyes glinted in the darkness with curiosity and readiness for battle. But nothing in the figure clad in Templar armour suggested any other emotion or thought in the man who represented the supreme power in this corner of the world.

Morrigan pursed her lips, but immediately followed it with a respectful bow of the head, making it clear who would be in charge of the group of three ladies. The Commander responded to the gesture in a mirror-like manner, not filling it with any nuance, unlike the girl. A mechanical movement. The sorceress blinked and began the dialogue.

— I see you brought the hunters with you. That's a good conversation starter.

— Really? I'm surprised. Why is that?

— The more confident you are, the more honest you are likely to be. And an open threat is better than a dagger hidden in the dark.

— Interesting opinion... But to the point. The messengers and Alim have sent many words. Including the guest's insight into the current state of the Corps. There is, however, one matter of concern. Euphemisms aside. It's not hard to guess how the Church interprets your status. Apostate. And that's just the beginning. Even if things weren't as bad as they are, it would leave me free to take whatever action I thought appropriate. And under the circumstances... What's the point of this dialogue? Believe me, this question is not asked out of curiosity. You have astonishingly accurately assessed the chance that, at a time like this, what you have already heard will raise doubts in the mind of the Corps Commander, forcing him to refrain from rash action. I now await the continuation of the story.

Licking her lips, Morrigan cast a wary, yellow-eyed glance at the two hunters, who stood like lifeless statues.

— So... What I've heard the last few weeks… What I used to know… Taken together, it's led to a few conclusions. Firstly, it is not within the current powers of the Templars to find a solution to a situation. Either there is no solution at all, or the expected losses are disproportionate to the goals. Why do I think that? Reinforcements. That's two. They've reduced their room for manoeuvre by reporting the disaster. So they're thinking more of the right to destroy than of a brave rescue. But suddenly, after... four days, let's say, there was someone in there waiting to be rescued? Thirdly, the Firmament is unique. An indispensable resource in times of peace. Too obvious a symbol of power for the throne and the Church. And its military power cannot be overestimated. Meanwhile, in the south, the plague is rising. And this fact is not a matter of personal belief. A hundred creatures of darkness, skilled in the arts, are worth thousands of warriors. It was not swords, bows, and spears at Ostagar that wrote the king's epitaph. It was not the retreat of a warlord that drew the line. Magic on the side of the enemy ground flesh and bone, will and experience indifferent. Finally, you. On the shoulders of the Commander's cold head, or these Templars would not have met here at this speed. It's easy to destroy, but perhaps you know how hard it is to build. For many, there's no worse fate than to see the tower's contents cut down. Therefore. Take this chance to save the keep. Let them in. One. And I promise you that chance. And no revenge if you fail.

The Commander's eyes narrowed, and he moved his gaze slowly up and down the girl's form. It was as if he was judging and weighing the renegade. But not by such trivial values as weight or height. But by the meaning and consistency of her words.

- Throw another twig into the flames, one whose properties you don't know and whose consequences you don't appreciate? So, there's no price? Every deed has a price, girl. Enough winters of duty and power have made me aware of this law. But you're right about one thing. Of all the possible outcomes, I'd prefer one in which the circle continues to exist. The reasons you give carry weight. But I'm more concerned about the lives of the Templars and the mages trapped inside. Whatever happens, I don't believe it will be the result of the will of the majority. Having acted as Keeper of this Circle for the past few decades, I have a general idea of the extent of the depravity of each and every inhabitant of the stronghold. And to choose to cut short so many deserving or previously innocent lives is not an easy burden to bear. But these are the old man's personal experiences. Reality is indifferent to such things. Perhaps we are seriously mistaken in our only assessment. The Corps did not retreat from the tower four days ago. At dawn, the eighth day will begin. The incident took place immediately after the second council meeting. Which, unlike the first, I happened to be absent from.

The sorceress made a hissing sound of displeasure through clenched teeth. The strange reaction caused both hunters to draw their blades, at least a palm's length, before the Commander shook his hand to prevent further escalation.

— Eight days... Eight days. If the new owners of the tower wanted the souls of the mages...

The old Templar nodded and confirmed with undisguised bitterness in his voice.

— In that time, a powerful mage will either break free or perish.

— But... So be it. You're still hopeful. This conversation wouldn't have happened otherwise.

— That's true. I hope so. But hope itself is a poor guide. Blind and useless.

— Maybe... Maybe the chance of a miracle isn't so small. I know it sounds weak. But the fact that there's something holding back the breakthrough keeps it from growing. So it doesn't become too visible. Before… Before the news of the plague eclipses the other. The inhabitants of the shadow…

The Commander abruptly interrupted Morrigan, correcting the reservation.

— Demons.

The girl wrinkled her nose at such one-sidedness, but continued on without losing her momentum.

— Demons don't use their powers selectively in the shadows. It's all or nothing. If something has the power to limit the breakthrough, to prevent it from growing or withering... One would imagine that some of the prisoners are still fine, body and soul.

— An essential observation. The very last. The rest is hopeful rather than logical. What are you counting on? Alone against such an opponent. Let me doubt that the power of an unknown apostate is greater than that of the First Wizard Irving, who fell victim like the rest.

Realising that the conversation was approaching the reason it had taken place in the first place, Morrigan pulled herself together and spoke the next words more slowly. It was as if she was skating on thin ice.

— The assassin is inferior to the knight in every way. But the difference in strength, weaponry, armour and training will not affect the hand that pierces the heart with a cold blade in a dream. This next argument will seem strange. But... I've killed many a Templar, and I'm sure of myself. The calm, satiated power did not last, so perhaps a cold, sharpened blade that has drunk blood is needed?

Once again the commander had to stop the two hunters from rushing in. They no longer looked like statues. The two armoured figures now looked like the string of a bow, jangling with tension, about to snap from their fingers. And then nothing would interrupt the irreversible course of events. And the old leader himself had turned grey and frowned.

— Dangerous words. Only a fool would speak them in our presence. But... Maybe it's something that should have been said and heard. Then it's a wedge... I never thought I'd live to see my own principles and beliefs turned to mush by compromise. Ser Robard warned me. It happens to everyone, though it doesn't happen overnight. The hull will let them in. One. The rest will remain in our camp, under guard. As suspected renegades. And you'll either find retribution in the claws of demons for what you've done. Or you will succeed. And then we'll talk again. But I have one clear condition as a measure of success. You must return with Irving, the First Wizard himself, in a sane state of mind. He must agree that the threat has been eliminated. I hope we understand each other.

Cautiously confirming with a tilt of her head, Morrigan replied.

— Quite. But there is no need for you to open the gates of the fortress. Just let me get close to the tower. I'll take it from there.

With a surprised raised eyebrow, the Commander nodded. Quickly turning to Bethany and Leliana, the sorceress spoke.

— No heroics. No foolishness. Keep busy. And wait quietly. Leliana. Keep an eye on Bethany. I expect to have my apprentice back in one piece before you. In body and mind.

The redhead gave the younger witch a stern look, but nodded silently. Bethany took a step towards her and embraced her mentor, leaving her in a state of confusion and mixed emotions without loud words or powerful magic.

* * *

Morrigan ran her fingertips slowly over the rough, slightly cracked surface of the monumental block. One of the hundreds of monoliths that made up Kinloch Keep. It was impossible to diminish the power of time. But looking back, it seemed astonishing how the result of mortal labour had been transformed into something so colossal, so indestructible. Almost eternal. The price in blood that the Empire had paid for its own existence cast a dark shadow from ancient times to the present. Yet it is hard not to see how the marks it has left continue to affect today. And tomorrow. Surpassing, if not in quality, then in quantity, the overwhelming majority of what came before and after.

The meaning that the builders and the generations of inhabitants who had inhabited these walls had left in the stones made the girl jealous. Of the heights they had reached. Of the legacy they had left. Of the power they possessed. Exhaling slowly to clear her thoughts and emotions, the sorceress looked up with golden eyes. The favourable darkness hid the vertical surface that led up. Otherwise, the surrealism would have made her dizzy. Cloud giants floated slowly across the sky, going about their own business. The movement of the giants, which were difficult to see, could only be traced through slivers of clear sky. And the stars that twinkled in them. In this world of the immense, Morrigan felt small and insignificant for a few heartbeats. But the feeling was not overwhelming. On the contrary, it stoked the fire of ambition and made her heart beat faster.

With a flutter of her hands, as if to release the tension, the girl turned back for a second. On command, she was silently led through the heavily guarded outer wall of the castle's inner courtyard. The buildings here were empty, gaping with open doors and windows. At night, such a sight fuelled the darker side of the imagination. But in truth, there was a remarkable peace and quiet all around. And not a single guard stepped inside the walls. There was no rustling of nocturnal rodents, no chattering of grasshoppers, no squeaking of other insects, not even the flapping of the wings of nocturnal birds. The living instinctively tried to flee the tower. Shaking her head, the sorceress took note of this fact. But more importantly, there were no unwanted witnesses.

Turning back to the wall of the incredible structure, Morrigan began the mundane task of unlacing and stripping her clothes, folding them neatly on the grass. The prospect of entering the tower through the main entrance did not excite her at all. It promised an unpredictable and certainly deadly ascent through the realm of the Shadow Dwellers. There was an alternative, albeit one with its own risks. On the way, the Morrigan cautiously inquired of the Commander about the inner workings of the stronghold. Whatever the cause of the disaster, the trigger was a meeting of the Council of the Circle of Wizards. And it was held at the Summit.... The library was more complicated. It turned out that there was a store of books on the ground floor. The younger novices did indeed live amid a rich variety of texts. The second was on the floor above, among the waiting for the torture and the full-fledged mages. The sorceress was left to guess where the books with "dangerous" content were kept. The First Wizard's office on the second floor and the Templar's office on the fourth floor were equally suitable. But since there was nothing useful to be found in the cellars, it would be funny if the necessary thing was there. The girl was leaning towards the second option, but... Alim`s sister, if she was still alive, might be on the second or third floor. The sorceress could not see the elf again before the adventure began. But her sincere affection for the only member of her family made Morrigan feel a mixture of confusion and slight... envy. She thought of her own goals, but also of those of others.

With a delay in placing her shoes on the trampled grass, Morrigan reappeared in the mysterious night and the breeze that enveloped her body, a naked stranger, full of feminine features and secrets. Allowing herself one last idle breath, the sorceress concentrated on the incarnation of the spell. The very thing that had filled her with fear and uncertainty since the memorable incident at the top of Ishal's Tower. It was a coincidence that the spell was needed again in a desperate situation to conquer another incredible peak.

The intricate chain of runes facing the inside of the body raged as it had the first time. Every second the magic threatened to break free, distorting flesh and bone in unpredictable ways. The first experience was nothing like the second in terms of emotion. Then it had been like meeting a predator on a familiar and safe path. Now it was like jumping into the lair of an ogre bear. Barely able to control herself, Morrigan tried not to think of anything else. Wrapped in a shroud of night's darkness, her pale skin floated like a candle under the fierce heat of the flames. The face sharpened, losing its eyes and lips completely. The familiar teeth were replaced by needles, oddly clamped together, almost touching the gums. The hair disappeared. One of the last changes— with a muffled crunch, the shoulders gave way to the sides. And with a whistling deep breath, an extra pair of arms appeared.

Now was the time to calmly take in what had happened. The spell, though unchanged in form, had produced a different result than expected two times out of two. Looking around, the sorceress realised that there would have to be a long, if not enormous, string of runes in place for such a thing to happen. Carefully touching her cheekbone and then the disappearing eye sockets, Morrigan was convinced that the vision was not a sign of a new body, but rather a form of blood magic that gave sight without eyes. As if the fact that a familiar spell was doing something strange wasn't enough. Or the realisation that every use of it risked distorting the flesh beyond repair. To the point where no magic could keep the new body alive. The reasons lay in the wild dance of the runes, like the frenzy of a tangle of snakes and the beating of a heart. It began with the first bit of mana that filled the chain. It was as if the will of another was involved. Clenching and unclenching her four hands, synchronously and asynchronously, the sorceress paused for a moment in her own thoughts. And it wasn't the idea of a foreign will. Even if it was in the context of the concept of possession. The dance of the runes. The technique of the Circles, according to Alim — to assemble a static pattern of runes into a single layer. The runes carry meaning. In a properly set circle, the individual meanings are transformed into the desired result, embodied by mana. A single layer imposes a limit on how many runes any one rune can intersect with at one time, multiplying its own meaning. Flemeth's technique was to create a static circuit of many layers. This allowed each rune in the circuit to intersect with a large number of neighbours. As a result, memorising the formula required more vividness of mind. But the number of runes needed to achieve the same result was reduced. The technique of the reversal spell, so valued by Alim, required that the runes not only form a static, multi-layered, compact figure in the mind. It required them to form a specific pattern together, resembling a new rune. Yet the runes remained static. And mana flowed through the unchanging chain as through the veins. At second, or rather third glance, the chaotic, life-like fluctuations of the runes tended not only to distort the formula or break the spell. The girl leaned her upper limbs against the wall, trying not to lose track. It seemed as if the answer could be caught by the tail. The runes changed position as the mana flowed through the chain. At certain moments they intersected with different neighbours, forming a pattern of additional meanings of incredible complexity. A long black tongue licked needle-like teeth, revealing the girl's inner excitement. It was almost impossible for her to accept on faith that the result would be the same, no matter how hard she tried to control the spell. But the premonition looked surprisingly good. And it beckoned with the idea that the true limits of magic lay far beyond the abilities of mortals. On the one hand, it was impossible to imagine anyone being able to reproduce such a thing on their own, even in an immensely extended life. On the other hand, if such magical behaviour was possession...

Morrigan pounded the tower wall, willed herself to stop the fantasy from running wild. The night would not last forever. Her hands strained to find cracks for the black claws to latch onto. A moment later, the lone grotesque figure on the wall was a dozen metres off the ground.

According to Alim's fragmentary information, the tower was originally dominated by common halls, in the tradition of imperial architecture. But if they were later divided into smaller rooms, no one had managed to divide the floors for centuries. As a result, the ceilings were still dizzyingly high. One and a half dozen steps for the ground floor, about three dozen for the second. Six dozen for the third floor, which justified its name — "Great Hall". The fourth, equally or more impressive. And the Hall of Trials at the top, with a dome that reached a hundred steps at the top. To distract himself from the monotony of the climb, Morrigan smiled inwardly. Even for the first two tiers, the heating was a headache in winter. The Templars on the fourth tier were not happy at all. The ascent continued near the square corner of the tower. Firstly, this was where the wind exerted the greatest force on the indestructible stone, causing more cracks. Secondly, the tower was round on the inside, which meant that there were no windows in the corners of the tower to act as supporting columns.

* * *

The view from the fourth level of the tower was breathtaking, even at night. The island seemed like a black spot with few lights far below, and the surface of the water dominated the landscape. Touched by the few glimmers of starlight, stirred by gusts of wind, the lake looked majestic.

When she reached this height, Morrigan moved from one low window to another for some time until she found one that looked suitable. Not that they were a serious obstacle. Not every window had a room behind it that could be accessed. Often there was only impenetrable darkness behind the glass. According to Flemeth's fragmentary accounts of the nature of the Shadow, which she gave with obvious reluctance, the inquisitive student was of the opinion that contact between the changeling and the Manifest would not produce any outwardly impressive results. Unless a conscious and powerful will was involved, the absorbed area looked like darkness from the outside. A hole in the universe, filled with nightmares from within. The old witch didn't go into detail, whether it was the way reality rejected impermanence. Or if it was shrouded in a cloak of shadow and darkness, shamefully hiding its fickle nature.

Fortunately, behind the next window was an ordinary room. With no other choice, the sorceress decided to use this place to enter. Against the shattering glass, bending and shifting her joints at angles inaccessible to ordinary bipeds, her slender body slipped through the tiny window into the room. Once inside, the dark, empty room was transformed. Wall lamps with candles in glass vials flooded the room with a warm, barely flickering light. On a thick, worn carpet of a rich, dark red colour, the reclining figure of a Templar in full armour was outlined. His helmet was missing, as was his sword, and the man's face had the graceful serenity of a happy dream. Under normal circumstances, the room served as a resting place for a dozen warriors. The walls were lined with three-tiered beds, chests for personal belongings and bedside tables made of sturdy old pine. There was enough space up to the ceiling to get lost in the darkness. It was hard to tell whether it was natural or..... Immediately, soft footsteps sounded from the passageway into the next room. Morrigan darted to the nearest bed, lightning fast to get the advantage of a jump. Just then, a new visitor appeared in the room..... The creature combined distinctly feminine features with something animal. The naked body, with its graceful curves, the slenderness of its hips, the voluptuousness of its breasts that negated its own weight, surpassed any mortal. At least the ones she'd seen. Instead of the usual skin tone, the creature's body was mottled with chaotic patterns and shades of violet, pearl and azure of varying saturation. With every movement, the pattern seemed to come alive, creating a hypnotic effect that made you wonder if the body was moving on its own. The attractive face was dominated by sharp features and slanted eyes with snake-like pupils. And instead of hair, three rows of twisted pairs of horns rose up and back from the skull like a frozen hairstyle.

A soft, feminine, sweet sound caressing the ear, as if unable to decide which tone it belonged to, announced itself.

— Well, well, well. Guest. What are you doing in my corner of wonderful madness? Trespassing on someone else's prey?

Morrigan's lipless mouth made a hissing sound before she answered in a low, impersonal voice, involuntarily widening the hiss.

— Desire...

— Do you have it, guest? Mortals are so fond of metaphors. My favourite is "Eyes, mirror of the soul". Fits like a glove. Let me look into your eyes.

The demon frowned, staring into the Morrigan's eyeless face. It seemed to have encountered an unexpected obstacle, something new, and was now deciding how to behave under the proposed conditions. The enchantress tilted her head to the side and asked.

— The templar on the ground is your prize?

Desire smiled, coming out of his stupor. Blinking happily, it replied.

— Yes! And we're wonderful together.

In a single motion, the sorceress threw herself against the body on the floor, stopping the claws of the second pair of hands just before they entered the sleeping man's eye sockets. This was accompanied by a look of bewilderment on the demon's face, which abruptly changed to irritation as if by a click. Such transitions only reinforced the feeling that Desire's face was a mask that could only be given states, but not the transitions between those states.

— It's mo...

— Shut up. Answer the questions. Then the snack will live longer.

Desire frowned again and nodded slowly.

— What-what happened here? From the moment the veil was torn.

— The murders. The screams. Cries for help. The hunt. Fights for prey. Suppression...

Two black claws touched her eyelids and Morrigan tilted her head slightly. Waiting for the right response, she spoke.

— The desire loses on the intellect to no-one but laziness and pride. My wish shall be fulfilled. More detail.

The demon snapped in annoyance, but chose to continue the conversation at the risk of losing his prey forever.

— It began with words of magic that lifted the veil. Pride, many mortal lives secretly fed by the ambition that oozed from the minds here, offered to help the Source. Apparently, like countless other fools, he was blinded by his vice. By breaking the Source's will and using him as an attractor, the Proud One escaped from the depths of the reflections. With a mortal's access to magic at his disposal, the Proud One created an aberration. And let others in to do the hard work for him, hungry for food, power and stability. He must be raving now. The long-awaited masterpiece and flawless plan has failed. There were many experts in true magic who managed to hold off the others among the hosts of false magic. A good portion of those who had arrived had once again disintegrated into shadows under the force of the sigils and the power of the rejected. But most of all. There was a repression. Another will stopped the growth of the aberration. A powerful one. Not unlike the pride. All it can do now is keep it from collapsing inwards under the weight of its accumulated insecurities. And all those who were supposed to do the pride's work for it are now pulling it back, unrestrainedly embodying their own hiding places within the aberration.

— What of you?

— Here... are new ways. And the rejected ones are interesting to me. But take some and leave in time. I am not hungry.

— Did the tower look s-s-s-structured?

— Not everywhere, but mostly.

— The m-m-mortal, in whom pride has taken up residence, is up there?

— Yes.

— I take my hand away. And you whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

— Yes.

Morrigan slowly moved her claws away from her eyelids, holding them in position in time to strike. And then quickly took a few steps towards the window. Away from the man's body. Desire immediately returned to its happy state, and after another heartbeat, the room was plunged into darkness. The candles showed no sign of the recent presence of a flame, and the carpet was free of the marks of a heavy body. The passage gaped empty. Amid the silence, a gust of air blew in through the broken window, whispering softly over the sorceress' ear.

— You smell both familiar and repulsive at the same time. ..... Guest. Good hunting.

Straightening up and shrugging her shoulders, Morrigan concentrated on the facts, which were primarily a support for further action. In a brief dialogue, the demon had spat out hours of cryptic and curious information. But it was not the time to be distracted. Looking at the four open palms in front of her, the sorceress thoughtfully weighed the pros and cons of the current form. On a scale— strangely, the demons did not take this as just another piece of meat. On the other hand, there was no guarantee that Desire's demonstrated reaction wasn't just one of her crazy quirks. Clenching a fist, Morrigan looked up into the darkness. This body retained the ability to move in more than just the horizontal plane... Like the original target of the transformation, the spider. The girl barely tilted her head, wondering— was this place so safe up there? On the other dish was the problem with the original transformation— it limited the ability to embody other spells. The girl did not want to test this fact here. In addition, she was seriously afraid of the unusual behaviour of other spells. There was no logical justification for this feeling. Just as there is none for the obsessive feeling of threat in the dark, or the presence of another in prolonged loneliness. Claws or no claws, Morrigan was a mediocre melee fighter without magic. Opening her mouth, Morrigan made a hissing sound that should have conveyed frustration rather than threat. Ripping the throats of serious opponents with her bare hands was a dream.

Having made up her mind, the girl, not without inner trepidation, initiated the reversal of the transformation process, which required exactly the same steps. But in reverse order. After a few minutes, Morrigan gritted her teeth, exhaled painfully and returned to her familiar body. In the end, she felt more tension than pain. She examined herself carefully and had to say that whatever was happening with the spell, the steady return to her original state was comforting.

She looked into the next room and examined the contents of the antechamber. It laid between the Templar's bedroom and the corridor. It was not in the same amazing order as the bedroom. In the darkness, amidst the wreckage of tables and chairs, five bodies in armour stood out, sprawled in various poses along the opposite walls. The armour showed no signs of damage. But as she stepped softly with her bare feet on the cold stone floor between the rubble and the bodies, the girl was certain that the men were dead, in a state of extreme agony. It was forever etched into the distorted faces with bitten lips and gouged eye sockets. Anyone would have guessed from the blood on the ringed gloves that the warriors had robbed them of their own sight. However malleable Desire seemed when it spoke, this image eloquently demonstrated the Demon's attitude towards its victims. And the nature of the demon's 'interests'. The naked figure froze over a random corpse and slowly crouched down beside it. With her right hand touching the man's cheek, painted with streaks of 'blood tears', Morrigan checked the flesh for firmness and the blood scabs for dryness. Then she tried to bend the corpse's fingers. Repeating the process with her neighbour, the girl came to mixed conclusions. It seemed that the warriors had died within twenty-four hours of each other. Rigor mortis had completely enveloped the bodies. But there was no sign of decomposing flesh. If the Commander's words were to be believed, either these unfortunates had been Desire's playthings for a week, or the Demon had, by some whim, prevented the dead flesh from decomposing.

Rubbing her forehead with her left hand, Morrigan mentally ran through her repertoire of spells. The mage's own mana reserves were not known to be bottomless. The mage was known to be a specialist in fleeting combat. If you did not succeed in five, maybe ten minutes, you would run out of mana. And losing consciousness and trying to sleep here was a bad idea. I couldn't count on a quick attack. Licking her lips, she shook her head irritably. Proud... Logic easily summed up the sorceress' encounter with a demon of such size and power. Though burdened with the maintenance of a breakthrough, it was synonymous with an unseemly death for the Morrigan. But if Desire's words were to be believed, there were still those in the tower who had resisted. Looking at the bodies once more, the sorceress frowned. The breach had stopped spreading by the end of the first day. The girl thought that was when this... "suppression". Since then, no new 'guests' had come, as they had become detrimental to the Pride. There was no constant flow of demons. And so a certain parity could be established between those who have successfully "parsed into shadows" and the demons. One that the Morrigan would like to contribute to. In the end, this meant that the choice of magic was once again narrowed down to the spell she used, not unlike others. In addition, the sorceress had a crazy idea of how she could get her hands on the problematic demon, using the already heavy burden of the manifestation against him. But even the girl herself had thought it not unreasonable... ..... Such irreversible things were not to be toyed with in the building. Countermeasures were needed to avoid the leap from heroic rescue to imminent heroic death.

Sheathing a broad, straight dagger from the belt of the nearest corpse, Morrigan returned to the bedroom. The wardrobes were deliberately locked. She didn't want to pick the locks or search the corpses for keys. But there were some clothes in a drawer against the outside wall. Carefully folded shirts and some underwear were waiting for the bright future that would not come. After picking through the few treasures, the sorceress pulled on a large linen shirt that covered her body to mid-thigh. A simple leather belt, in which she had to make a new hole and cut off an extra tail. Two thick woollen socks also came in handy. They dangled from the girl's more graceful feet, but they softened her step on the stone floor and lessened the fear of stepping on splinters or unidentified entrails.

After weighing the alternatives, the sorceress decided to try her luck with the survivors first. And they would help her find the books she needed.

Morrigan slowly opened the door and peered out into the corridor, only to find a mummified corpse a few steps away, dressed as a junior member of the Church. Much like Leliana's robes when they first met. Neither Alim nor the Commander had said a word about the presence of churchmen in the tower. Which perfectly reflected the local role of the self-proclaimed servants of the Creator. As the red-haired vixen pointed out, there was no better attendant at a ball than a servant who delivered drinks or cleaned up the lavatory after drinking. Further space was obscured by a darkness beyond the control of Morrigan's keen eyes. Cautiously taking half a step forward, the girl checked the opposite direction as well. A careful glance immediately revealed the marks of sword swings that had left cuts in the tapestries pinned to the walls. Some also bore the marks of fire and splashes of blackened blood. The stylised images themselves predictably referred to the heroic deeds of the Order and therefore deserved minimal attention. In the oppressive silence, the only source of sound was to the right. A sort of rustling, barely audible from the rooms beyond the line of sight. Considering the possible layout options, Morrigan decided it would be best to move towards the sound. The stairs to the lower level might be behind a wall, or perhaps on the other side of the floor. The downstairs stairs, unlike the upstairs ones, started at the outside wall and wound in a tapered spiral down the many metres of floor to the centre of the lower level.

No sooner had the sorceress taken a few steps in the direction she had chosen than the hairs on the back of her neck began to stir at the alien presence. The girl squinted at the wall and drew her blade, looking fearfully into the dark yawn of the passage. At first it seemed to be an obsession. But then a part of the darkness moved on its own. Her eyes barely registered the unnatural movement of black upon black, desperately trying to give it familiar, recognisable forms. And that only added to the eeriness, for there was nothing recognisable in the moving mass. Then a low, weary sigh echoed through the room. It was like the sigh of an old man who had waited a long time for death and had the misfortune to wake up to another dim day of pain, loneliness and regret. And the black mass jerked into the shape of a grotesque, hunched figure, not touching the ground and only remotely resembling a human being. Defying perspective and volume, it split in two and moved towards Morrigan.

Whatever these creatures were, they did not look familiar to the sorceress. For the first few moments, the girl had to decide whether to flee, use magic or engage in hand-to-hand combat. But as soon as she felt the echo of the mana being roughly expelled, her doubts disappeared. Witches and mages used to carefully pour their inner power into their spells, sparing every last bit of it so that it was indistinguishable to others. Here, it seemed to have been poured into the finished form, not caring how much was wasted. Morrigan's body swayed and began to fill uncontrollably with lead. With some self-irony, the girl noted that she had been struck by the very same magic that the sorceress had just used on her opponent. "Draw life", "Tua vita mea este". And that was the only reason why the Morrigan didn't collapse in seconds without strength. The presence of mana implied the presence of life force, so the instinctive reaction seemed logical. All that was needed was to alter the balance. And so, despite her blurred vision, the girl clenched her teeth to the point of pain and repeated the spell again.

Now each black cloud tried to drink the sorceress, and the sorceress in turn tried to drink both dark figures at once. An invisible dance of death and magic in complete silence. After a minute, the opponents woven of blackness showed no sign of weakness. They showed nothing, they were indifferent. Morrigan, on the other hand, was covered in cold sweat from head to toe, breathing heavily and wheezing hoarsely. In those seconds, even a child with a table knife would have been a deadly threat to her. But this particular opponent was used to relying on skill alone. And either he had not met the likes of the Morrigan, or he lacked the ability to learn or remember from personal experience. Another five minutes passed before a trend began to emerge. The girl inexorably straightened up, breathing more slowly, and the figures faded into the darkness behind her, losing their sharpness of outline and sense of density. After another long moment, a long exhalation of relief travelled down the corridor at the edge of audibility. A bystander could easily have mistaken it for a draft. But not in the surrounding silence. And with that ghostly sound, the two figures vanished, leaving no trace.

Morrigan collapsed against the rough fabric of the tapestry, glad to be alive. Thanks to the magic, the tiredness was only psychological. Adjusting the shirt that clung to her body, the girl shook her head. Let the true nature of the strange spawn of darkness remain a mystery, but they were in a sombre state of mind. Combining the impermanence of shadowspawn, mana and some form-sustaining life force, the black figures resembled... Mages caught between here and there.

The girl wrinkled her nose in annoyance and turned back in the original direction. She resumed her slow movement, now expecting unnatural movements and deadly threats from the blackness lurking around every corner. Surprisingly, the fear itself did not overwhelm the mind. But the incessant anxiety clouded her concentration. And the over-concentration on the emptiness threatened to fill it with the long-awaited images without outside help.

The Morrigan crossed the vast hall with the statues lurking in the darkness and came to the door of the next room. The sound of wings flapping overhead was heard a few times, and she reflexively fought to keep her head down. For one thing, the darkness above her head was impenetrable. Second, the height of the ceiling in the hall allowed winged creatures as large as a well-fed horse to fly there. Thirdly, Morrigan needed to get to the other side of the room. Reaching the archway, the girl bit her lip slightly and looked around. It was no longer possible to see the corridor from here. But the cause of her concern was different. It took her a moment of concentrated thought to reconstruct how she had found herself in the middle of the hall, moving towards the archway in front of her. The question was— what had caused the disorientation in the flow of events? A memory crumbling in the dark. The perception of distance. Or space itself.

The next room was as large as the one before. No windows. So it was impossible to see the far walls in the darkness. Near the archway, Morrigan's eyes caught the outline of bodies on the floor. The robes identified two mages, but that was all. Heads and limbs turned into streams of a glassy mass resembling obsidian, pouring from their robes. These had long since solidified, blending into the surface of the ground with no clear boundary. It was impossible to determine the colour of the material in the darkness. Nor did I want to. Moving cautiously forward, the sorceress soon spotted the beginning of a wide, massive staircase to her left. To her left... Although the outer wall of the tower was to her right. Blinking disorientatingly a few times and turning around, the sorceress found no archway behind her where she had stood a moment ago. Only darkness. Slowly and deliberately, Morrigan looked back in her original direction and 'expectantly' came upon the archway she had recently passed through. For a moment the girl was overcome by dizziness and uncertainty in her legs. With an effort of will, she turned to the stairs on the left and began to take short, steady steps, cautiously, as if walking on a tightrope over a precipice. Counting them in her mind, the sorceress kept her gaze fixed on the impressive piece of sprawling imperial architecture, a waterfall of steps descending. Grasping the cool railing with undisguised relief, Morrigan was not ashamed of her weakness. As if in mockery, there was a rustle behind her. It was the same one that had originally given the girl her direction. But this time, the source of the sound was only a few feet away, though it was still as hard to characterise as if it had come from far away.

A sharp turn, accompanied by the short metallic sound of a blade drawn from its sheath, and Morrigan froze, ready to fight. She immediately raised her eyebrows in surprise.

* * *

In 3 and a half years and a certain number of sunrises before that.

The light from the single window gently caressed the pale, velvety skin. The night lights streaming into the room accentuated the graceful frame and tended to linger around the enchanting curves. The woman stood with her back to the bed, her slender leg slightly to the side, holding a half-empty glass of ruby wine in her right hand and massaging her own breasts with her left, as if in between. The man, who remained in the wide bed, revelled in the sight: graceful arms, the slight hint of firm breasts visible even from this angle, ample thighs and a woman's nature that made the blood rush from his head. And the waves of hair that fell down to her shoulders... The black curls shone like expensive silk.

The second floor window of the not-so-cheap inn looked out over Kirkwall at night. In the distance, the outline of the Casemates was barely visible, made easier to spot by the light from the many loopholes that served as windows. Much darker was the Viceroy's Stronghold... Snake-like streets wound around the great mass of mansions, and like bloodsucking creatures, pulsed satiatedly around those with light. Scattered across the landscape above the rooftops were dozens of bronze statues of suffering slaves. They resembled crooked fingers reaching for the sky. The cursed city had long been free, but in the hundreds of years since, no one had thought to remove the grim reminder of the inhabitants' true situation, caught between the bloody past of the old Empire and the grim present. With no thought of such things, grey pedestrians streamed down the street below. Life pulsed in an uneven, painful rhythm, day and night. Hundreds of eyes looked down and around, showing fear, suspicion, longing and hope. If only one of them looked up, he would see clearly in the window of a large building a brooding beauty with unmistakable Orlesian features. And then he would be rewarded with a flat stomach and neat breasts adorned with small pink nipples... The rest remained hidden, to fire the imagination for a long time to come.

The room reeked of sweat, lust, spilled wine and recently extinguished candles. With a slow, graceful half-turn, the woman looked at the crumpled sheets and the man's silhouette framed by the discarded blanket. The seductive grace in her gestures, her languid gaze, even her breathing, was trained in the woman like the conditioned reflex of a faithful dog to its master's voice and scent. Cold blue eyes, glittering with intelligence, picked out the individual features of her partner in the half-light: strong legs that had seen dozens of long roads, a muscular torso decorated with five or six scars. The nose was prominent, the face eagle-cheeked, the brown eyes lustful, the tangled dark hair almost shoulder-length. His thick arms were folded behind his head, giving the man's posture a bit of cocky amusement with a dash of mockery. And right in the middle of it all was a proud, swaying, powerful manhood. Secretly, even to himself, the partner had no doubt who was leading and who was following. The woman, however, drowned her smile in wine. She knew exactly which of the two was the master of the flesh. But as an experienced bard, the seductress would not hurt the man's deep-seated complacency. Besides, from a position of strength, he was right.

Placing the glass on the windowsill, the woman quietly approached the bed. As if by accident, she crouched down and wrapped her arm around the trunk, which was facing straight up. Ignoring her partner's attempt to hide a sharp inhalation, the woman asked casually:

— Are all Seekers so full of 'life force'?

The answer came after a hoarse, low laugh:

— According to the rumours floating around the cheap brothels, we're no match for the Grey Guardians. And rumours have become my speciality these days. But the truth is simpler. The contrast between your beauty, Melsendre, and the ugliness of the surrounding city, especially the slums, is too great for my feeble mind to offer any decent resistance.

The bard squeezed the base of the heat pulsing organ and snorted:

— Cheap flattery.

— Why pay a lot if it works?

The woman didn't object, feeling the man's open, animal desire focused on her, resonating somewhere in her lower abdomen, causing a new wave of arousal. Melsendra wanted to stretch, to imagine herself a cat, to tease the man with her nakedness, her curves, and then spread her legs invitingly before him. But experience belittled the value of naked instinct. If this man wanted to simply release his accumulated irritation and fatigue through mindless lust, he would be in a brothel. Not here...

— You're wondering...

— No. Just as you suspect, but don't want to hear, how I recognised you as a bard. You're clever, and you're very, very good. But nothing more. And I made the exchange equal, that's all. You didn't need more than two clues.

Melsendre began to slowly move her hand up and down, her white teeth flashing, almost hissing:

— You smug bastard, Benedick. You think you're a high lord, riding a proud horse of wit?

Closing his eyes so as not to show too much real emotion on his face, the Seeker gave a wry grin and gasped:

— If I remember correctly, the title 'Horsewoman' went to you.

— You're right. I like being on top. And not only for practical reasons. But most of the time I have to be on the bottom...

— Oh, don't tell me there's a pose you can't enjoy and benefit from. Or am I so good at making you...

Sloppy in appearance, but clearly measured in force, the woman slapped the tentatively bare head of the man's actionless manhood with the palm of her hand. A painful groan served to satisfy the sweet revenge. At the same time, the bard's eyes were averted in longing. Sensing his partner's change in mood, Benedick moved to sit behind her and gently embraced her. A touch of playful frivolity was replaced by sincere tenderness, though the heat of their bodies remained.

— Is something wrong? Don't lie, it shows...

Slowly exhaling, Melsendre murmured:

— It's... It's my patron. The best way to get rid of the burden is to give the bard a goal that he's sure to burn himself to death in pursuit of. And if he doesn't, it's still a guaranteed success. The order is given eye to eye. Both are fully aware of the meaning of what is being said. But dignity allows no emotion or weakness. The dance must flow cleanly to the last chord. In the end, one thanks the patron, whose faithful service has made up years of one's life, for the chance to fulfil one's own death sentence. Sometimes all this causes a sadness that rises like a dark syrup from the inside to the top of the head. But it always passes...

Hugging the girl tighter and breathing carefully into her neck, Benedict spoke softly:

— You're telling the truth. And this story was about you. Will this wicked city be the last for Melsendre?

Gratefully, the woman raised her hand and gently stroked the hair on the man's neck, covering her eyes before answering:

— Who knows? It's not where. It's when. If it were up to me, I'd choose the when, no matter where it ends up. But we don't control our own destiny. We're just reflections of someone else's will.

Melsendre put her hand behind her back, unmistakably finding the hot flesh between the two bodies. With the other hand, she ran the man's rough fingers down to her own burning belly. There was a hint of playfulness in the velvet voice:

— But you must admit, we have a masterful glow.

There was still a hint of doubt in the man's voice, but he admitted he was right:

— What doubt could there be?

— I'm sorry. It has cast a shadow over our moment when we should be celebrating. It's just, um.

— No. Don't apologise. You shared a glimpse of the truth about yourself with me. Nobody else would appreciate that. But to me it is priceless. It is not in my power to deny my own duty and change your destiny. You knew that from the moment you met me. But it is within my power to brighten the hours that remain. Before you must go. Admit it, you're just killing time with a handsome man, aren't you?

Melsendre exhaled hoarsely as the man's fingers penetrated easily, showing the woman a measure of the arousal that had built up against her darker emotions.

— Braggart... You just caught my eye... first.

— The first are overpraised. It is often more important to be the last.

Strong hands slid under her full thighs to lift the woman gently but surely. For a few heartbeats, the air pleasantly cooled the inside of her thighs, glistening with moisture. And then the two fiery beginnings joined. In one smooth motion, Benedict entered Melsendre and pulled her down. Despite her hoarse breathing and lidded eyes, the bard began to wriggle against the man, her inner muscles working skilfully to please him.

— A marten!..

For a while, the only sound in the room was heavy breathing mixed with muffled moans. But Seeker was the first to give in to this game of will and temptation. Without leaving the woman, he rose abruptly, turned her towards the bed and pushed her forward. With a grin, Melsendre recognised the man's intention and spread her legs wider. Grasping her waist tightly, Benedick quickened his pace, thrusting into the silky flesh with a hoarse growl muffled by wet slaps. Something in the man already knew the truth. Never again would a wandering servant of the Church meet a woman like this. Tomorrow he might be knee-deep in blood and shit and remember it like a dream. And the feeling of the moment slipping away caused a unique sweet pain.

As the next denouement approached, and Benedick's movements became jerky and disorderly, Melsendre threw back her head and literally forced out a muffled voice through clenched teeth:

— In me...

The Seeker felt the intonation of that phrase, sneaking in somewhere at the base of his skull, snatching control from the man and immediately pushing him towards the extravaganza.

When Benedict regained his sight and concentrated on the gracefully curved back, he found himself still inside the woman. Benedict also found the marks of his own fingers on Melsendre's flanks. Anticipating unkind thoughts and a flash of self-loathing, the bard spoke in a stiff, slightly slurred voice:

— Let's just say you marked me. Three times.

They were both glistening with sweat and breathing heavily. Benedick nodded conciliatorily and ran his fingertips gently down the woman's back, which responded with something close to a rumble. Contrary to expectation, Melsendre did not try to pull away either, savouring the sensation of the man slowly relaxing.

— I look at you and wonder if I can do this again before morning. As an exception.

The bard laughed hoarsely, the warm, chesty sound giving Benedict goosebumps.

— You hope you can. You're even willing to rely on the Creator to help you. But believe me, a man is not only what's between his legs.

Turning and looking back over her shoulder, Melsendre winked.

Finally, Benedict slipped out, stepped aside and sank wearily onto the bed. His partner slowly sat up. Ignoring the man's semen dripping down the inside of her thigh, she returned to the window. Licking her lips, Melsendre quietly asked a question:

— You despise this city?

— There's nothing to love. You're the only shard of beauty I've had the good fortune to stumble upon. And even you are just a guest.

The woman nodded.

— You're right. But if you're going to die, this is a better place than most. There's something here. Humans, elves, kunari flood this place. But the city stands idly by, watching the daily grind. Silently, like a faithful servant, it carries the legacy of its own creators through time. Not even Val Ruayo or Halamshiral contain anything like it.

Turning back to the slightly surprised Benedict, Melsendre asked:

— Let's see how far you're willing to go, shall we?

The man's raised eyebrow served as an answer and the woman continued playfully:

— Do you want to taste us? Or shall I do it?