Chapter 19: Irving's hands shook as he signed the parchment, the quill scratching loudly in the tense silence of his chambers. Across the table, Greagoir's armored fingers drummed a slow rhythm on his sword pommel, his gaze flickering between Daylen and the treaty that would bind their forces to the Grey Wardens' cause.
The silence in the ruined library annex was a physical weight, thick with the smell of burnt ozone, spilled blood, and the foul, dissipating essence of dead demon. Daylen leaned heavily on his sword, the adrenaline drain leaving him hollow and shaky. Every muscle screamed.
Wynne pushed herself upright, her face gaunt with exhaustion. A soft, golden light emanated from her hands as she moved first to Sten, who was leaning against a toppled bookshelf, clutching his ribs. "Breathe slowly," she instructed, her voice a tired rasp. The light seeped into his massive torso, and Sten let out a gruff sigh as the worst of the pain receded.
"Many thanks," he rumbled.
Alistair was already poking the massive, dissolving form of the Pride Demon with the tip of his sword. "So, that was Uldred. Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me." He tried for levity, but his voice was flat, worn thin.
"He believed he was saving everyone," Wynne said, her tone conflicted. "Pride... it always believes its own justifications."
Morrigan observed the remains with detached curiosity. "The transformation was unusually stable for a self-inflicted possession. He held onto his consciousness far longer than most. A testament to his will, however misapplied."
"A testament to his ego," Daylen corrected, straightening with a wince. He looked around at the wreckage of knowledge, the scattered pages of ancient texts smeared with ichor. "We need to report to Irving. And Greagoir."
"Ah, the Knight-Commander," Alistair said, scraping demon gore off his shield with a chunk of broken wood. "This should be a fun chat. 'Hello, sir. We killed a few dozen of your possessed knights, saved your mages, and by the way, your senior enchanter was hosting a demon party. Can we borrow your people now?'"
A faint, pained smile touched Wynne's lips. "He will not be pleased. But he is, at his core, a practical man. Come. We should not keep them waiting."
The walk back through the Tower was a grim parade through a battlefield. They passed the bodies of fallen Templars and mages, now respectfully covered with cloaks or tapestries by the survivors. The oppressive, whispering presence of the Fade was gone, leaving only the heavy silence of loss and the low sounds of wounded being tended.
The First Enchanter's Chambers felt like a sanctuary from the carnage. The warm glow of enchanted lanterns pushed back the memory of the dark corridors. A fire crackled in the grand hearth, its light dancing over velvet hangings and polished wood. The scent of old books and beeswax was a welcome replacement for blood and rot.
Irving and Greagoir stood opposite each other before the fire, the space between them a chasm of mutual suspicion and fresh grief. Irving looked decades older, his shoulders bowed under the weight of the tragedy. Greagoir was a statue of wrought-iron anger, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. He still wore his full armor, the metal stained and scarred.
They turned as the group entered. Irving's eyes softened with relief. Greagoir's gaze was a hammer, sweeping over them, noting every drop of blood, every rent in their armor, finally settling on Daylen's Grey Warden insignia.
"You live," Irving said, his voice worn thin. "The apprentices you saved are being cared for. You have the gratitude of the Circle, Warden Amell.
…as does the Grey Wardens.”
Knight-Commander Greagoir stepped forward, his armor creaking. He studied Daylen’s face, his own etched with a deep, weary anger that wasn’t directed at the mage in front of him. “Cullen told me what happened in the phylactery chamber. How he… pleaded with you. What you chose to do instead.”
He paused, the memory of his butchered men hanging in the air between them. “You saved every soul in this tower who could still be saved. Templar and mage alike. That fistfight with my boy was a mercy. You showed him restraint when he begged for annihilation.” Greagoir’s voice grew thick. “I’ve buried too many today. You kept that number from being all of them. You have my thanks, Warden. And my apologies.”
The raw honesty disarmed Daylen. He simply nodded, the formal speech he’d prepared crumbling. “The cost was already too high, Knight-Commander.”
“It always is,” Greagoir said, turning to stare into the fire. “So. The Blight. You’ve come to call in the treaties.”
“Yes,” Daylen said, finding his footing again. “We need mages and templars. As many as can be spared.”
Irving sighed, a sound of pure exhaustion. “After this… the Circle is wounded, Warden. Our strength is halved. Our trust in each other is shattered.” He gestured vaguely toward the tower around them. “Sending our people out into a Blight, so soon after this internal calamity…”
Greagoir turned back, his practicality reasserting itself. “It’s not just about trust. It’s about logistics. You want a fighting force? You’ll get remnants. Templars who watched their brothers turn into monsters. Mages who saw their mentors abominate. They’re not soldiers. They’re traumatized survivors.”
“They’re also the only experts we have on fighting demonic influence,” Alistair cut in, his tone diplomatic but firm. “And the Blight reeks of the same filth. Darkspawn corruption, demonic possession… it’s all from the same moldy cellar, isn’t it?”
Morrigan, who had been examining a curious arcane instrument on Irving’s desk, spoke without looking up. “Sentiment aside, a Blight cares not for your healing time. It marches. It consumes. Would you rather your ‘remnants’ die defending this broken tower, or die slowing the tide that will break the world?”
Her bluntness hung in the air. Wynne shot her a sharp look, but did not contradict her.
Greagoir and Irving exchanged a long, silent look. A lifetime of rivalry and enforced partnership passed between them in that glance. Finally, Irving straightened his robes, a hint of his old authority returning. “She is not wrong, Greagoir. We cannot hide here and lick our wounds. If the world falls, this Circle falls with it. A final, inglorious footnote.”
The Knight-Commander gave a slow, resigned nod. “A contingent, then. A mix. I’ll lead the templars myself. Someone has to keep an eye on you lot,” he said, the ghost of a grim smile touching his lips. “And someone has to make sure these mages don’t get themselves eaten.”
“And I will select the mages,” Irving said, his voice gaining strength. “Volunteers only. Those who are stable. And those,” he added, looking pointedly at Wynne, “whose wisdom might balance raw power.”
Wynne inclined her head in silent acceptance.
Wynne inclined her head in silent acceptance. The fire popped in the hearth, the sound stark against the tense quiet that had settled over the room. Daylen felt the weight of the agreement, fragile as glass, and the heavier weight of his own failing body pressing down.
“Then it’s settled,” Greagoir said, his voice a low rumble. “We’ll need time. A month, perhaps more. To tend our wounded. To… regroup.” The word was thick with unspoken grief for the dead he’d soon have to bury.
Irving nodded, his eyes on Daylen. “You have our oath, Warden. When you call, we will answer. But you look like death warmed over. The blood in your eyes isn’t a fashion statement.”
Daylen blinked, realizing only then the metallic taste in his mouth and the gritty, burning feeling across his own vision. He must have strained something during the fight, a capillary bursting deep within the exertion of holding so much power. “It’s nothing,” he started to say, but the words came out slurry.
“It is not ‘nothing,’ you insufferable boy,” Wynne said, her healer’s tone leaving no room for argument. She was already moving toward him, her fingers reaching for his temples. “You are running on fumes and spite. Stand still.”
A warm, soothing energy flowed from her touch, seeping into the pounding ache behind his eyes. The world, which had begun to tilt slightly, stabilized. The lancing pain behind his sockets dulled to a bearable throb. “Thank you,” he managed.
Alistair peered at him. “Red really isn’t your color. Makes you look deranged. More deranged.”
“Noted,” Daylen muttered, rubbing his eyes. The fatigue was a physical thing now, a leaden cloak on his shoulders. “A month. We’ll send word when we’re ready to march. We have our own… regrouping to do.”
They took their leave, the formalities finally spent. The walk out of the Tower felt longer than the descent into its hellish basement. Sunlight streamed through the high windows of the entrance hall, a shock after the perpetual gloom below. It lit up the floating dust and the somber faces of the surviving mages and templars now working side-by-side to clear the debris of their war.
Outside, the lake air was cold and clean, scouring the last of the tower’s stench from their lungs. The skiff waited at the dock. No one spoke during the crossing. Sten sat with his eyes closed, his big hands resting on his knees, breathing deeply. Leliana cleaned her blades with methodical focus. Morrigan watched the water, her expression unreadable.
They made camp a mile into the forest, far enough from the tower’s shadow. The routine was quiet, efficient. Sten gathered wood. Leliana and Alistair saw to the fire and bedrolls. Daylen simply stood, leaning against a broad pine, listening to the ordinary sounds of the forest returning.
“Sit,” Wynne commanded, pulling him down onto a log by the newly crackling fire. She produced a small, simple kit from her pack. “The magic mends the spirit, but the body needs its own tending.” She cleaned the smaller cuts on his arms and face with a damp cloth, her touch firm and professional.
Nearby, Alistair was trying to lighten the mood. “So, a month. What’s the plan? Find a nice tavern? I hear Denerim has this place with ale that doesn’t taste like bog water.”
“We have the treaties still to call upon,” Leliana reminded him, sharpening a dagger. “The Dalish clans. Orzammar. They will not be… easier.”
Sten grunted, placing a heavy pot of water near the flames. “A month of rest is a month the darkspawn multiply. A strategic delay is still a delay.”
“A delay that means we arrive with an army, Sten,” Daylen said, his voice tired but firm. “Not just five tired people. We need their numbers.” He accepted a strip of dried venison from Leliana, the simple act of chewing requiring focus.
Morrigan had slipped away into the trees, returning as dusk painted the sky in violet hues. She carried a clutch of deep-purple roots. “For the broth,” she stated, dropping them by Sten’s pot. “They will help your body replace what you spilled on that library floor.” She didn’t look at Daylen as she said it, but the gesture was there, practical and blunt.
The stew was simple, hot, and revitalizing. They ate in a comfortable silence, the warmth of the food and the fire pushing back the deep chill of exhaustion. Jokes were traded, quieter now. Stories of the battle were dissected not with triumph, but with a subdued clinicality, learning the lessons it had etched in blood.
Later, watches were set. Daylen took the first, too wound to sleep despite the weariness in his bones. He sat at the edge of the firelight, his back against a tree, watching the dark weave between the trunks. The events in the tower played behind his eyes not as a victory, but as a series of close calls, of faces—apprentice and templar alike—that had been moments from joining the corpses they’d left behind.
Soft footsteps approached from behind. He knew her scent—wild herbs and cold air—before she spoke.
“You brood louder than that Qunari snores,” Morrigan said, settling on the ground beside him, not touching.
“Just thinking.”
“A dangerous pastime.”
He glanced at her. In the firelight, her sharp features were softened, her yellow eyes luminous. “Today was a mess. A necessary one, but a mess.”
She plucked a blade of grass, twisting it between her fingers. “You secured your alliance. You saved lives. You preserved your precious moral high ground. A neat package, by your standards.” There was no mockery in her tone, just a statement of observed fact. “The blood has been scrubbed from the stones. The songs will be written. What more do you want?”
“To not feel like I’m balancing it all on the edge of a knife,” he admitted, the words coming easier in the dark. “One slip today, and it all collapses. Irving. Greagoir. All of them.”
“And yet it did not collapse.” She looked at him fully now. “You held. That is what matters. The rest is… posturing.” She stood, brushing the forest from her skirts. “Do not waste the watch with regret. Waste it with planning for the next inevitable mess.”
She melted back into the shadows toward her tent. He watched her go, a strange comfort in her unsentimental clarity. The forest sounds—the chirp of insects, the distant call of an owl—began to fill the space where his thoughts had churned. He took a slow, deep breath, the clean air filling his lungs. They were alive. They had a plan. For tonight, that was enough.
The fire burned low, and the deep, familiar ache of his healing body began to pull him toward sleep. He listened to the steady rhythm of Alistair’s snoring, the gentle rustle of Leliana shifting in her bedroll, and felt the watch pass peacefully to the next person. His eyes, no longer red but shadowed with fatigue, finally closed.
His eyes, no longer red but shadowed with fatigue, finally closed.
A gentle nudge at his shoulder brought him back from the edge of a deep, black well. He opened his eyes to the silver-filtered dark of very early morning. Morrigan stood over him, her form a silhouette against the moonlit trees.
“My watch is over,” she stated, her voice a low murmur that didn’t carry. She leaned down, her lips close to his ear. “And if you think that after ravaging my nerve endings with your magnificent cock, I intend to go to my tent alone, then you are either thick or malicious.” Her breath was warm against his skin. “Which is it?”
He was awake instantly, a different kind of fatigue forgotten. A slow smile touched his lips. “Maliciously thick?” he whispered.
“Hmph.” She straightened and turned, not waiting for a reply, and strode toward the tree line without a backward glance. The implication was clear. He pushed himself up from the ground, his muscles protesting only slightly, and followed her into the deeper shadows.
She led him to a small, natural clearing where a soft bed of moss met the base of a large granite outcrop. It was hidden from the camp by a thick curtain of willow branches. The air here was cooler, smelling of damp earth and night-blooming flowers. She turned to face him, the moonlight catching the sharp planes of her face.
Without a word, she closed the distance and kissed him. It wasn't gentle. It was a claiming, hungry and impatient, her tongue demanding his. Her hands were already at the buckles of his armor, fingers working with practiced efficiency. He matched her urgency, his own hands finding the ties of her leathers, pulling at them until the supple material gave way.
They didn't speak. The only sounds were their ragged breathing, the rustle of discarded clothes, the soft thud of a gauntlet hitting moss. The cold air pebbled their skin, a sharp contrast to the heat building between them. He looked at her, bare in the moonlight, all pale skin and sharp angles and defiant eyes. She was breathtaking.
She pushed him back against the cool, rough surface of the rock. “No,” she said, her voice a husky command. “This time, you watch.”
She dropped to her knees before him, her hands sliding up his thighs. She took him into her mouth, her tongue flat against the underside of his shaft before swallowing him deep. He groaned, his head thudding back against the stone, fingers tangling in the wild dark silk of her hair. She set a brutal, relentless pace, one hand cupping him tightly, the other gripping his hip hard enough to leave marks.
It was overwhelming, a direct assault on his senses that short-circuited thought. He could only feel—the wet, hot pull of her mouth, the scrape of her teeth, the eager pressure of her hands. His own hands tightened in her hair, not guiding, just holding on as the tension coiled violently at the base of his spine. She pulled back just as he was about to break, leaving him throbbing and gasping.
“Not yet,” she breathed, looking up at him, her lips glistening. She stood, turning her back to him, bracing her hands against the rock. “Now.”
He needed no further invitation. He entered her in one smooth, deep stroke, and she arched back against him with a sharp, swallowed cry. She was already wet, hot, and tight around him. He set a punishing rhythm, driven by her earlier demand and his own desperate need for release, for this raw, physical affirmation of life after a day steeped in death.
Her breath came in short, ragged gasps that punctuated each thrust. “There,” she hissed, “right there, you insufferable man.” Her nails scrabbled against the granite. He obeyed, angling his hips, hitting the spot that made her legs tremble. A low, guttural moan was torn from her throat, her whole body clenching around him in a powerful, rolling wave. He felt her come apart, the muscles of her back rippling under his hands.
He kept moving, relentless, as she gasped through the aftershocks. A second peak found her quickly, this one wringing a choked scream from her that she muffled by biting her own arm. She was tight and trembling, her earlier control utterly shattered. He was close, so close, the pressure building to a breaking point.
She reached back, her hand gripping his thigh, her words fragmented. “Again… don’t you dare stop… make me…”
He drove into her, hard and deep, his own control snapping. Her third climax overtook her as he spilled into her, her body milking him in fierce, rhythmic pulses. She went utterly rigid, a silent, open-mouthed scream frozen on her face before her eyes rolled back and her body went limp, sagging against the rock. He held her up, his own release shuddering through him, until the last tremor passed.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their labored breathing mingling with the forest night. He slowly pulled out, and her knees buckled. He caught her, turning her gently, and lowered them both to the soft moss. She was boneless, her consciousness fled, her breathing deep and even. A strange tenderness cut through the aftermath of sheer carnality. He brushed a strand of sweat-damp hair from her forehead.
He held her like that as the moon traced its path, until the sky began to lighten from black to deep cobalt at the edges. A faint chill crept into the air. She stirred against him, a soft, incoherent murmur escaping her lips. Her eyes fluttered open, finding his in the greying dawn. For a fleeting second, there was no sharp wit, no cynical guard—just a languid, sated acknowledgment.
Then it was gone, walled away behind her usual sharpness. She disentangled herself from his arms and began to dress with swift, efficient movements. “The others will be waking,” she stated, her voice back to its normal timbre, though slightly hoarse.
He dressed in silence, the chill of the morning air sharp on his sweat-damp skin. They walked back to camp separately, emerging from the trees at different points as if by unspoken agreement. The fire was down to embers, and Alistair was poking at it with a stick, yawning.
“Nice walk?” Alistair asked, not looking up, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
Daylen said nothing, simply moving to roll up his bedroll. Wynne was already packing her things, her movements precise. She glanced at him, then at Morrigan emerging from the opposite side of the clearing. A faint, unreadable tightness passed over Wynne’s features before she turned back to her task.
Leliana was humming softly while checking her bowstring. Sten was methodically chewing a strip of dried meat, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the first true rays of sun were beginning to bleed color into the sky.