Chapter 16: The Broken Circle
The lone boat was a flat-bottomed ferry, weathered grey and smelling of fish and old lakeweed. Its frayed rope mooring creaked against the iron ring bolted to the dock. The water of Lake Calenhad was a sheet of hammered lead under the flat grey sky, barely rippling. It was the stillness that got to Daylen. No bird cries. No distant shouts from the Tower. Just the soft lap of water against the pilings and their own footsteps on the worn wood.
Two Templars stood guard at the dock's end, their plate armor dull in the diffused light. Their helmets were on, visors down. They looked less like holy warriors and more like statues that had rusted in place.
Daylen led the way, the weight of his longswords a familiar comfort against his back. Alistair fell into step beside him, his own shield slung casually, but his posture had lost its morning levity. Sten’s bulk blotted out the sky behind them, with Leliana and Morrigan flanking like shadows.
One of the Templars shifted, his gauntleted hand coming up, palm out. "Halt. The Tower is sealed. No passage."
His voice echoed metallically inside his helm. Daylen stopped a few paces away. He could feel the lyrium humming in their armor, a faint, tinny buzz at the edge of his senses. It was a sound he’d associated with safety once. Now it felt like the warning hum of a wasp’s nest.
"I am Daylen Amell, of the Ferelden Circle," he said, his voice level. "Returned on Grey Warden business."
The Templar didn't move. "All return voyages were suspended. By Knight-Commander Greagoir’s order. You’ll have to turn back."
Alistair let out a long, theatrical sigh. "See? I told you. 'Welcome home, lads! Here's a cup of warm bile!'"
Daylen ignored him, keeping his eyes on the slit of the Templar’s visor. "The order came from the First Enchanter, too? Irving would see me."
A hesitation. The two guards exchanged a glance he couldn't see. The use of the First Enchanter's name, casually, familiarly, did something. It cut through the protocol.
"The First Enchanter..." the guard began, then trailed off.
"Is he even alive?" Morrigan’s voice, cool and cutting, came from behind. "The silence from that place is deafening. One does not need magic to sense the reek of wrongness."
The second Templar took a half-step forward, his hand drifting toward the pommel of his sword. "You will watch your tongue, witch."
"Or what? You will attempt to silence me?" Morrigan's smile was audible. "I should enjoy the diversion."
Daylen spoke before the tension could snap. "We are not asking. We are Grey Wardens. The Blight does not respect a quarantine. If something has happened in the Tower that threatens this nation, we have the right—and the duty—to investigate." He took another step forward, into the space that was traditionally the Templar's to control. "You can try to stop us. But you won't. Tell Greagoir that Daylen Amell is back. And tell him I’m not the apprentice he remembers."
The air crackled. The first Templar’s hand clenched into a fist. For a long, terrible second, Daylen thought it would come to blades. He felt the familiar cold clarity of combat focus beginning to descend, saw Alistair subtly shift his weight, heard the faint scrape of Sten’s greatsword being loosened in its harness behind him.
The lead Templar’s grip relaxed. He took a slow step back, breaking the standoff. “Knight-Commander Greagoir,” he said, the name a formal invocation. “He did say to expect… complications. You may pass. The ferry is yours.”
He gestured to the boat. His companion remained rigid, a silent sentinel of disapproval.
“See?” Alistair muttered, relaxing his stance as they moved past the guards. “All it takes is a little menace and the right names.”
They piled into the flat-bottomed craft, the wood groaning under Sten’s weight. Daylen took the oars, his hands fitting into the worn grooves with practiced ease. He pushed off, the dock receding into the mist. The silence of the lake closed around them, thick and damp.
The only sound was the rhythmic dip and pull of the oars, the drip of water from the blades. The Tower grew larger, a stark blade of stone cutting into the grey sky. Its windows were dark, opaque. No candle flickered within.
“Cheerful place,” Alistair said, peering up. “Always wanted to visit. The brochures promised ‘a vivacious community of intellectuals.’ They left out the ‘smothering sense of impending doom.’”
“Your chatter will not make the windows light up,” Sten observed from the prow.
Morrigan stood near the stern, her gaze fixed on the silent structure. “It is not just quiet,” she said softly, almost to herself. “It is empty. Or it is full of something that does not wish to be seen.”
The base of the Tower loomed ahead, a massive fortified dock sheltering a few other vessels. More Templars stood there, a full squad, their polished armor a stark contrast to the two on the far shore. At their head stood a man in commander’s regalia, his helm tucked under his arm, revealing a stern, lined face and a head of close-cropped grey hair.
Knight-Commander Greagoir.
Daylen guided the boat into the dock. Hands reached out to grab the ropes, tying them fast. The sound of the hull scraping against the stone was obscenely loud in the quiet.
Daylen stood, stepping onto the solid stone of the Tower dock. He met Greagoir’s appraising stare directly. The man’s eyes were like chips of flint, missing nothing: the Grey Warden insignia, the well-used swords, the subtle changes in Daylen’s bearing.
“Knight-Commander,” Daylen said, giving a slight, respectful nod of his head.
“Daylen Amell,” Greagoir’s voice was gravelly, worn thin by worry and command. “First Enchanter Irving spoke often of your potential. He believed you dead at Ostagar. As did we all.”
“The reports were premature.”
“So it seems.” Greagoir’s gaze swept over the rest of the party—Alistair’s familiar fatigues, Sten’s intimidating bulk, Leliana’s poised alertness, Morrigan’s watchful disdain. “You return with interesting company. And as a Grey Warden. This alters… certain protocols.”
“It alters everything,” Daylen said, his voice low so only Greagoir might hear. “What’s happened here? Where is First Enchanter Irving?”
Greagoir’s jaw tightened. “Trapped. With the others who survived the initial… incident. The upper floors are overrun. Abominations. Demons from the Fade, walking the halls in stolen flesh.” He looked past Daylen, at the silent lake. “I have sent word to the Chantry in Denerim. I have requested the Right of Annulment.”
A cold knot formed in Daylen’s gut. The Right of Annulment. The total purging of a Circle. Death for every mage within, innocent and corrupted alike.
“You can’t,” Daylen said, the words sharp. “Irving is alive. Others are alive.”
“And how many are dead already? How many are not themselves?” Greagoir turned his flinty eyes back to him. “You know the law, Amell. You know the risk. One abomination escaping this Tower could devastate a village. A town. I have a duty.”
“And I have a duty to the Grey Wardens,” Daylen countered, stepping closer. The Templars nearby shifted, their hands hovering near their weapons. “The Blight is coming, Commander. We need every resource, every ally. We need the Circle’s strength. You purge this Tower, you hand a victory to the darkspawn.”
Greagoir was silent for a long moment, studying him. “You propose an alternative?”
“Grant me access. Let me go in there. Let me find Irving and any other survivors. Let me clear a path to the source of this breach and seal it.” Daylen held the older man’s gaze. “If I fail, you lose nothing. The Annulment proceeds. But if I succeed, you save your charges. You save Irving.”
“And you gain the Circle’s aid for your cause,” Greagoir said, not accusingly, but stating a fact.
“Yes.”
The Knight-Commander looked past him again, towards the dark entrance to the Tower proper. The weight of his office, of hundreds of lives, pressed down on his shoulders. He let out a long, slow breath.
“A compromise, then,” Greagoir said finally. “I will hold my request. I will give you one day. Twenty-four hours from the moment you cross that threshold.” He fixed Daylen with a hard stare. “If you do not return with the First Enchanter and confirmation the threat is ended, I will send the message. And no force on this earth will stop what comes after.”
“Understood.”
Greagoir gave a sharp nod. He turned to one of his men. “Bring it.”
The Templar walked to a sturdy chest secured against the wall. He unlocked it and lifted out a long object wrapped in oiled leather. He brought it to Greagoir, who took it and turned back to Daylen.
“You were always unorthodox, Amell,” Greagoir said, unwrapping the leather. “An arcane warrior. Irving argued for your specialized training despite… reservations.” The leather fell away, revealing a longsword. Its blade was a dull, smoky grey, etched with runes, and it seemed to drink the weak light rather than reflect it. “This is silverite. Forged by our own smiths, enchanted by a mage who understood that some battles are won in the clash of steel as well as the flinging of fire.”
He offered the weapon, hilt first.
Daylen took it. The balance was perfect, lighter than it looked, a seamless extension of his arm. He felt the latent power in the metal, a quiet hum that resonated with his own.
“Your other blade is serviceable, but this will serve you better,” Greagoir said. “Two hands are often better than one, especially in close quarters. I have seen your technique. This… this suits you.”
Daylen slowly drew his existing longsword, holding the new silverite blade in his other hand. The difference was profound. The silverite felt alive, eager. He executed a slow, practiced cross-body parry, the two swords moving in harmonious opposition.
It was a fluid, devastating dance. The style of the twin moons, opposing forces in perfect balance. He hadn't realized how much he’d been compensating until now, how the imbalance had shaped his movements. This was different. This was right.
“Thank you, Knight-Commander,” Daylen said, sheathing both blades. The new weight on his left hip felt like a missing piece restored.
“Do not thank me,” Greagoir said, his voice grave. “Justify my faith. Bring our people out.”
Daylen turned to face the Tower’s entrance, a dark maw in the pale stone. Alistair fell in beside him, shield ready. Sten hefted his greatsword. Leliana nocked an arrow. Morrigan’s staff glowed with a soft, dangerous light.
“One day,” Daylen said, to all of them. He did not look back.
He crossed the threshold into the familiar, vaulted chamber of the Tower’s ground floor. The air was cold and still, thick with the smell of old rushes, spilled wine, and something else. Something coppery and wrong.
The grand room was a wreck. Overturned tables, shattered pottery, dark stains on the flagstones. And at the far end, slumped against the wall in a pool of their own life, were two templars, their eyes staring at nothing.
The silence was no longer empty. It was a held breath.
From the shadows of a curved staircase, a low, wet gurgle sounded. Something shuffled into the dim light. It had been a mage, once. Ropes of viscous flesh spilled from a rent in its robes, its face a screaming mask half-melted into a weeping sore.
“Well,” Alistair said, his voice tight. “We’re not late for the party after all.”
Daylen drew his new swords. The silverite blade caught what little light there was, the runes glowing a faint, steady blue. The wildfire, he thought, recalling Morrigan’s words in the quiet of the inn. But sheathed now in perfect, lethal control.
He moved forward, the twin blades leading the way into the dark.