Chapter 7: Blood of the Wardens
The return to Ostagar felt like crossing into another world. The oppressive, whispering silence of the Wilds was replaced by the clatter of armor, the guttural shouts of sergeants drilling recruits, and the ever-present reek of too many unwashed bodies packed into a damp stone fortress. The relief Daylen had felt clutching the treaties in Flemeth’s hut had evaporated, leaving a cold, hard knot in his stomach.
Duncan met them at the edge of the main camp, his expression unreadable. He took the proffered scrolls and vials, his hands—scarred and capable—weighing them not as objects, but as burdens. “Jory. Daveth. Report to the quartermaster. Draw what gear you need.” His dark eyes settled on Daylen and Alistair. “You two. With me. It’s time.”
Two words. It’s time. They hung in the humid air, heavier than any armor.
He led them not to the command tent, but away from the organized chaos of the main yard, down a narrow, winding set of stairs carved into the bedrock beneath the fortress. The air grew cold and still, the sounds of the camp fading into a damp echo. Torches in iron sconces cast a flickering, failing light on walls slick with condensation.
They entered a circular chamber, ancient and bare. The only features were a massive, rough-hewn stone slab in the center, stained dark by something old, and a simple metal brazier where a low fire burned with a blue-tinged flame. It smelled of cold stone, cold earth, and something else—a metallic, coppery tang that made the back of Daylen’s throat tighten.
Daveth and Jory were already there, looking small and out of place. Daveth tried to smirk, but it faltered at the edges. Jory’s face was pale, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
“This is where it happens,” Duncan said, his voice echoing softly in the vaulted space. He placed the three vials of black darkspawn blood on the stone slab. They looked innocuous, like bottles of ink, but the liquid within seemed to move sluggishly, catching the eerie light. “The Joining. There is no poetry to it. No grand ceremony for onlookers. It is a secret, and for good reason.”
He turned to face them, his gaze encompassing all three recruits. “You will drink from this cup.” He produced a simple, silver-chased goblet from a fold of his cloak. “A mixture of the blood of the darkspawn, a drop of archdemon blood… and other, rarer things. Most who drink will die. Their bodies cannot withstand the taint. Those who survive… are forever changed. You will hear the calling of the darkspawn. You will sense them. And you will be, until your death, a Grey Warden.”
“Wait,” Jory breathed, the word barely audible. “Most… die?”
“Yes,” Duncan said, no inflection. “The Joining is a gamble with your life as the stake. This is why we recruit from those who have nothing to lose, or everything to prove. You knew this, in part. Now you know the full truth.”
Daveth let out a shaky laugh. “Well, shit. Odds aren’t great, are they?”
“They are not,” Duncan agreed. He filled the goblet from one of the vials, the thick, black liquid slosching viscously. He added a pinch of something silver from a small pouch, and a single, glowing drop from a different, crystalline phial. The mixture in the cup seemed to writhe, emitting a faint, sickly-sweet smell that warred with the metallic stench. “Who is first?”
Daveth looked at Jory, who had taken a step back, his face a mask of sheer terror. He looked at Daylen, who felt his own heart hammering against his ribs. The Circle had prepared him for many things—demons, political intrigue, the dangers of magic. Not for this. This was alchemy of the darkest kind, a pact written in poison.
“Ah, sod it,” Daveth said, stepping forward. “Always been lucky at cards.” He took the goblet from Duncan, his hand steady. He winked at Daylen, a ghost of his old bravado in his eyes. “See you on the other side, mage.”
He drank. He gulped it down in three large, desperate swallows, his throat working convulsively.
For a moment, nothing happened. Daveth lowered the cup, a grimace of disgust on his face. “Tastes like rotten eggs and—“
He choked. A violent shudder racked his frame. The goblet clattered to the stone floor. His hands flew to his throat, his eyes widening, not with fear, but with a kind of horrifying, internal realization. He made a wet, gurgling sound. Black veins, like cracks in porcelain, spread from his lips, crawling up his cheeks and across his temples. His eyes rolled back in his head, showing only the whites.
He collapsed. His body hit the stone with a sickening, final thud. It twitched once, twice, then was still. A trickle of black fluid leaked from his mouth into a pool on the ancient stone.
Silence, absolute and profound, choked the chamber.
Jory made a sound like a wounded animal. “No. No, no, no.” He backed away until his back hit the cold wall. “My wife… my child…”
Duncan’s face was carved from granite. He retrieved the goblet, wiped it clean with a cloth, and refilled it from the vials. “Daylen.”
The sound of his own name was a hook in his gut. He saw Daveth’s blank, staring eyes. He heard Morrigan’s voice in his head. You march to Ostagar to die. He felt the Tower’s cold tranquility, the sterile safety of the library, the predictable menace of the Harrowing. All of it was gone. There was only this cold room, this black blood, and Duncan’s unyielding gaze.
Alistair, standing near the door, looked like he was going to be sick. His knuckles were white on the pommel of his sword.
Daylen stepped forward. His legs felt like wood. He took the goblet. The metal was warm, almost feverish. The liquid inside was utterly black, a void in a cup. He thought of the Fade, of the visceral fear of possession. This was different. This was a corruption of the body itself. He raised it to his lips.
The smell hit him first—overwhelming, a slaughterhouse mixed with spoiled honey and lightning-struck earth. He drank.
The taste was indescribable. It was pain given flavor. It burned like acid down his throat, then exploded in his stomach, a nova of agony. The physical world dissolved.
He was falling through layers of screams. Not human screams. A chorus of endless, hateful hunger, scraping at the edges of reality. He saw mountains of writhing flesh, a sea of red-eyed shadows moving under a blighted sky. He felt the mindless drive to dig, to consume, to spoil. He saw the archdemon, not as a body, but as a vast, consciousness, a black star whose gravity pulled all corruption towards it. The song it sang was in his veins now, a low, discordant thrumming that promised only an end to thought, to will, to self.
He saw flashes of other things. A shining city in a mountain. A woman weeping over a betrayal as old as stone. A lonely, bitter calling from the deep, a song that promised a final, welcoming rest. The visions were not just sights; they were sensations grafted directly onto his soul. Despair. Hatred. A yearning so deep it ached.
And then, as suddenly as it began, it was over.
He was on his knees on the stone, vomiting. What came up was black and viscous, steaming slightly in the cold air. His whole body trembled, wracked with spasms. He could still hear the song, but it was distant now, a hum at the base of his skull. He could feel the taint in his own blood, a foreign, sluggish warmth coiling alongside his own life force. He was infected. He was changed.
He heard a roar of pure, unadulterated terror.
Jory had drawn his greatsword. “I won’t do it! You saw! It’s death! It’s a curse!” He swung the massive blade wildly, not at Duncan, but at the space between them, as if to cut his own fate apart. “Let me go! I renounce it! I have a family!”
“Jory,” Duncan’s voice was low, calm. “Put the blade down. There is no renouncing this. You knew the cost.”
“LIAR!” Jory screamed, spittle flying. He leveled the sword, pointing it at Duncan. “You said it was an honor! You didn’t say it was a death sentence! Get out of my way!” He charged, not with skill, but with the blind, panicked strength of a cornered beast.
Duncan didn’t move. As the massive blade came down in a clumsy, overhand arc, he stepped inside the swing. There was a blur of motion too fast to follow. Duncan’s dagger, already in his hand, plunged upward, under Jory’s ribcage.
Jory stopped. The fury on his face melted into confusion, then a profound, childlike surprise. He looked down at the hilt of the dagger protruding from his armor. He coughed, a fine spray of blood misting the air between him and Duncan. The greatsword slipped from his fingers, clattering on the stone.
Duncan held him as he sagged, lowering him gently to the ground. “I am sorry, Jory,” he murmured, his face close to the dying man’s. “For Highever. For your child.”
Jory’s eyes were fixed on some point far away, already looking past the stone ceiling. “Megan…” he whispered. Then the light left his eyes.
Duncan pulled the dagger free. He did not look at Daylen or Alistair. He picked up the goblet again, walked to the stone slab, and refilled it a third time. He carried it to where Jory’s body lay and, with a quiet solemnity, poured a measure of the black liquid over the dead man’s lips. It sizzled faintly against the cold skin. “For those who fail,” Duncan said, his voice hollow. “So they do not rise again.”
He stood, wiping his dagger clean, sheathing it. He finally turned. Daylen was still on his knees, shaking, the world swimming in and out of focus. Duncan’s face swam above him, etched with a deep, unspoken weariness.
“Welcome, Daylen Amell,” he said, and the words held no triumph, only a bone-deep gravity. “To the Grey Wardens.”
The stone floor was cold against his cheek. The distant song in his blood thrummed its alien rhythm. The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was Alistair’s face, pale and stricken, staring at the two corpses on the floor. Then there was nothing.