Chapter 2: Betrayal of Blood
The restlessness that Duncan’s words had ignited in him didn’t fade; it simmered, a low heat in his blood that the silent, familiar corridors of the mage quarters couldn’t soothe. He found himself outside Leorah’s door not out of habit, but out of a need for contact, for something real and heated to burn away the competing futures crowding his mind.
He knocked once, softly. The door opened a crack, then wider when she saw it was him. She was in a simple linen shift, her hair down around her shoulders. She said nothing, just stepped back, a knowing, tired smile on her lips.
Her room was small, filled with the scent of dried elfroot and ink. A single candle guttered on the desk, piled with scrolls. She leaned against it, watching him. “Can’t sleep, hero?”
“Something like that,” he said, closing the door. The lock clicked softly.
He crossed the space between them. There was no rush. He took his time, his eyes tracing the lines of her—the sharp angle of her collarbone, the subtle curve of her hip beneath the thin fabric, the toned, lean muscle of her arms. A hunger, deep and physical, rose in him, an antidote to the political poisons of the day.
He cupped her face and kissed her. Not a gentle greeting, but a deep, claiming press of lips, his tongue sliding against hers. She tasted of mint and wine. A soft sound escaped her throat as her hands came up, one tangling in the short hair at the back of his head, the other sliding down his chest, past his belt, to palm the hard length of him through his trousers. He groaned into her mouth, his own hand dropping to the hem of her shift, hiking it up to her waist. His fingers found the heat between her legs, stroking through her damp folds, circling her clit in slow, firm presses that made her gasp and break the kiss, her forehead falling against his shoulder.
He guided her backward onto the narrow bed, the scrolls on the desk rustling in the faint draft. He pulled the shift over her head, letting it pool on the floor. In the candlelight, her elven body was a landscape of smooth skin and subtle strength. He worshiped it with his mouth. He kissed her throat, the valley between her breasts, the sensitive skin of her stomach. He hooked her legs over his shoulders and bent his head between her thighs.
He took his time here, too. He licked and suckled until she was writhing, her fingers clutching at the sheets, breathless pleas and curses tumbling from her lips. When her first climax shuddered through her, he didn’t stop. He moved lower, his tongue tracing the tight furl of her ass, making her jerk and cry out in shocked pleasure. He worked a finger inside her cunt, then two, curling them as he continued to lave at her other entrance. He alternated, his mouth on her pussy, his thumb pressing against her ass, then his tongue dipping into the tight ring while his fingers plunged deep into her wetness. She dissolved into a series of helpless, wordless sounds, her body bowing off the bed, completely at his mercy.
When she was slick and shaking, he moved over her. He entered her slowly, watching her face as he sheathed himself to the hilt. Her eyes were wide, dark, full of a wanton desperation. He fucked her like that, missionary, his weight braced on his arms, driving deep and steady. He watched the pleasure build in her, the tension coiling until it snapped. Her back arched, a strangled cry tore from her throat, and her legs shook violently around his hips before she collapsed, boneless and gasping.
He gave her a moment, kissing her slowly as she recovered, before rolling onto his back and pulling her atop him. She rose over him, sliding down onto his cock with a sigh that was half relief, half renewed desire. She rode him with a determined, grinding rhythm, her head thrown back, her small breasts bouncing. He gripped her hips, helping her, guiding her, until another orgasm ripped through her. This one was slower, a rolling wave that made her thighs tremble and her movements become staggered, clumsy.
He gently turned her onto her side, pulling her back against his chest. He entered her from behind, one arm wrapped around her waist, his other hand snaking down to rub her oversensitive clit in frantic circles. She reached back, tangling her hand in his hair, pulling his mouth to hers. They kissed, messy and deep, as he drove into her. The angle was perfect, hitting a place that made her whimper into his mouth. Her breathing grew erratic, her kisses becoming slack.
He felt her internal muscles begin to flutter around him, the sign of her building to a peak. He rubbed her clit faster, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, aimed directly at that spot. Her eyes, locked on his, lost their focus. They drifted inward, crossing slightly as pleasure utterly short-circuited her sense of self. A silent, breathless scream formed on her lips. Then her entire body locked in a brutal, electric convulsion. Her eyes rolled back, her grip on his hair went limp, and she went utterly still, consciousness fleeing as the orgasm detonated through her like a silent, nuclear shockwave.
Only then did he let his own control shatter. With a final, deep thrust, he spilled inside her, holding her quivering body tight as his own release washed through him in hot, pulsing waves.
For long minutes, the only sound was their ragged breathing and the pop of the candle. They were a sticky, sweaty mess, limbs tangled, the smell of sex and spent candles thick in the air. Gradually, her breathing evened into the slow rhythm of exhausted sleep.
Daylen carefully disentangled himself. He cleaned them both with a whispered spell, a faint blue light passing over their skin. He dressed quietly in the dark, the weight of the silverite sword being settled across his back a grounding, familiar sensation. He looked at Leorah, asleep and serene in the aftermath. For a moment, he envied her peace.
But the restlessness was back, colder now, edged with purpose. Jowan’s terrified face surfaced in his mind, followed by Duncan’s solemn, promising eyes. He needed advice. He needed to know the shape of the trap before he decided whether to step into it.
Irving’s study was still lit when Daylen arrived, the glow of veilfire spilling from under the door. He knocked.
“Enter.”
The First Enchanter was at his desk, but he wasn’t working. He was staring into the fireplace, a crystal glass of something amber in his hand. He looked older in the firelight, the lines on his face deeper.
“Daylen. I had a feeling you might come. Sit. Wine?”
“No, thank you, First Enchanter.”
Irving gestured to the chair opposite him. Daylen sat, the leather creaking under his weight. The fire crackled between them.
“You’ve spoken with Jowan,” Irving said. It wasn’t a question.
“He’s terrified. He thinks Greagoir is going to make him Tranquil. He asked for my help. To destroy his phylactery.”
Irving took a slow sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving Daylen’s. “And what did you tell him?”
“I told him I needed to think. It’s… it’s treason. It would ruin me.” Daylen leaned forward. “But he’s my friend. And he swears he’s not a blood mage.”
A sad, knowing smile touched Irving’s lips. “Jowan has always been… weak-willed. His magic is mediocre, his ambition outstrips his talent. It is a dangerous combination. The desire for power can lead a mage down dark paths, even without the intent to walk them.”
“You believe he’s dabbling?”
“It does not matter what I believe,” Irving said, his voice low and serious. “It matters what the Knight-Commander believes. And Greagoir has evidence. Notes. Witnesses who have seen Jowan in places he should not be, studying texts that are forbidden. The signs are there, Daylen. For those who know how to look.”
The cold pit in Daylen’s stomach returned, wider now. “Then he’s already condemned.”
“Not yet.” Irving set his glass down. “The formal accusation has not been made. The evidence is… circumstantial. Enough for suspicion, not enough for the Rite of Tranquility. Not without his phylactery being used to track him if he were to… flee.”
Daylen understood. “You want him to run.”
“I want the Circle spared a ugly, divisive trial. I want Jowan to have a chance, however slim, at a life somewhere else. And I want the real corruption rooted out.” Irving’s gaze was sharp now. “Jowan is a tool, Daylen. A frightened, foolish tool. But tools can be used. If he flees, his accomplice—the one who has truly led him astray—will be forced to act. To reveal themselves.”
“You want me to help him. To play along.”
“I want you to be the friend he believes you are,” Irving said softly. “Go with him to the phylactery chamber. Help him retrieve it. And then… observe. See who else is involved. The Chantry sister, Lily, is likely just a dupe, a romantic fool. But there may be others within these walls. This is your chance to serve the Circle in a way few others can.”
The pieces clicked into place with a dreadful, mechanical finality. He was being asked to betray his friend for a greater good. To become a spy. It was politics, it was necessity, but it tasted like ash in his mouth.
“And if I’m caught? By the templars?”
Irving’s expression was unreadable. “Then you will have been a mage, succumbing to a moment of poor judgment for a friend. A regrettable, but understandable, lapse. I would, of course, speak on your behalf. Your recent performance would weigh heavily. But the choice, Daylen, must be yours. I cannot order you to do this.”
A choice. Help his friend commit a crime for a secret cause, or refuse and likely watch Jowan be made Tranquil. There was no clean path.
He thought of the Grey Wardens. Of a life where the lines were clearer, the enemies defined. But that was a dream for another time. This was the reality of the Tower, a tangled web of loyalties and lies.
He stood up, the decision settling on him like a heavy cloak. “When?”
“Tomorrow night,” Irving said. “After midnight. The repository wards are recalibrated then; there will be a brief window. I will ensure the patrols are… distracted. You will need this.” He slid a small, rune-etched key across the desk. “It will open the inner grate.”
Daylen took the key. It was cold in his hand. He nodded, once, then turned and left without another word.
The stone halls of the Tower felt different as he walked back to his quarters. They were no longer just a home, or a prison. They were a battlefield, and he had just agreed to walk onto it, unsure of who his allies truly were. The weight of the silverite sword on his back felt less like a gift now, and more like the only thing he could trust.
The weight of the silverite sword on his back felt less like a gift now, and more like the only thing he could trust. He didn’t return to his quarters. The thought of that small, silent room made his skin crawl. Instead, his feet carried him down the familiar, winding staircase towards the Tower’s main hall, and then beyond, to the adjoining Chantry.
The air changed as he crossed the threshold. The Tower always hummed with a latent, chaotic energy, the fade brushing close against its stones. The Chantry was different. It was still, heavy with the scent of incense and polished wood and quiet despair. The main chapel was dark, lit only by a few votive candles flickering beneath the stern stone gaze of Andraste.
He heard them before he saw them. A hushed, urgent whispering from a shadowed alcove near the side altar, where dusty copies of the Chant of Light were kept on forgotten shelves.
“He has to agree, Lily. He’s the only one who can get past the wards now,” Jowan’s voice pleaded, strained and thin.
“Perhaps it is a sign. Perhaps the Maker does not will this path.” Her voice was softer, melodic, but frayed with tension.
Daylen stepped into the pool of faint candlelight. They both jumped, separating slightly. Jowan looked like he hadn’t slept, dark circles under his eyes. Lily was a young woman with a kind, gentle face now pinched with worry, her Chantry robes seeming to swallow her whole.
“Daylen!” Jowan hissed, scrambling forward. “You came. I was… we were just…”
“Talking about the plan I haven’t agreed to yet,” Daylen finished, his voice low. He nodded to Lily. “Sister.”
“Enchanter,” she said, bowing her head slightly. Her hands were clasped so tight her knuckles were white. “Thank you for meeting us. I know what we ask is… monumental.”
“It’s treason,” Daylen said flatly, watching her flinch. “It’s a lifetime of being hunted. For both of you. Are you really ready for that?”
Jowan wrung his hands. “It’s that or be made Tranquil! They know, Daylen. They’re just waiting for the right moment. This is our only chance!”
“He is not what they say,” Lily insisted, her eyes bright with fervent belief. “He is a good man, caught in an unfair system. His heart is pure. The Maker would not have brought us together if this was not meant to be.”
Daylen looked at her, this woman who saw romance where there was only panic, who saw divine will in a stupid, dangerous affair. He saw Jowan, trembling with a fear that smelled an awful lot like guilt. He thought of Irving’s cold calculus, of being a weapon in the First Enchanter’s secret war. He thought of Duncan’s offer of a purpose outside these walls.
He was surrounded by people using each other. Irving was using him. Jowan was using him. Lily was using her faith. The only clear path was the one he chose for himself, right here, right now.
“Alright,” he said, the word leaving his mouth before he could second-guess its finality.
Jowan’s breath left him in a shaky gasp. “You mean it?”
“I do it, we’re even,” Daylen said, fixing Jowan with a hard stare. “All favors paid. After this, you run, and you never look back. You understand? You leave this life behind, and you don’t drag anyone else into your mess.”
“Yes! Yes, of course,” Jowan babbled, tears of relief welling in his eyes. Lily reached for his hand, squeezing it, her own face transformed by a radiant, hopeful smile.
“First Enchanter Irving is having the repository wards recalibrated tomorrow night after midnight,” Daylen continued, his voice all business. He pulled the small, runed key from his pocket, showing it to them briefly before slipping it away. “That’s our window. I’ll get the phylactery. You two need to be ready to move the second I have it. Have everything you need prepared.”
“We will,” Lily said, her voice steadier now, filled with a sense of mission. “We have a place. Outside the city.”
“Good.” Daylen looked from one to the other. The dread in his gut had solidified into a cold, sharp focus. “Tomorrow night, then. Meet me in the library annex an hour before midnight. Don’t be late.”
He turned and walked away, leaving them in their shadowed alcove, their whispered thanks following him like ghosts. He passed the statue of Andraste, her stone eyes seeming to watch his retreating back. He didn’t feel like a hero, or a savior, or even a good friend.
He felt like a man who had just lit a fuse, and now had no choice but to see where the explosion would land.