Chapter 3: The Mirror's Curse
Theron woke to the scent of elfroot poultices and woodsmoke, and to a pain that lived deep in the marrow of his bones. It was a greasy, unclean ache, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He was in his aravel, the familiar carved wood and leather walls swaying gently as someone moved outside.
Memory returned in shards, cutting through the fog.
The cave. The pulsing green light. Tamlen, stepping forward, his hand outstretched.
The mirror.
A scream that wasn’t sound but raw force. A light that wasn’t light but a rending of the world. Tamlen’s silhouette, swallowed by emerald fire, his skin crackling black like burning parchment. Theron’s own body, thrown back like a leaf in a gale, his mind flooding with images of crawling, endless darkness, of towers of glistening flesh, of a song that was pure hunger.
He gasped, sitting up too fast. The world tilted. A cool hand pressed against his chest, gently pushing him back down onto the furs.
“Easy, da’len.” Keeper Marethari’s voice was a balm, calm and anchored, but beneath it ran a current of steel. Her face, lined with wisdom and care, hovered above him, her violet eyes sharp with concern. “You are safe. Breathe.”
“Tamlen,” Theron croaked. His throat felt scoured raw. “Where is Tamlen?”
Marethari’s expression tightened, just a fraction. A weight settled in the pit of Theron’s stomach, colder than the deepest cave. She turned her head slightly. “Merrill, fetch some water.”
A younger elven woman with wide, worried eyes and a tumble of dark hair appeared, offering a waterskin. Theron drank, the water a lifeline. He pushed himself up again, refusing the Keeper’s restraining hand. His movements were stiff, his muscles protesting. He looked down at his own arms, half-expecting to see the same blackened veins that had seared Tamlen’s skin. They were clean, save for a network of fine, pale lines, like healed cracks in porcelain, radiating from his left palm.
“You bear the scars of the encounter, but not the sickness. Your resistance, or perhaps sheer luck, spared you the worst of it,” Marethari said, following his gaze. “Tamlen was not so fortunate.”
“Where is he?” Theron’s voice was stronger now, edged with desperation.
“He is not here.” The Keeper sat back on her heels, her staff leaning against the aravel wall. “You were found alone, unconscious and fevered at the forest’s edge near the old river path, by Ashalle and Fenarel. You have been asleep for two days. They searched the area you described. They found the cave. They found… signs of struggle. Blood. But no Tamlen.”
“No.” The word was flat, final. Theron swung his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the swimming in his head. “He was right there. The mirror… it took him. It took him.” The visions swarmed back—the endless horde, the corrosive song. “Keeper, it was… it was the Blight. In my head. I saw it.”
Marethari went very still. Behind her, Merrill made a small, frightened sound.
“The Blight,” the Keeper repeated softly. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if absorbing a blow. “We feared it. The shemlen loggers you drove off brought tales of sickness further south. The spiders you described, the wolves… they were touched by it. But an active source so close to our camp…” She opened her eyes, and they were hard. “You should not have gone into that cave, Theron.”
The old guilt, familiar as his own breath, twisted inside him. “I know. I tried to stop him. But I followed. I always follow.” He stood, testing his balance. “I have to go back. He might be alive, trapped somewhere, hurt—”
“The scouts found no trail,” Marethari said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “The cave was collapsed. A recent rockslide, triggered perhaps by the magic you unleashed. To dig it out would take weeks, and would risk exposing anyone who tried to the same corruption that took Tamlen.” She stood, facing him. Her presence filled the small space. “He is gone, da’len. We must mourn him.”
“No.” Theron shook his head, the motion fierce. “You didn’t see his face. He wasn’t killed. It was… something else. I have to find him.” He pushed past her, out of the aravel and into the camp’s clearing.
The light of the setting sun was a physical assault. The familiar sounds of the clan—children laughing, halla bells, the rhythmic thud of a hide scraper—felt like a mockery. Faces turned toward him, filled with pity and a wary dread. Ashalle rushed over, her eyes red-rimmed, but he gently brushed her aside.
“Theron, you need to rest,” she pleaded.
“Later,” he said, his voice hollow.
He walked toward the edge of the camp, toward the forest that had swallowed his brother. The clan watched him go, a silent, grieving audience.
He didn’t get far.
A man stood at the treeline, leaning casually against a massive oak as if he had been waiting for hours. He was human, broad-shouldered, with dark hair touched by grey and a face that had seen too much weather and war to be considered young. He wore polished leathers and a heavy grey cloak, simple but impeccably maintained. A longsword rested in a scabbard at his back. His eyes, a steady brown, met Theron’s with an unnerving directness.
“Theron Mahariel,” the man said. His voice was a low rumble, calm and utterly sure. “I was hoping to speak with you when you awoke.”
Theron’s hand went instinctively to the knife at his belt. He felt exposed, raw. “Who are you? What do you want here?”
“My name is Duncan.” The man pushed off from the tree. He moved with a predator’s grace that belied his solid frame. “I am a Grey Warden.”
The words hung in the air. Theron had heard of the Grey Wardens in the Keeper’s tales—ancient order, sworn to end the Blight wherever it rose. Myths. Ghosts.
“The Blight is not a story, lethallin,” Duncan said, as if reading his thoughts. “It is a creeping death. And your Keeper is right. That cave was a nest of it. A festering wound.”
“Tamlen,” Theron said, the name a talisman.
Duncan’s expression softened, but it was the softness of a grave. “I examined the site. The collapse is total. If your friend was inside… I am sorry. But survival from direct contact with a corrupted Eluvian?” He shook his head slowly. “The taint does not work that way. It consumes, or it transforms. There is no middle ground.”
“You don’t know that,” Theron snapped, but the fight was bleeding out of him, replaced by a cold, heavy certainty. He had seen the black veins crawling under Tamlen’s skin. He had felt the song’s hunger in his own skull.
“I have fought darkspawn for twenty years,” Duncan said quietly. “I know what they do. What the taint does.” He stepped closer. “You touched the edges of it, and you lived. More than lived. You resisted. That is… unusual.” He studied Theron, his gaze analytical, weighing. “The visions you described are the waking dreams that plague all who are touched by the Blight. Most succumb to madness or death within hours. You are here, coherent, on your feet. That marks you.”
“Marks me for what?”
“For a choice.” Duncan glanced back toward the camp, where Marethari now stood watching them, her posture rigid. “This Brecilian Forest is no longer safe for your people. The taint spreads from that cave like poison in a stream. Your clan must move, and quickly. But you… you have been exposed. The taint is in your blood now, a slow poison. It may take weeks, or months, but it will claim you.”
Theron stared at him, the world narrowing to the Warden’s implacable face. He felt the truth of it in his aching bones, in the strange scars on his palm.
“There is a way,” Duncan continued. “A Grey Warden undergoes a Joining, a ritual that uses the very power of the Blight to fight it. It is dangerous. Many do not survive. But for those who do, it grants immunity. And a purpose.” He met Theron’s eyes. “A purpose beyond mourning. A chance to fight the thing that took your brother. To ensure no other clan suffers this loss.”
The offer hung between them, vast and terrible. Leave everything. His clan, his home, the shadow of Tamlen’s fate. To become a ghost himself, a Warden.
“The Keeper will never allow it,” Theron said mechanically.
“She knows I am here. She knows the danger you are in, both to yourself and to others if the taint progresses.” Duncan’s tone was not unkind. “The choice, however, is yours. Stay, and face a certain, grim end with your people. Or come with me, and face an uncertain, brutal one for all people.”
From the camp, Merrill appeared, wringing her hands. “Keeper Marethari asks that you return, Theron. She wishes to speak with you.” Her large eyes flicked to Duncan, full of fear and a strange, reluctant awe.
Theron looked past them, into the darkening woods where his other half was lost. He felt the divide within him—the loyal son of the Sabrae, and the man who had followed his brother into the dark one time too many. The path behind him led to a funeral pyre built for two. The path ahead led into a deeper, wider darkness.
He took a breath, the air tasting of halla dung, of home, and of distant, hidden rot.
“I’ll hear what the Keeper has to say,” he said, his voice quiet. But he was looking at Duncan as he said it, and the Warden gave a slow, single nod, understanding the unspoken negotiation beginning.
The forest shadows lengthened, swallowing the last of the sun. The choice, Theron knew, was already made. It had been made the moment he stepped into that cave behind Tamlen. Now, he just had to walk the path it laid out.