The night by the campfire, its orange tongues licking higher than their heads, passed without incident. No worse, no better than in the forest. A plus—no bloodsuckers. A minus—the military camp never truly slept. The dreams left Morrigan with a vague sense of unease, though no trace of concrete memory lingered.
Glancing around, the girl first spotted Duncan's figure. The man sat in the same spot as the night before. The Grey Warden's face was blank as he watched the flames greedily devour a pair of fresh logs. Noticing movement, the warrior gave a curt nod. Morrigan, with an uncharacteristic curiosity and careful silence, studied the features of a man who undoubtedly held an exceptional position—even if not at the pinnacle of the world's, or even the country's, hierarchy. In these moments, the Knight-Commander maintained a striking detachment. Or perhaps his control over his expression was so absolute that reading his thoughts and emotions was impossible.
Less than ten minutes passed before the other two participants of the ritual arrived—strictly separate from one another. Greeting both with the same nod, Duncan cut straight to the matter:
— I assume at least two of you are burning with questions. How went the war council? Since you'll face the consequences regardless, I see no point in hiding it. Besides, there's no military secret here. A horde approaches from the north—roughly a thousand strong. Poorly equipped. They won't reach Ostagar before tonight. The King believes this timing is coincidence. Your interlocutor… and some others in His Majesty's circle suspect otherwise. On one point, the King is, unfortunately, undeniably right. At this stage, the army has few options to evade battle—especially with an attack from the north. For several reasons, the worst-case scenario is unfolding.
Morrigan crossed her legs, leaned forward, and propped her hands on her knees before asking the simplest yet most critical question:
—Why?
Duncan raised his brows in surprise but answered.
— Initially, intelligence suggested the scattered spawn were moving south to north. By yesterday morning, the bulk of the horde was believed to be within Korcari. Thus, the King's general, Loghain Mac Tir, proposed fortifying Ostagar as our stronghold. At first, the strategy faced no objections. Now, doubts gnaw at us—did we choose the battlefield, or was it chosen for us?
Alistair frowned and cautiously interjected, keeping his voice low:
— Can we truly expect such cunning, long-term planning from spawn? Months of coordination?
The old Grey Warden sighed and shook his head.
— There's no clear answer. The creatures of the Blight are, for the most part, fearless predators. Alphas are cunning in their own way—no more than an old, seasoned beast who's outlived younger rivals. Emissaries… are different. Their intellect breeds twisted yet effective schemes. But planning so far ahead… cooperation on this scale… This is new. It's hard to accept when the rules change, and nothing is as it seems. Mortals cling to the familiar until the last. But if my years have taught me anything, it's that there were never any rules to begin with. Prepare for the worst. If the unexpected happens, our assumptions were flawed. To return to Felandaris' question… At first, few paid heed to minor skirmishes along the southern border. Except us. Then, violence flared in the southeast, spurring the King to campaign. In the Southron Hills, monsters destroyed the village of Vintiver—near the southern edges of the Brecilian Forest. The Templars still blame an unknown maleficar. Then, silence. Suddenly, reports flooded in from the Western Hills. An epidemic began in Sothmere—the Amber Rage. Now we know the taint was to blame. Then came word from Gallagher's Wold. Hordes of darkspawn had invaded the Arl of the Western Hills' lands. Amid this, and at His Majesty's behest, Loghain devised a strategy to crush the spawn swiftly. En route to Ostagar, the army fought three major battles, seemingly shattering the invaders' vanguard. These clashes reinforced the general's belief in the horde's bestial nature. All that remained was to hold the fortress, bait the horde's core, and destroy it. Events unfolded as predicted—until now. We were lulled into thinking any remnants were mere unarmed beasts. And nothing more. Assuming the army could always retreat to the Imperial Highway and onward to Lothering, we traded mobility for the ancient walls' strength. That's why a northern assault is disastrous. The camp's defenses there are weakest. We cannot retreat south into Korcari. Attempting to withdraw toward Ferelden risks battle in the forests or along the Highway.
Morrigan snorted, unable to resist a jab laced with dry mockery:
— So the glorious northerners were outmaneuvered by mindless spawn?
Alistair shot her a glare and snapped back:
— Easy to criticize when you bear no responsibility.
— Oh, shifting your stance like autumn leaves—pretty, but pointless. Weren't you the one decrying the folly of open battle just yesterday?
Alistair opened his mouth to retort but faltered under the elf's attentive gaze. He growled:
— You know nothing. I spoke then, and I stand by it. I'm no grand strategist, least of all compared to a hero of the Orlesian occupation. But the idea was simple. We shouldn't have met this enemy in the wilderness, where we're on equal footing. Cynical as it sounds, we should've faced the horde at Lothering. Or further north. Evacuate the civilians first, of course. Use roads, rivers, supply lines, villages, and forts—even militia. Instead, we're trapped here as if fighting mindless beasts that'll charge the walls without tactics. But if they're smarter—
Morrigan arched a brow and clapped twice, slow and sardonic.
— Remarkable you still draw breath with such wit.
— Says you.
— A mystery you'll die pondering, no doubt.
Alim, who had watched the exchange in silence, turned to Duncan and pressed:
— Is she right? Was the general outplayed?
Duncan's gaze returned to the flames as he shook his head.
— If only things were as simple as they sound. Right or wrong. Victory or defeat. Loghain Mac Tir is accustomed to counting himself among the great strategists—and deservedly so, I might add. He is also unaccustomed to heeding advice from an obscure, sun-darkened Grey Warden. But like many before him, the general underestimated the enemy, infecting the King and his court with his own certainty. I avoid politics where I can. Tensions between the general and the King are stretched to the limit for reasons unknown to me. This spurs Loghain to act more aggressively, more confidently than ever—precisely when such traits are least warranted. Yet it would be a mistake to call the man rigid or a fool. Based solely on recent reports, Ser Loghain pieced together the truth and admitted his error. Without my own knowledge, I could never have drawn the same conclusions from such scant evidence. At the war council, he urged pragmatism over optimism: withdraw the army northwest to Redcliffe Fort at once. That very night. The King laughed in his face, forcing Loghain to choose between pride and prudence. That a man in his position cast aside pride and acknowledged his mistake… that deserves respect. Mine, certainly. I supported his reasoning. Yet… His Majesty spent the night determined to break Ser Loghain utterly. The King believes the horde is mere beasts, and thus victory is assured. If Loghain wavers, it only proves glory belongs to those who stand firm. Was this not why the army was gathered? Still, the King conceded retreat might be wise—on one condition. Winter approaches. Regrouping and resupplying would drain the treasury, delaying any final battle until spring. By then, the horde would grow stronger. Guaranteed victory would require Orlesian reinforcements. That, it seems, was a step too far for the general. I cannot say which of the two lost more in that exchange.
Alim shook his head grimly but stayed silent. It was Alistair who spoke next.
— How will the battle unfold?
— The battle… yes. Here's what we've settled. A third of the forces, led by the King, will meet the enemy here. Elite units and Grey Wardens at the base of the walls; archers and ballistae above. The remaining two-thirds—including cavalry, mages, and reserves—will withdraw northwest by noon, lying in wait for a flanking strike once the battle is joined.
Morrigan tilted her head, skepticism lacing her voice.
— How suspicious. Why would the King march into the fray? What does he gain?
Duncan shrugged.
— I argued against it. Pointlessly. Truth be told… I don't know. I'm not privy to the King's mind. But Loghain didn't call it madness for nothing. His Majesty believes crushing the horde will take but a day—and his presence will burnish his legend. Pride? Undoubtedly. Heroism? Perhaps. But above all, he's convinced the enemy cannot scheme. Thus, the risk seems illusory to him.
The next question came from the blond, who shifted uneasily as the discussion turned to the King's judgment.
— How will the general know when to attack?
Duncan turned toward Ishal's Tower and pointed.
— Firewood and oil will be hauled to the summit today. All that's left is to light it at the appointed hour—when the enemy is fully committed to melee. And you, Alistair, will do the lighting.
At first, the blond merely nodded—then jolted upright, sputtering protests.
— But—I—Why? Surely—
— It's simple. You're the youngest Grey Warden here. You've a life ahead; most of us have barely a year left. Yes, exactly, don't interrupt. Someone must endure. Someone unbroken, open to what comes, untainted—if not by present sins, then past ones. You must survive. Preserve the Treaties. Ishal's Tower is your best chance. It sounds ignoble, provincial—what hero is ordered merely to live? But trust me, this may be the hardest heroic act of your life. Dying by the enemy's hand is easy. To live on… Well, you'll understand. After. It may take years, but it will come.
Alistair still opened his mouth to object—but Duncan shook his head sharply.
— This is not a debate. It's an order. Alim—I'd have you go with him. That's a request. Consider it balancing the scales. For every Grey Warden here, there are ten darkspawn.
The elf allowed himself a brief smirk but nodded assent. Then the Grey Warden Commander turned to Morrigan, who snorted immediately.
— Seeking to appoint me a nursemaid, are we? Drizzled with honeyed words about 'the safest spot on the field.' Save your breath. The matter's simpler: your heir's word shields me until this farce ends. Since I rely on it, I'll linger within blade's reach before vanishing into the wilds. Besides, not even a mangy hound could slip from camp since last eve.
— Then we're agreed. My advice—eat. Sleep if you can. Tend to other needs, if you've the means or place. After noon, collect the Treaties and settle in the Tower. Climb high.
With a clap on the men's shoulders and a nod to Morrigan, the old Grey Warden strode off, leaving the trio in heavy silence. No one wished to speak… and there was nothing left to say.
* * *
Aside from its massive foundation—accessible by a private staircase of three or four dozen steps—Ishal's Tower consisted of four spacious floors. The broad landings of its singular stairwell, connecting each tier, hinted at either the builders' ambition or the need to haul heavy cargo upward. The final floor had once been reached by narrow stone steps ascending from the third level's center. One of the few impractical touches of this engineering marvel, it had not survived the ages. The soldiers hauling firewood had unceremoniously replaced the ruins of imperial masonry with a sturdy, makeshift ladder.
The fourth floor was remarkable. Remarkably high. With a remarkable view. Remarkably inhospitable in foul weather. Essentially an open platform, it was crowned by a dome—a verdigris-crusted spire resting on four massive pillars. Intricate copper patterns, thick with patina, coiled down each column before vanishing into the tower's stone walls. Nothing but those pillars bordered the platform. Just rough-hewn floors with four drainage grooves, then the abyss. At the center, left of a square hole in the floor, lay bundles of kindling, oil jugs, and tinderboxes—enough to make any firestarter's only worry how to escape the flames.
And the view… The combined height of Ostagar's cliffs and the tower's perch evoked the exhilaration of birds in flight. Certainly worth boasting in a tavern: "I've stood beneath the very clouds!"
Following Duncan's advice, the trio arrived at the tower around four in the afternoon, bringing a week's worth of army pemmican just in case. Only Alistair, burdened by a heavy pack, was slightly winded after the climb. The elf, far spryer and unencumbered, shrugged at the warrior's surprised glance and muttered:
— Lived in a tower taller than this.
Morrigan added:
— And you're the one in armor.
She promptly claimed the pillar facing the lowlands. Years scaling Korkari's trees and far riskier feats had long since cured her of vertigo—so she dangled her legs over the edge, leaned back, and shut her eyes. The wind tousled her hair, but her relaxed posture betrayed no fear of falling. Alim, after a wary look at her, took the adjacent pillar but sat safely inward. Alistair, having shed his pack, meticulously inspected the pyre-to-be before pacing the perimeter, surveying the surroundings from all four sides.
After an hour or so of inactivity, the camp below stirred. Tents vanished in orderly fashion, supplies flowed to wagons, and soldiers formed triple-file rectangles. Soon, a disciplined exodus began toward the forest. Yet as some departed, others relocated ballistae from southern to northern walls and hauled spare logs to the palisade.
Watching the human tide, Morrigan abruptly addressed the dozing elf:
— Who was she—the one whose place you took?
Alim opened his eyes, turned toward the northern horizon, and for a time, silently tracked the clouds. A quarter-hour later, having reached some internal accord, he answered:
— My sister.
To the witch's mild surprise, despite the languid pace of the exchange, Alistair hadn't lost the thread. Muffled curses came from across the platform the moment the reply was spoken:
— Didn't know the Circle let kin room together these days. Thought exile was still the only outcome, same as before.
The mage grimaced, a note of sorrow in his voice:
— It is. We were… an exception.
— Ah. And her?
— Wondering what might've caught Duncan's eye?
— Just so.
Alim frowned, deliberating for minutes before replying:
— Talent, I'd guess. My sister had an uncanny gift for spells that project runic constructs into three dimensions. With Duncan's resources, that could've granted immense tactical advantage.
Morrigan nodded, glanced at the sinking sun, and shut her eyes again…
* * *
A hand reached out to gently shake the girl's shoulder—but a moment before contact, golden eyes snapped open, meeting the elf's puzzled gaze.
— Look.
Morrigan shifted her attention from the man to the view below, now swallowed by gathering darkness. Hundreds—no, thousands—of torchlights outlined the enemy forces at the forest's edge. What struck her immediately was their formation: the flames moved with rigid discipline, their arrangement too deliberate to be anything but an organized army.
Alistair, standing three paces to her right, voiced the thought echoing in all their minds:
— Not a horde. An army. Whoever leads this has turned every weakness of ours to their advantage. And it's not just their discipline—look, to the right.
His hand gestured eastward, where a new column advanced along the cliffs separating Korkari from the lowlands. Torchlight flickered, vanishing intermittently behind dense trees, but even so, the reinforcements—unaccounted for—seemed to match the numbers already assembled. The situation was dire.
Alim's voice trembled with tension as he spoke:
— It's begun.
Indeed, the enemy's front ranks emerged from the forest in perfect unison. The darkspawn hurled their torches to the ground and marched forward, slow but inexorable. A second line followed, then a third, a fourth. The fires left behind cast the advancing mass in crimson silhouettes, obscuring details but amplifying their horror. Their gear was mismatched—improvised weapons, scavenged armor—yet the unnatural silence and coordination were oppressive.
Then, like a force of nature, drums erupted from Ostagar's fortress. The uneven, thunderous rhythm quickened pulses and stirred blood. Without warning, trumpets pierced the air, followed by the screech of ballistae and the unified roar of soldiers lowering their spears.
Ballista bolts tore through the first two ranks, but the darkspawn's spaced formations minimized casualties. Arrows rained from the walls, yet the damage fell short of expectations.
The lines clashed. The first wave of darkspawn fell to spears, and a triumphant cheer rose from the defenders—but the trio atop the tower didn't share their optimism. The forest disgorged wave after wave, as if spawning more creatures than there had been torches. The realization struck like a dagger to the gut.
— Bloody Void...
— Admit it—it's clever.
— The army's position will collapse within half an hour. Sooner, if more keep coming. Alistair, this isn't about tactics anymore. It's survival. Light the signal.
With a grim nod, the blond strode to the pyre. He hurled three oil jugs into the woodpile, struck flint, and showered it with sparks. Flames erupted, licking the dome with a crackling hunger. Within minutes, the heat became unbearable. Blinded by the blaze, Alistair turned to the others, who were scanning the northwest darkness.
— Well? Anything?
Minutes crawled by to the soundtrack of battle. The human forces barely faltered, their victory cries growing louder—until the ogres reached the spear line. Then, a new wave of darkspawn emerged, not marching forward but wielding massive bows. The arrows they loosed arced high, punching through shields and armor like parchment. Ogres—twice a man's height, horned and relentless—slammed into the front lines, shrugging off wounds as they crushed flesh and splintered spears.
— Where are our reinforcements?
Alistair's voice wavered between fear and desperation. Alim remained silent, jaw clenched. Morrigan, leaning against her pillar, gestured northeast.
— There they are. Are you blind? Reinforcements are coming—just not for us.
The elf cut off Alistair's protest with a grim murmur:
— She's right. Face it. There are no reinforcements. There never were.
Meanwhile, a second line of archers emerged from the forest, filling the air with another volley of arrows. Alim continued, his voice grim:
— If we strip away emotion and look at this coldly… this is a rout. Reinforcements could turn the tide. But the cost… I suspect Loghain is withdrawing his forces even now, racing to put as much distance between himself and this slaughter as possible. He commands two-thirds of Ferelden's army—forces still fit to fight. And though it's too late, he's taking your advice.
Alistair's gauntleted hands clenched until the mail groaned. He opened his mouth to protest but managed only a strangled sound. Morrigan, watching the carnage with eerie detachment, added:
— A trap. Again and again, you northerners march into it with such clever expressions. So much talk, so little attention to where you step. Loghain, though… he watches his footing. Though perhaps there's emotion in it too. A quarrel between your leader and the general—and vengeance is a petty mistress.
The elf crouched beside her, his voice low.
— What do you see?
Below, the ogre assault faltered. A unit of Grey Wardens—fighting with lethal precision, the King in his gleaming plate among them—proved the monsters could die. Despite the devastation they'd wrought, the hulking creatures soon littered the ground. The Fereldan ranks reformed behind the palisade as ballistae and archers shifted fire to the forest, cutting down the darkspawn archers now massed in three tight lines.
— Waiting. And a pit, hungry for brave rescuers. You believed the enemy few. You were deceived. Look down and tell yourselves—if only the whole army were here… Why not consider your eyes deceive you again? The enemy waits. And if the others don't come—
— —we'll be crushed without mercy.
— Precisely.
— Yet you're calm.
— Truly? If your guesses are as sharp as your swordplay, we're all doomed.
Alim started to retort, but a new sound drowned his words—a growl, low and vicious, vibrating through their chests. It ceased abruptly, followed by a hollow boom from the tower's base. The elf paled.
— Structural collapse. That sound—it's stone giving way. Every few years, some battlemage idiot tests fireballs in enclosed spaces…
— Look!
Alistair's shout drew their attention to chaos below. The tower doors burst open, disgorging darkspawn onto the unsuspecting archers and ballistae crews. Fighting erupted near the southern pass. Then, from the forest, emerged three dozen genlocks in light armor, their muzzles wrapped in cloth. As one, they raised their hands, dark crimson flames swirling into seething orbs that arced overhead—blossoming into short-lived fireflowers among the Fereldan ranks. Heat scorched lungs; wood, cloth, and flesh ignited. The battle's rhythm shattered into screams. The drums fell silent. The King's lines broke.
Alim pointed weakly.
— This is…
Alistair, shielding his eyes from the glare, whirled toward the pyre.
— Can we shove the wood down?
The mage stared as if he'd gone mad, but Morrigan understood at once.
— Heroics, warrior? What's in it for us?
The Grey Warden snarled through gritted teeth.
— I'll extend our bargain as long as needed. My word.
— Folly. But very well. Alim—circle the pyre. Use that repulsion spell. Imagine the logs are enemies and push.
Nodding, the elf grabbed his staff. A faint barrier shimmered around him—weaker than during the night's battle, lacking the green wisp's aid. With two sharp exhales, he tensed—and the woodpile shuddered toward the edge. Three pulses sent it cascading down the stairs, flames licking at the tower's base. Trembling, drenched in sweat, Alim gulped a vial from his belt.
Alistair didn't wait. He hurled the remaining oil jugs after the tumbling pyre. The resulting fireball painted his face in vengeful satisfaction.
— Brilliant plan, flawlessly executed. Petty vengeance, as you said. Now the tower's choked with flame—where will they go?
Spitting, the blond drew his sword, snatched up a shield, and leaped to the third floor. Morrigan raised a brow.
— Determined… Alim?
Still pale but steady, the elf nodded—no fainting in his plans. They slid down the ladder to find Alistair braced at the stairwell, the thunder of approaching darkspawn echoing upward. Battle had come to them.
Morrigan tossed over her shoulder:
— Don't die.
Morrigan approached Alistair and, moving slowly to avoid startling him, touched his blade. A simple spell rippled across the metal, coating it in frost as if freshly pulled from a winter gale. The warrior acknowledged the aid with a curt nod. Alim, wrapped in shimmering magical and spiritual wards, attempted a grim joke:
— Heard tales in camp about the legendary Witch of Korkari. They say she could call lightning upon her enemies. Perhaps we're fortunate to have such company?
The witch nearly agreed—then froze mid-breath, struck by uncertainty. Racing through her memory, she realized the lightning spell's sequence had vanished, feeding fresh paranoia. The hours spent mastering it felt intact, yet the spell itself... as if those efforts had evaporated. What else had been lost during those blank hours? With a noncommittal nod to Alim, she steeled herself for battle.
A minute and a half later, the first three genlocks appeared on the lower floor. Clad in rusted mail and wielding jagged blades, they charged up the stairs with startling speed. Alistair's spell hurled the lead creature backward—bones crunched as it tumbled down—marking the fight's start.
Morrigan clenched her fist and hissed through gritted teeth:
— Tua vita mea esté.
Something intangible brushed the charging genlock—like a ripple on water—before its sword plunged into her abdomen to the hilt, dragging her back a step with a choked cry of pain. Though Alim roared in fury, Alistair was locked in his own struggle. Genlocks in melee were deadlier than genlocks, especially armed and armored. Deflecting thrusts with his shield, barely dodging, the blond bided his time—then ducked low and surged forward. A shield bash to the gut, a stab to the thigh, and he flung his opponent down the stairs after the first.
Turning, he witnessed something unnatural: Morrigan, impaled and smiling horribly, cradled the kneeling genlock's head as she whispered:
— Fríos. Tenací.
Frost crawled over the creature's skull beneath her fingers. It collapsed, sword clattering free. She yanked the blade from her belly—barely a trickle of blood now—and tossed it aside.
— Leave this one. It'll serve as a... well of life.
Five more genlocks reached the third floor. An archer loosed at Alistair—the only visible armed target—forcing him to dodge right, slamming into the wall. Alim managed to hurl one attacker downstairs, his ragged breathing betraying his limits.
Alistair whirled, using foes as shields against the archer. Morrigan, exploiting her staff's reach, speared a genlock's eye, then bludgeoned it senseless. Slipping from the archer's sight, she repeated her freezing spell on the stunned creature.
Before Alistair could fully use one darkspawn as cover, a hilt struck his jaw twice in the scrum. He retaliated—kicking both genlocks down the stairs—then spat blood and retreated from arrow range.
— Our time's running out.
Panting, he checked his grip and squinted upward.
— Dark's falling.
Two genlocks and another archer burst onto the landing. Alistair and Morrigan split, complicating their aim—but the archer targeted the swaying elf. Without hesitation, Morrigan incanted:
— Somnia dirae tenebrae, animus furenté!
A wave of translucent gloom flashed through the room. The effect surpassed expectations: the archer flailed at invisible threats; one genlock froze; the other stumbled backward down the stairs. Alistair seized the opening—running one through the neck, shield-bashing the second, then finishing it on the floor.
— Can't... huff... help but wonder. Got more tricks like last night's?
Morrigan shot him a glare, fatigue now plain.
— Honesty will kill you.
— Bit late for warnings.
A thunder of footsteps echoed below—dozens, plus an ogre's heavy tread. Morrigan hissed:
— Remember your vow at the ruins? To protect? Your hour's come. Delay them. Even a minute.
— Got a plan?
— An idea. We'll see what it costs me.
He readied his blade.
— Still better than 'we die now.'
Alistair clenched his teeth and took position at the stairwell, his attention wholly consumed by the approaching footsteps below. Morrigan lingered for a moment on his tense back before turning to the elf who was clinging to consciousness by sheer will. Closing her eyes, the witch invoked that particular spell her mother had taught her directly - a strange, interwoven chain of runes turned inward, toward the blood flowing through her veins and the flesh that formed her essence.
Normally calm though complex, the spell now writhed like a living thing, demanding extra focus and control. Something about it felt broken, wrong. But there was no time to examine each rune in the sequence. As the mage watched with fading consciousness, the witch's flesh began to ripple like molten wax, swelling and deforming at an accelerating rate. Her face sharpened, losing all traces of eyes or lips. Her mouth filled with needle-sharp teeth. Hair retracted into her body. And the transformation had only begun.
From the stairs came the clamor of battle - Alistair, seeing and hearing nothing but the fight, desperately held the line. His shouts and the clang of steel became muffled background noise to Alim, whose eyes widened unnaturally at the sight before him. The mage's attention remained riveted to the metamorphosis unfolding before him. With audible cracks of connective tissue and snapping bones, the witch's shoulders widened. Her clothing strained and split at the seams, sloughing off like shed snakeskin. Finally, broad shoulders on an elongated, emaciated frame that barely resembled her former shape sprouted two additional pairs of black-clawed arms with a sickening click.
The creature exhaled through its lipless mouth, showing no sign of pain or discomfort, before hissing quietly:
— S-s-strange. But no time for this.
One hand deftly grabbed her staff and personal bundle. Two others scooped up the paralyzed mage — not that he could have resisted in his state anyway. Emitting a faint whistling sound from the effort, the creature darted away.
Meanwhile, having barely dispatched his third opponent in a row and miraculously unharmed so far, Alistair got three seconds of respite. The genlocks flooding downstairs were clearing a path for the ogre to deal with the obstacle. Seizing the pause, the warrior turned... only to see shreds of Daveth's clothing and... emptiness. His gaze shot upward. The ladder remained in place. The puzzle wouldn't compute in his exhausted, battle-weary mind, and Alistair simply let out a quiet chuckle.
— Told me... honesty would kill me... Bad joke... Still. A shame.
* * *
The sounds of battle had faded—in the tower, in the fortress, across the surrounding lands. Night concealed the dead but brought no peace.
Perched atop the spire of the fourth floor—the highest structure in southern Thedas, where no intelligent being had set foot for centuries—stood a naked female figure, dark locks whipping in the cold wind. Slitted yellow eyes tracked the darkspawn's methodical work below. The seething mass in the darkness resembled scavengers descending on carrion, yet their movements were coordinated, antlike. Bodies, regardless of origin, were stripped of armor and piled onto sledges dragged by genlocks. The wounded were mercilessly dispatched. Other carts were filled indiscriminately with salvaged weapons and gear. The spoils vanished steadily eastward beneath the forest canopy. In stark contrast to the battle's earlier cacophony, it all unfolded in eerie silence... By dawn, the field might be picked clean. And almost no one would ever know.
Alim lay nearby, hands bound to the spire with his own belt. Even an elf's will couldn't withstand mana exhaustion. During the brutal climb—Morrigan hauling him like a sack—he'd blacked out. Perhaps for the best. The witch had too many thoughts gnawing at her in the night's stillness. Another oddity to add to her growing list: her original plan had been to use her remaining mana to assume spider form and escape to the tower's peak. The gamble—that the Blight's creatures, bound to literal-minded orders, wouldn't climb higher—had paid off... though it would've left the men to die. Instead, the familiar spell had twisted her body into something unknown. No less agile, but stronger. Morrigan had never intended to survive alone. The moment the transformation took hold, she'd chosen to save Alim.
Alistair... The witch admitted grudgingly that the man unsettled her. Reasonably so. The blond bore a templar's prejudice against mages, had unexplained Chantry ties, pursued his own ends, and thought with the subtlety of a warhammer. And the darkspawn had needed delaying so her transformation could complete. Yet his death left her oddly... irritated.
Exhausted, Morrigan sank onto the spire's freezing stone and shut her eyes. She had barely enough mana for one last spell. And though she was three times hardened by surviving Korkari's wilds alone, fatigue threatened to drag her into dreams as surely as it had the elf. A mage's power source was also their curse.
Pushing hair from her face, she began fumbling with her bundled clothes. A thought struck—how absurd to survive the battle only to freeze to death...
* * *
Alim clung to the roof's edge, his fingers bone-white with strain. Every movement was a battle—even turning his head toward Morrigan required impossible effort.
— Maker, dragons, and primal forces… How, exactly, am I supposed to find this ledge blind?
His voice was hoarse, the words unexpectedly florid for the normally reserved mage. Below him, Morrigan stood at the precipice, arms crossed, her face etched with mild impatience. After descending the thick copper band winding down the tower's side and retrieving the staff Alim had lowered, she'd been trying to guide him. But the man clearly had no experience climbing down anything taller than a stool.
— Let me be clear. Brave Alim has two choices. Become owl fodder when hunger and sun claim him, or trust his wise companion and climb down. At worst, the fall will be brief. One who agreed to die after the battle has no right to complain now.
— Why not transform again and carry me down?
A pause, filled only by the elf's strained grunts. When she answered, uncertainty tinged her voice:
— The spell behaved… oddly. Until I understand why, I'd prefer not to waste it on trifles.
Sweating, Alim focused solely on the rough stone before his nose, inching downward until his feet finally touched solid ground. His knees trembled as he took steadying breaths. Gradually, his thoughts cleared enough for a weak smile:
— Any climb seems possible now… so long as I don't look down. And I'm warmer.
— We'll see.
— Waking on a tower roof at dawn is equally unforgettable. Speaking of—why didn't the darkspawn follow us up?
Rubbing his rope-burned wrists, Alim's voice grew firmer, his analytical mind overriding panic. Morrigan clicked her tongue:
— Three reasons. However many times I've encountered darkspawn, they never look up. They rely on scent and sound, not sight. Even a hawk's cry won't make them raise their heads. Second, what did they witness? Our ascent. But at the top, they found nothing. Complex deductions require an alpha—or an emissary, as Duncan described. Third, they had distractions.
Alim sat heavily, nodding.
— Logical. But… Don't mistake this for ingratitude. How you mentioned Alistair's sacrifice so casually at the end… It's unsettling.
Morrigan's face twisted briefly before she snapped:
— I prioritized facts. The choice brought no joy. Save the pointless questions. Your staff and supplies are gone. We must scavenge the camp.
— You're right. But… No secrets between us. That transformation… Void take me, it was strange even by recent standards. No—horrifying! It carries… implications. Not the kind a mage enjoys contemplating. If you ever wish to speak of it—
— Not before we've thoroughly discussed your sister. Move.
At the mention of his sister, Alim fell silent.
The third floor held no bodies—only two dried bloodstains near the stairs, offering no clues to the blond's fate. Morrigan ignored them but allowed Alim a moment to look.
Evidence of the darkspawn's entry began at the final stairwell: a gaping hole in the main hall's center, its edges jagged where massive stone slabs—each a meter thick—had been shattered inward. The tunnel itself pierced the tower's foundational blocks.
Staring into the darkness, Alim murmured:
— This was dug beforehand. When only birds and rodents lived here. A month's work?
— Persistence. Purpose. Foresight. That's the character of the force driving this Blight.
Leaving the tunnel's secrets to the dark, they emerged into sunlight that did little to dispel their grim thoughts. Thanks to the night's "cleaning" (which Morrigan had summarized on the roof), the stench of blood and viscera was faint, overpowered by smoke and dew-dampened ashes. A quick survey revealed the horde had taken only food, armor, and melee weapons. Ballistae lay broken, tents shredded, personal effects scattered. The empty, ruined camp, wrapped in silence, felt surreal—especially when memory superimposed yesterday's bustling images over the void. No bodies. Not even carrion birds…
From the bridge overlooking the gorge, Alim was the first to identify and silently point out the command post, the royal tent, and the remnants of supply wagons. To Morrigan, the view from above was merely a jumble of differently colored fabric scraps. Acknowledging her companion's superior knowledge, she gave a grateful nod—though stepping back from the edge, she frowned at her own helplessness in matters of northern heraldry and colors.
The army's hastily constructed ladders and ramps had once made the descent into the gorge at the fortress's southern end manageable. Now, the shattered engineering works lay scattered among far more ancient ruins, sharing their fate. It took a full hour to exit through the eastern gate and descend into the gorge via the natural pass.
The scene of devastation below lent the mood a strange, contemplative tone. Personal belongings hinted at owners who would never reclaim them—revealing habits, quirks, and vulnerabilities. Beyond the complete absence of food, the most striking feature was the darkspawn's utter disregard for valuables. Functional or expensive items lay abandoned everywhere—things no human would leave behind even in a hurried retreat. But to the horde, they held no worth.
The supply wagons proved as useless to the pair as the soldiers' tents. While Alim circled the empty, mangled carts, Morrigan studied them with a different focus. Having witnessed the horde's organized efficiency firsthand, she glared at the untouched, still-functional wheels and axles. The answer eluding her might hold the key to understanding their enemy's behavior—yet no plausible theory came to mind.
— Empty.
Snapped from her thoughts by the mage's voice, Morrigan nodded toward the royal tent.
— One last chance to try.
The ornate remains of the large tent greeted them with trampled carpets, broken braziers, folding chairs, a table, and scattered candles. The only movement was tattered fabric fluttering in the wind. It was easy to imagine the space before its desecration—a cozy study where, at night, shadows might have conjured the illusion of being back in a castle, the war just a bad dream.
Unfortunately, no food remained here either. The enemy had methodically ransacked even the king's chests—clearly never meant for provisions. Morrigan absently approached the largest chest, sifting through mixed scroll tubes and parchment sheets. Meanwhile, Alim studied a trampled, hand-drawn map of southern Ferelden, voicing his unease:
— While Duncan and I trailed the army south, the Commander seized every chance to recount Grey Warden traditions—stories of the Blight, or the darkspawn.
His voice wavered at "traditions," whether from anger or emotion, but he continued smoothly:
— One tale spoke of the First and Second Blights, when Wardens captured intelligent spawn. Emissaries, I assume. They were kept in Weisshaupt's dungeons for years. Once, one was taught language—Tevene, likely. Under interrogation, it revealed their goals. Simple, really. They care nothing for land, wealth, or numbers. Not even 'victory' as we define it. Their sole drive is to burn the surface world. Eventually, it tricked its guards, killed many, and nearly escaped. That casts doubt on the interrogation's validity... But there's something there.
Morrigan threw him a pensive glance before refocusing on the documents she'd been scanning during his monologue.
— Ancient history. Hardly relevant. These, however...
She shook the stack of papers—expensive stock reserved for nobility or high-ranking officials. The embossing suggested the latter. After rereading the text, she summarized:
— Correspondence between the late King of Ferelden and... an Empress?
Alim's brows lifted.
— Orlais? Her Radiance, Celene?
Nodding, Morrigan sighed and lowered the papers, scanning the horizon.
— No titles are stated outright. The wordplay is beyond me. But the subtext is clumsily veiled. A woman's hand offers deliberate clues with grace; a man's... muddies the trail. Without proof, they're just letters. But if one wished, they could easily imply— Did the King have a companion?
— Her Majesty, Queen Anora. Mac Tir.
— The general's daughter?
— Yes...
Morrigan's lips formed a silent "Oh," before she folded the papers neatly and tucked them away.
— They discuss a military alliance. Desperate, your King was. But they could just as well be framed as proof of treasonous ambition.
A shadow of unease crossed Alim's face as he eyed her intent.
— And so... you take them for yourself?
Morrigan simply nodded, scanning their surroundings before adding:
— Search for coins. Unlike the darkspawn, we understand the value of money.
— I won't debate the morality—
— Then don't.
Alim offered a grim smirk, shaking his head uncertainly as he began searching, his discomfort plain. Though he didn't dispute his companion's logic, the situation unsettled him. Crossing boundaries he'd once considered inviolable didn't bring liberation—only unease about where such steps might lead.
Their haul amounted to a pouch of silver—twenty-two "silvers," to be precise, after Morrigan's meticulous count. The complete absence of gold sovereigns was surprising, but beggars couldn't be choosers. From the chest's depths, she also claimed an elegant hunting knife with a palm-length blade.
With the camp picked clean, the witch suggested sheltering by the gorge's exit, where the cliffs blocked the wind. When Alim—staring northwest—asked why they were waiting, she explained:
— For nightfall. Sleep will pass the time. No game here before the forest, and hunger bites less when you're unconscious.
— But why wait here?
— Two reasons. First, darkspawn are creatures of darkness—denizens of the Deep Roads. But darkness is darkness. Whether in fields or forests along the Imperial Highway, patrols sent back by the horde might spot us. Who knows what lurks beyond the treeline? Second... Yes, we must hurry. These lands will stay empty a day, maybe two. That's why we'll take the Highway—at least until dawn.
As they neared the cliffs, Alim turned to object.
— Until dawn? But—
— Consider: who travels the Highway ahead of us?
— The retreating army.
— Infantry and supply trains. You said you and Duncan overtook them on foot between Lothering and Ostagar.
— We did.
— Not bad for two travelers. We'll hardly be slower. Now, who can catch an army now? Think like whoever's seized command.
Sinking onto a scrap of tent fabric against the ancient stones, the mage sighed. His grim expression showed he understood her implication.
— Spies. Deserters. Maleficars. Yes, I see. Shoot first, ask questions later. Logical, for a general.
— No worse curse for a criminal than a witness. So we'll move by night, then divert through the woods, following gullies to Lothering. Avoid attention. Stay ahead of the horde, hopefully. And most importantly—out of range of those damned archers.
— Agreed. Their arrows mean death.
— I'll sleep. Questions later.