Chapter 10: The Bear at the Door
The first thing Fox heard was the door splintering.
Not knocking. Not scratching. Splintering—the sound of thick wood giving way under a force that had no business being in a cottage this high on the cliffs. He was on his feet before his eyes fully opened, bow in hand, arrow already nocked. Years of sleeping light and waking fast had made the motion instinct.
Beside him, Arielle stirred.
"What—"
"Quiet."
The door burst inward.
The bear that filled the doorway was wrong. That was the first thing his mind registered—not the size, though it was massive, easily the biggest grizzly he'd ever seen. Not the smell, though the stench of rot and burnt fur filled the cottage like a physical thing. It was the eyes. Green fire, burning in sockets that should have been empty. Witchfire. He'd seen it once before, years ago, on a dead man walking in the mountains south of Kirkwall.
The bear roared.
Fox loosed his arrow.
It took the creature in the throat—a perfect shot, the kind that would have dropped any living thing. The bear didn't even flinch. It kept coming, its massive paws cracking the floorboards, its jaws snapping at the air.
"Move!"
Everly's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. She was already on her feet, her hands moving in patterns that left trails of blue light in the air. The temperature in the room dropped so fast that Fox's breath fogged in front of his face.
Ice erupted from the floor.
It crawled up the bear's legs, thick and jagged, anchoring it to the spot. The creature roared again—a sound that was equal parts rage and something else, something that sounded almost like pain.
"Now!" Everly shouted. "Kill it!"
Fox was already drawing.
He put three arrows into its skull in rapid succession—left eye, forehead, right temple. Each shot was true. Each shot should have been fatal. The bear shook its head like a dog ridding itself of water, and the arrows snapped off against the bone.
"What the fuck—"
The ice cracked.
Arielle moved before he could stop her—darting forward with her poisoned blade, her movements quick and precise. She slashed at the bear's exposed tendons, the ones connecting its massive legs to its body. The blade bit deep. Black ichor wept from the wound.
The bear swiped.
Its paw caught her across the chest, and she flew.
She hit the shelf of potion vials with a crash that Fox felt in his teeth. Glass shattered. Liquid splashed. And Arielle—Arielle didn't get up.
Something inside Fox snapped.
Not broke. Not cracked. Snapped—like a bowstring drawn past its limit, like a bone giving way under too much weight. The world went red at the edges. The careful calculations, the measured responses, the years of training that had taught him to stay calm in the face of death—all of it burned away.
He dropped his bow.
He drew his knife.
The bear was still tearing at the ice, its massive body twisting and straining. Fox didn't think. He ran. He leaped. He landed on the creature's back, his fingers finding purchase in the burnt fur, his legs wrapping around its ribs.
It bucked.
He held on.
He drove the knife into its neck.
Once. Twice. Three times. The blade sank deep each time, black ichor spraying across his face, his chest, his arms. The bear screamed—a sound that was almost human, almost pleading—and Fox kept stabbing, kept cutting, kept tearing at the dead flesh with a fury that had no name.
"Die," he snarled. "Die, you fuck. Die."
The bear twisted.
Its jaws snapped inches from his face—close enough that he felt the heat of its breath, smelled the rot in its throat. He drove the knife into its eye.
The witchfire flickered.
He twisted the blade.
The fire died.
The bear collapsed.
Fox rode it down, his body slamming into the floor as the massive corpse crumbled beneath him. For a long moment, he lay there, his chest heaving, his hands still gripping the knife that was buried in the creature's skull.
Then he heard Arielle groan.
He was on his feet before he knew he'd moved.
She was pushing herself up from the wreckage of the shelf, her face pale, her arm bent at an angle that made his stomach turn. Blood dripped from a gash on her forehead, and her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps.
"You're okay," he said. It wasn't a question.
"I'm fine." Her voice was shaky. "I'm fine. The bear—"
"Dead."
"I saw." She looked at him, and something in her eyes shifted. Something he didn't have time to examine. "You—Fox, you were—"
"Later."
He turned.
Everly was standing by the fireplace, her hands still crackling with residual frost. Her dark hair was wild, her eyes bright, her lips curved in a smile that made his skin prickle.
"Well," she said. "That was interesting."
Fox wiped the ichor from his face. "What the fuck was that thing?"
"An undead bear. Witchfire in the eyes. Classic necromancy." She tilted her head, studying him. "But you already knew that, didn't you? I saw your face when it came through the door."
He didn't answer.
"It was sent," Everly continued. "Necromancers don't raise animals for fun. Someone wanted it to find you. Someone who knew where you'd be."
The Codex pulsed in his mind—not his mind, but hers. Leliana's. He could feel her, somehow, even now. The cold weight of her attention, like a hand on the back of his neck.
"Leliana," Arielle whispered.
Fox nodded.
The fire in his blood was still burning. The rage hadn't faded—it was still there, coiling in his chest, demanding release. He wanted to hit something. Wanted to kill something. Wanted to find Leliana and put an arrow through her eye socket.
But he couldn't. Not yet. Not until Arielle was patched up.
"How bad is it?" He crossed to her, kneeling beside her, his hands gentle despite the fury still churning inside him. "Your arm."
"Dislocated. Maybe broken." She winced as he touched it. "The potions—most of them are ruined."
"I have more."
Everly's voice came from behind him. He turned to see her walking toward them, a vial in her hand, her expression unreadable. She stopped in front of Fox, close enough that he could smell the ozone on her skin.
"Hold him," she said to Arielle.
"What—"
Everly grabbed Fox by the hair.
Her hand fisted in his blood-soaked locks and yanked his head back. Before he could react, before he could even process what was happening, her mouth was on his.
She kissed him hard.
Her lips were cold—frigid, almost—and her tongue tasted of frost and something metallic. She bit his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, and he felt the sting of it even as his body responded to hers. His hands came up automatically, gripping her hips.
She pulled back.
Blood smeared her lips. Her eyes were dark, hungry.
"You fought like a madman," she said. "I liked it."
Fox didn't answer.
He couldn't.
The rage was still there, but it had transformed into something else. Something hot and urgent and desperate for release. His cock was hard—aching—and she knew it. She could feel it pressing against her thigh.
"I told you before," she said, her voice low and rough. "I'm not done collecting."
She shoved him.
He hit the floor hard, his back slamming into the boards, his breath rushing out of him in a grunt. She was on him before he could recover, her knees on either side of his hips, her hands tearing at his shirt.
"Everly—"
"Shut up."
Buttons scattered. Fabric tore. She got his chest bare and raked her nails down his skin, leaving red lines in their wake. He hissed through his teeth.
"I said I'd reward you," she said. "I didn't say it would be gentle."
She reached between them.
Her hand found his cock.
He was already leaking when she pulled him out, already desperate when she stroked him. Three quick pumps, spreading the pre-cum down his shaft, and then she hiked up her robes and positioned herself above him.
She sank down.
He filled her completely.
"Fuck," she gasped.
The word came out raw, broken. Her body gripped him like a fist, tight and wet and impossibly hot. He could feel every inch of her—the way her inner walls clenched around him, the way her thighs trembled as she adjusted to his size.
She didn't give herself time to adjust.
She rode him.
Hard.
Her hips slammed against his, her pace punishing. She didn't want him to last. She wanted to use him—to take what she needed and leave him spent and gasping on the floor. And he let her. He lay there beneath her, his hands gripping her hips, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and let her use him.
She was beautiful.
Her robes had fallen open, revealing small, perfect breasts tipped with dark nipples. Her hair, black as the sky outside, tumbled around her shoulders. Her lips were parted, her eyes half-closed, her expression one of pure, animalistic pleasure.
"You like this," she panted. "You like being used."
He did.
God help him, he did.
The rage was still there, but it didn't matter anymore. There was only this—only her body on his, her cunt gripping his cock, her nails digging into his chest. The scent of death still hung in the air, and somewhere in the ruins of the trading village, Leliana was planning her next move. But none of that mattered.
There was only this.
She came first.
Her body convulsed around him—her back arching, her mouth opening in a scream that was half-wordless, half his name. She clenched down so hard that he saw stars.
He wasn't far behind.
Two more strokes, three, and he spilled inside her—hot and pulsing and utterly lost. She milked him dry, her hips still moving, drawing every last shred of pleasure from his body.
She collapsed onto his chest.
Her breath was hot against his neck. Her heart hammered against his ribs—or maybe that was his. He couldn't tell. He couldn't tell anything anymore. His mind was blank, his body spent, and every inch of him felt like it had been scoured clean.
Arielle watched.
She was still sitting in the corner, her wounded arm cradled against her chest, her face pale. He'd forgotten her. He'd forgotten everything.
She'd seen.
She'd seen everything.
Everly rolled off him.
She stood, her robes falling back into place as if nothing had happened. She smoothed her hair. Wiped the blood from her lip. Her expression was cool, almost bored.
"The principal," she said.
She tossed a vial at Arielle.
The half-elf caught it with her good hand, her eyes wide, her face unreadable.
"For your arm," Everly said. "I'm not completely heartless."
She walked toward the fireplace, stepping over the bear's corpse as if it were nothing more than garbage. She paused with her back to them, her silhouette black against the dying flames.
"And Fox," she said.
He didn't answer.
"I hope you're not done yet." She looked over her shoulder, her dark eyes gleaming. "Because I'm not done collecting."
The vial smashed against the floor.
Arielle stared at it, at the glass shards, at the shimmering liquid spreading across the boards. She didn't move. She didn't speak.
Fox closed his eyes.
The night was far from over.