Chapter 1: The harrowing and fallout
The silence after the Harrowing was the loudest thing Daylen had ever heard. It wasn’t the absence of sound in the apprentice quarters, but the sudden, crushing weight of the real world settling back onto his shoulders. One moment, there had been the shifting, whispering nausea of the Fade, the demon’s honeyed voice curling in his ear. The next, cold stone under his knees, the taste of lyrium and sweat on his tongue, and the watchful, armored bulk of Knight-Commander Greagoir looming like a judgment.
“Well?” Greagoir’s voice was a gravel scrape in the stillness.
First Enchanter Irving stepped forward, his old face breaking into a smile that seemed to light the dim chamber. “He resisted. Brilliantly. The pride demon is banished. Seriously, Greagoir, was there ever any doubt?”
Greagoir’s stern expression didn’t soften, but his rigid posture eased a fraction. “There is always doubt. That is our duty.” His eyes, flint-hard, fixed on Daylen. “But well done, apprentice. You are a mage of the Circle now. Rise.”
Daylen pushed himself up, his legs shaky but holding. The phantom chill of the Fade still clung to his skin. He met Greagoir’s gaze, not challenging, but not looking away either. He’d learned that much. Showing fear to a templar was like bleeding in shark-infested waters.
“Thank you, Knight-Commander.”
“See that you remember what you faced in there,” Greagoir said, turning to leave. “The temptation never truly goes away. It just learns new disguises.” The heavy door shut behind him with a final thud that echoed in Daylen’s bones.
Irving clapped a bony hand on Daylen’s shoulder. “Pay him no mind. He has to say that. Come, my boy. Let the others see our newest graduate. And for the love of Andraste, get some proper robes. You look like a laundered sheet.”
A genuine laugh escaped Daylen, cutting through the remaining tension. “I feel like one.”
The walk through the tower was a blur of nodding seniors and curious apprentices. The atmosphere was different now. He was inside the circle, not outside it. A colleague, not a liability. He spotted Cullen on patrol, the young templar’s hand resting on his sword hilt. Their eyes met for a brief, electric moment. Cullen gave a curt, barely perceptible nod. It wasn’t friendship, but it was acknowledgment. Daylen returned it. He didn’t like the guy’s icy suspicion, but he respected the consistency of it.
His feet carried him downward, drawn by habit and a specific need for quiet. The basement storerooms were cool, shadowed, and, more importantly, rarely visited by templars on their rounds. The air smelled of dust, dried herbs, and the faint, metallic tang of lyrium.
He found Leorah where he expected, perched on a crate amidst a forest of precariously stacked supply boxes, her nose buried in a grimoire. Her delicate elven features were illuminated by a solitary, magelit orb floating above her shoulder.
“Congratulations are in order, I hear,” she said without looking up, a sly smile playing on her lips. “The tower is buzzing. ‘Daylen Amell, slayer of pride demons.’ Quite the title.”
“Sounds better than ‘Daylen Amell, who almost pissed himself confronting an embodiment of sin,’” he said, leaning against a shelf.
She finally glanced at him, her green eyes sparkling. “The second one is probably more accurate. But we’ll go with the first. It’s more inspiring for the apprentices.” She snapped the book shut. “Although, inspiration might be hard to come by down here. We have a bit of a… pest problem.”
“Rats?”
“Bigger. Hairier. Eight-legged.” She shuddered dramatically. “A nest of deepstalkers, or something close to it, has taken up residence in the far cellar. Owain is refusing to enter until it’s cleared. Something about venom corroding the inventory.”
Daylen pushed off the shelf, cracking his neck. After the cerebral war of the Harrowing, a physical problem was appealing. “And you, Senior Enchanter, can’t handle a few overgrown spiders?”
Leorah stood, brushing nonexistent dust from her robes. “I could. But I’ve seen you in the practice yard. All those muscles under those robes, swinging swords around like a common mercenary. It seems a waste not to use them for manual labor.” Her gaze traveled over him, appreciative and deliberate. “Besides, watching you work up a sweat is a more entertaining solution.”
A slow grin spread across Daylen’s face. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Lead the way.”
The ‘far cellar’ was less a room and more a crumbling annex where the tower’s oldest, most forgotten junk went to die. Webs, thick as rope and dusty gray, draped from the high ceiling to the floor like grotesque banners. The darkness was nearly absolute, the air stagnant and foul.
Daylen didn’t bother with a light. He closed his eyes for a second, feeling the crackle of energy under his skin. He rolled his shoulders, and a shimmering, opalescent field of energy flickered over his body—Rock Armor, hardening the air around him into a second skin. He drew a deep breath, and the Fade answered, threading through his limbs, strengthening sinew and bone. His fists clenched, and with a whisper, two blades of pure, crackling force sprung to life from his knuckles, casting the chamber in a harsh, blue-white light.
The spiders were the size of hounds, their carapaces glistening with slime in the magical glare. They skittered forward, mandibles clicking.
He moved.
It wasn’t the graceful, flowing dance of a practiced swordsman, but something more direct, brutally efficient. He was a ploughshare cutting a furrow. A Spiritual Bolt shot from his left hand, pinning the first creature to a wall with a sickening crunch. He pivoted, his force-blade scything through the second’s legs, dropping its twitching body to the floor. He felt a impact on his back—a spider pouncing—but the Rock Armor held, and he spun, driving his elbow augmented by crushing force into its bulbous head. Green ichor splattered the wall.
In less than a minute, it was over. The stillness returned, broken only by the fading crackle of his blades and his own steady breathing. He let the spells dissipate, the glow fading from his skin, leaving him in the dark again, the coppery scent of dead spider hanging in the air.
A soft hand touched his shoulder from behind. “Show-off,” Leorah murmured, her voice close to his ear. Her other hand slid around his waist, feeling the hard muscle of his stomach through his damp robes. “Irving was right, you know. You are wasted as just a mage.”
He turned in her grasp. Her eyes were wide in the near-darkness, her breath quickening. There was no ceremony, no preamble. The adrenaline of the fight was still thrumming in his veins, a different kind of energy seeking an outlet. He backed her against a cold, stone pillar, free of webs. His hands found her hips, lifting her with ease. She wrapped her legs around his waist, a small, breathless gasp escaping her as he pressed her into the unyielding stone.
Her robes were a frustrating barrier. A muttered word, a flick of his fingers, and the fabric of her smallclothes parted without a sound. He fumbled with his own trousers for a brief, clumsy moment before sinking into her with a single, deep stroke. She cried out, the sound echoing sharply in the cavernous space before she bit her lip, her head thudding back against the pillar.
It was fast, intense, and utterly lacking in tenderness. A release of tension, a celebration of being alive, of being powerful. Her fingers dug into the shaved scalp of his head, her thighs tightening around him. He drove into her, the rhythm set by his still-pounding heart. Her whispers were a mix of Elven and common tongue, pleading, cursing, praising.
Her climax hit her suddenly. Her body arched, then locked, every muscle taut. A broken, ragged moan was torn from her throat as her eyes, wide and unfocused, rolled back in her head for a long, suspended moment before she went completely limp, her consciousness fleeing from the sheer intensity of it. He held her there, pinned between him and the stone, until her breathing evened out into the shallow rhythm of unconsciousness.
He carefully extracted himself, lowering her gently to sit propped against the pillar. He cleaned them both with a minor, practical spell, righted their clothes, and smoothed a strand of hair from her peaceful face. She’d wake in a few minutes, disoriented and satisfied.
As he stepped back into the main storeroom, the familiar, neutral voice of Owain greeted him. “The pest infestation has been dealt with. Thank you, Enchanter.”
“Any time, Owain.”
The Tranquil mage held out a long, cloth-wrapped bundle. “First Enchanter Irving requested you be given this. He said, ‘A tool befitting the craftsman.’”
Daylen took it, the weight solid and comforting in his hands. He pulled back the cloth. A longsword gleamed in the storeroom’s dim light. The blade was polished silverite, a metal so rare it was whispered to drink magic. The hilt was wrapped in dark leather, the guard elegantly simple. It wasn’t just a weapon; it was an artifact. A mage’s sword. He could feel its potential, a quiet hum against his palm, eager to channel his power.
“It’s perfect,” Daylen breathed.
“I will inform the First Enchanter of your approval,” Owain said, turning back to his ledger.
Daylen was strapping the sword across his back when a frantic whisper cut through the quiet.
“Daylen! There you are!”
Jowan emerged from behind a stack of crates, his face pale, his eyes darting like a trapped animal’s. He looked more haunted than usual.
“Jowan. You heard?”
“Everyone’s heard! That’s not the point.” Jowan wrung his hands. “I need to talk to you. It’s… it’s urgent. And private.”
Daylen glanced back towards the far cellar. Leorah would be safe. He sighed, the afterglow of combat and sex evaporating under the hot air of Jowan’s anxiety. “Alright. Talk.”
Jowan led him to a disused alcove. “It’s Greagoir. He… he’s going to make me Tranquil. I know it.”
“Based on what?” Daylen kept his voice low, reasonable. “You haven’t done your Harrowing yet. That’s the usual trigger.”
“You don’t understand! They suspect. About… about my studies.” Jowan’s voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “They think I’m dabbling in blood magic.”
There it was. Daylen felt a cold pit open in his stomach. “Are you?”
“No! Never!” Jowan’s denial was too quick, too loud. He flinched at his own volume. “It’s lies. All of it. But they have my phylactery. Once they decide, that’s it. They’ll hunt me down anywhere. I’ll never be free.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Destroy it.” The words tumbled out in a desperate rush. “My phylactery. It’s in the repository, below the library. You just passed your Harrowing, you have more freedom now, no one will question you going down there… you could get it. Smash it.”
Daylen stared at him. The request was insane. Treasonous. “Jowan, even if I wanted to, that place is warded tighter than a drum. And if I’m caught—”
“You won’t be! You’re Irving’s favorite. The golden boy. They’d never suspect you.” Jowan gripped Daylen’s arm. “There’s more. I’m… I’m in love. With a chantry sister, Lily. She knows everything. She wants to help. She wants us to run away together, once the phylactery is gone.”
A chantry sister. Of course. The drama was compounding by the second. Daylen pulled his arm free. “You’re asking me to commit a capital crime so you can run off with a cleric?”
“It’s not a crime! It’s my life!” Jowan’s eyes were wet, pleading. “You’re my friend, Daylen. My only friend. Please.”
The word hung in the dusty air. Friend. Daylen looked at Jowan—the scared, mediocre mage who clung to him like a lifeline—and then he thought of Irving’s trusting smile, of the weight of the silverite sword on his back, a gift for a promising mage, a tool for a weapon. He thought of the cold, certain gaze of Greagoir. Of Cullen’s hand never leaving his sword hilt.
“I need to think,” Daylen said, the words feeling hollow. “I can’t just… decide this now.”
Jowan’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Okay. Okay. Just… think quickly. Please.”
As Jowan slunk away, Daylen stood alone in the alcove, the new sword heavy on his back. The tower, which had felt so welcoming an hour ago, now felt like a gilded cage full of whispering shadows and impossible choices. He had a path—the one Irving and Greagoir had laid out for their bright, new mage. And he had Jowan’s desperate, messy, dangerous plea.
He knew what he had to do next. He had to see Irving. To tell him everything. To confess his friend’s panic and the crazy plan. Irving would know what to do. Irving always did.
But as he climbed the stairs towards the First Enchanter’s study, the image of Jowan’s terrified face wouldn’t leave him, and the comforting weight of the silverite blade felt more and more like a chain.
But as he climbed the stairs towards the First Enchanter’s study, the image of Jowan’s terrified face wouldn’t leave him, and the comforting weight of the silverite blade felt more and more like a chain.
He paused outside Irving’s heavy oak door, took a steadying breath, and pushed his personal chaos down into a locked compartment. When he entered, his expression was calm, open, the model graduate.
The study was warm, lit by a hearty fire and the gentle glow of veilfire lamps. First Enchanter Irving stood by the hearth, but Knight-Commander Greagoir was there too, his armored form a stark contrast to the cozy shelves of books and scrolls. And beside him stood a stranger—a man in weathered leathers and a fur-trimmed coat, his bearing that of a soldier, but his eyes holding a depth of experience that felt ancient. A heavy, silver-grey beard covered the lower half of his face.
“Ah, Daylen! Perfect timing,” Irving said, his smile warm. “Come in, come in. I believe you’ve just met our guest in passing. This is Duncan, of the Grey Wardens.”
Duncan gave a slight, respectful nod. “A pleasure to see you upright and well. Harrowings are no small thing.”
“Thank you, ser,” Daylen said, bowing his head slightly. He turned to Greagoir. “Knight-Commander. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
Greagoir actually offered a grim, approving smile. “Nor I you, under such positive circumstances. First Enchanter Irving has been singing your praises for years. It’s gratifying to see his faith was not misplaced. You kept a level head. That is what we need from our mages.”
“High praise,” Daylen said, meaning it. The respect of a man like Greagoir was a tangible thing, hard-earned and valuable.
“It’s more than that,” Irving interjected, stepping forward. “It’s a testament to your unique discipline. Which reminds me.” He gestured to the sword on Daylen’s back. “I trust Owain delivered your… tool?”
“He did, First Enchanter. It’s exceptional. I’m honored.”
“The honor is not mine to claim,” Irving said, his eyes twinkling as he glanced at Greagoir. “The silverite was a personal allocation from the Knight-Commander’s own reserves. He argued for its assignment.”
Daylen felt a genuine shock. He looked at Greagoir, the Templar’s face unreadable for a moment.
“A mage who understands the weight of steel is a mage who understands consequence,” Greagoir said, his voice low and firm. “The discipline required to master the blade mirrors the discipline required to master the Fade. It is a… tangible focus. One that inspires a degree of faith. Do not make me regret the expenditure.”
The words landed with a profound weight. This wasn’t just a gift; it was a statement. An acknowledgment from his greatest potential adversary that Daylen was different. That his martial dedication meant something. The chain he felt moments ago seemed to loosen, transforming into a badge of honor.
“I won’t, Knight-Commander. You have my word,” Daylen said, the gratitude clear in his voice.
“See that you don’t,” Greagoir said, but the edge was gone. He turned to Duncan. “I’ll leave you to your discussion. Duncan, the offer stands. The Circle’s resources are at your disposal for your search.”
“You have my thanks, Knight-Commander,” Duncan replied.
With a final nod to Daylen, Greagoir left, his armor clinking softly with each step.
Irving clasped his hands together. “Now, Daylen. A final duty for you tonight. Duncan is our honored guest. Would you be so kind as to escort him to the guest quarters in the senior mages’ wing? I’m afraid my old bones are craving my chair.”
“Of course, First Enchanter.”
The walk through the tower’s quieter upper corridors was silent for a time. The din of the apprentice halls faded, replaced by the sigh of distant drafts and their own footsteps on the stone.
“You’re not what I expected,” Duncan said finally, his voice a quiet rumble.
“In what way, Warden?”
“Most mages I’ve met, even the powerful ones, have a certain… physical fragility about them. A disconnect. You carry that sword like you were born with it in your hand. And Greagoir doesn’t hand out gifts, or faith, lightly.”
Daylen shrugged. “The Fade is fluid, chaotic. A sword has a certain honesty. You swing, it cuts. It’s a good balance.”
“Balance,” Duncan mused. “A rare quality in any age, but especially in these darkening times.”
“Is that why you’re here? The… darkening times?” Daylen asked, cautious but curious.
Duncan glanced at him, assessing. “In a manner of speaking. My purpose is recruitment. The Grey Wardens seek those with the strength to endure the Joining, the courage to face what comes after, and the will to set aside all former loyalties for a greater cause.”
“The Blight,” Daylen said softly.
“Just so. We are the scalpel that cuts out the Darkspawn infection. The final barrier. It is a sacred duty, but a grim one. It asks for everything you are, and offers only a harder life and likely a harder death in return.”
They stopped before a simple oak door. Duncan turned to face him fully. In the dim torchlight of the hallway, his eyes were like chips of obsidian.
“It is also a duty that values ability over origin. That sees a person, not their title, or their magic.” He let the words hang. “The Circle produces fine mages. But it does not often produce Grey Wardens.”
A hot, sudden spark ignited in Daylen’s chest. It was the same restless feeling he’d had before the Harrowing, but amplified, given a direction. The idea of a purpose beyond these towers, a life where his every move wasn’t watched with suspicion, where his combination of skills wasn’t just tolerated but needed. It was intoxicating.
“To be called to such a duty,” Daylen said, the words leaving him before he could temper them with politics or caution. “That would be an honor beyond any title this Circle could bestow.”
Duncan studied him for a long moment, a slow smile spreading beneath his beard. It didn’t reach his eyes, which remained solemn, knowing. “Remember you said that. The calling rarely comes at a convenient time. Rest well, Daylen Amell. Your future, I think, holds more than you know.”
He entered the room and closed the door, leaving Daylen alone in the silent hall.
The spark in his chest burned brighter. The Grey Wardens. The idea was a beacon, a brilliant escape from the tangled web of Jowan’s fear, Irving’s expectations, and Greagoir’s conditional faith. He touched the hilt of the silverite sword, Greagoir’s gift. A symbol of trust here, but perhaps elsewhere, it could just be a sword. A tool for a Warden.
He turned and walked back down the corridor, his steps quicker, his mind already racing ahead to a different path, a different life. He barely saw the stones beneath his feet. He was already picturing the open sky.