Chapter 12 - "Going down to go up"

Morrigan found herself back in the same corridor. The only difference was that the corridor was now scarred by fire, and the girl was missing her lirium potions and her only cold weapon. The corpses on the floor had not escaped the same fate. Once again, the sorceress marvelled at the absence of the stench of burnt flesh and hair. The exit to the next large room was only two or three metres away, and the girl stepped boldly into the familiar darkness, not without satisfaction at leaving the scene of the massacre behind.

The hall, its boundaries obscured by the darkness, resembled similar rooms one level above. In the centre was the outline of a huge supporting column, and a little further on, statues. There was nothing heroic or characteristic about the statues, they were in mundane poses. They were like trivial ornaments, like cornices or abstract bas-reliefs, not stone-carved figures, two or three metres high, not counting the base.

But the most important thing the witch's eyes soon discovered was the stairs leading down. Listening for any sign of danger lurking in the darkness, the girl inhaled and moved cautiously to the left, along the wall, towards the desired stairs. They descended into impenetrable blackness, forcing her to move slowly, not breaking the contact of her fingers with the rough surface of the stone sack. The twists and turns eventually corresponded to a staircase from the fourth floor to the third. But at the end of the stairs, the witch was not greeted by the welcoming glow of torches. If there was a source of light in the room below, it was only a few candles. And with each step, human voices became more distinct, infused with the vibrating intonations of restrained anger. In no hurry to make her own presence known, Morrigan paused beyond the sight of the last flight of stairs and listened to the subject of the conversation.

A high, but not evil, rather a ringing female voice, sounding rather youthful, said in raised tones.

— Valinci, you damned coward! While I was asleep, you let Niall go alone. Why did no one go with him?! All those oaths you shouted so loudly. Proud bastards. Every word worthless rubbish?

A calmer, deeper voice, the kind you would expect from a man of solid build, replied with restrained anger.

— Ner... Can you hear yourself from outside? What are you talking about?

— Don't worry, I'm well aware of that. You literally just said it yourself — Niall found an antidote to demons in the library. Basic logic says we should have gathered a posse before going upstairs. Instead, you're here, safe. And Niall is probably already dead!

— Hang on... You're telling me what to do? From you?

— Why not? Let's not be sneaky, you had already discredited yourself as a complete nonentity when you taunted Godwin into avoiding his own shadow. But, Abyssus, in the midst of this nightmare, it seemed the lesser of two evils. Now I see you're just a millstone around the neck of any survivor...

There was a complex sound, like a chord, combining the sound of a slap with the girl's surprised cry of pain. And then the man's voice continued, taking on a cold, violent tone.

— You know, I've had enough of your blind faith in your own sinlessness. And this stubborn, childish division of everything into black and white. Irving patronises you as an exceptional talent. But to me, the First Enchanter is just spoiling another mage, taking away the bitter taste of discipline. Before we discuss me, let's remember your mistakes and the price you paid for them. Otherwise, the stream of accusations will seem one-sided. There is no one here who is indifferent to the usefulness of your sigils carved into the stairs. They have saved the barrier's keepers more than once or twice. But remember, we agreed beforehand how the changing of the guard would take place. Very simple rules. No room for interpretation for the sake of safety. And two days ago, when someone "got tired", he thought it acceptable to remove the support without warning and go to sleep. A trifle? Look at the face of Louise, who was burned alive while the others rebuilt the barrier. The woman covered the others until the end, substituting her seal for yours. You didn't fall off your feet. You did not faint from mana depletion. It was a quiet day, and the young genius found it acceptable to make the decision for the others. Just this. Louise is lying over there by the pillar. No one poked you with it, and that's a mistake I'll admit to. Just like allowing myself three hours sleep after 16 hours on duty. I was the one who had to slit the throat of a dying woman to close the half-erased barrier. The woman who was the teacher of half the mages lying around here! All because the damn healers are missing. Ironic, isn't it, bitch? Remember Godwyn? Did you miss the fact that the arsehole ran away from his post twice when the demons hit the barrier? We're dying every day, not picking flowers in a field. If Godwyn has to fear me more than the demons to protect the rest of us, I'll knock the boy's teeth out with my own hands. And no regrets. Finally, Niall. Let's ignore the fact that the Elder Warlock's mind has been a mess for the past few days. Especially after the Elder Warlock had to strangle his own friend. Yes, he had discovered something. Yes, it was promising. But what did the wonderful Niall do when they offered to wait? He smashed the bloody barrier and left without asking anyone! As you can see, we're at odds. You might be wondering why you're so chatty all of a sudden. You won't believe this, but I care about everyone. It's also because I need you. But words aren't enough.

There was the sound of a belt being violently pulled from its loops. Morrigan frowned and looked down at the base of the stairs. She had to strain her eyes to make out the runes smeared with brown blood on the last step in the dim light. Had she not known what she was looking for, the girl would have ignored it, given her mounting fatigue and concentration-sapping pain. This way of using runes was unfamiliar to the sorceress, as were some of the individual runes represented in this knitting. But she could make out the general meaning. And it was the same as the definition mentioned in the conversation. It was also noticeable that the continuous ligature was broken at one point by a smudged bootprint. Meanwhile, events downstairs were taking a turn for the worse.

— No! You bastard. What are you doing? Get back!

— Are you kicking? You've got a lot of character. But those spikes need to be trimmed. Hold your legs.

The screams, the sounds of struggling and kicking, the mooing and rustling of cloth were replaced by the whoosh of air being cut and a whip blow to bare flesh, accompanied by the girl's scream. Another blow followed immediately. Such a blow would leave a red mark on any part of the body, replaced by a rough bruise or even a bloody one. Squeals began to break through the sobs. Morrigan realised it wouldn't take ten blows before the proud woman's will was broken. Shaking her head, the girl rose to her feet. In Morrigan's opinion, things were going extremely badly. So... it was worth thinking about the will of someone else acting as a puppet master. What were the odds that such a radical scene, with emotions boiling over the edge, would play out as the sorceress descended? Especially as the barrier protecting her from obvious demonic intrusion is equally tainted. But for all their suspicions, these conspiracies required intervention, for there was little doubt as to the identity of the victim.

Moving carefully and cautiously, so as not to attract unnecessary attention with any sudden appearance or gesture, Morrigan soon witnessed the entire scene. The room resembled the upper central hall only in its massive columns. But there were only four of them, and the staircase rested at its base in the centre of the open space. Along the perimeter of the outer wall of the circular room were rows of tall open cabinets, a couple of people tall, facing inward. Bathed in darkness, they looked filled to the brim with contents. To the left of the column stood a metal candlestick with five thick candles. These served as the only flickering source of light. And to the eye, they only had two or three hours left. To the left, on the floor, were the outlines of five cloth-covered bodies. At the top of the stairs, leaning against the railing with his back to the Sorceress, was a man half lying on the floor. His clothes made him look like a Circle Sorcerer. From his posture and the position of his arms, he was exhausted. Sparse blond hair suggested that the wizard was no longer in his twenties. The girl's wandering gaze was fixed on him. She had seen the man's face from top to bottom, so she couldn't be sure exactly what emotions the man was feeling. But she could have sworn that the mage was grinning wildly, enjoying the sight of her right hand. And there was the source of the sounds that filled the fluttering hall to the brim. A broad-shouldered member of the circle, exactly taller than Morrigan, kept lowering his arm with a thick strap that spurted blood in a wide arc. A middle-aged woman, also a mage by her robes, stood nearby, biting her lip as she watched the torture. She was clearly distraught, either not knowing what to do in such a situation, or not understanding why she was just watching. Another man, who looked neither like a churchman nor a mage, was holding a small, frail girl, her robe pulled up and her trousers and underwear pulled down, who had already stopped trying to resist.

Morrigan blinked and looked back into the darkness. Obviously, the mage at the stairs would have warned of the enemy if the barrier had been breached. Either he was the first victim, or he was a sociopath by nature who enjoyed violence. The girl raised her eyebrows, wondering for a moment where she had heard of sociopathy. It had never been discussed in the past, not in conversations with her mother or anyone else... .... As Alim had said, it seemed that maintaining a sane mind in the Circle was non-trivial, and therefore the individual in question might well have deviant tendencies. Shaking her head nervously, the girl concentrated on the 'here and now'. And now she had enough mana for a spell. Without thinking, the sorceress placed her hand on the canary's head. At the same time as the pain in the girl's body began to subside and the seated mage groaned through clenched teeth, the sorceress lunged forward.

The standing woman, half turned, was the first to notice the threat. Her eyes widened, threatening to pop out of their sockets. Morrigan assessed her own appearance dispassionately. And if you ignored the nudity, she looked as if she had been bathed in blood... But the brief shock was not followed by screams or hysteria. The woman's preparation deserved respect. Faced with such a clear threat, she went straight for the kill without wasting a second. Under the eyes of the turning men, the woman unleashed a blast that momentarily lit every corner of the hall, imprinted a bright line in the Morrigan's eyes and enveloped her in a halo of fire for a heartbeat. Pain like a red-hot bar pierced her spine, causing both Morrigan and the mage bound to her by the spell to scream at the top of their lungs. This disorientating fact gave the girl a few moments of clarity. The unexpected ability to keep moving after such a spell was also to her advantage.

Not one for beauty or showmanship, Morrigan blew the woman away with a shoulder blow, using the inertia of her own body to her advantage. Collapsing, the girl also sealed the back of the woman's head to the stone floor, leaving her barely conscious. Ignoring the fresh bruises and the whistling belt over her head, Morrigan lunged at the tallest man, only to slip under the heavy arm at the last moment and collide with her silent partner. With a last gasp, a fist to the man's nose and a knee to his groin, the girl spun around with a yelp.... and immediately caught the bridge of his nose with a clean fist. Something crunched, the floor jerked closer to her face and the girl rolled aside in reflex, avoiding the impact of the heavy boot. Blood continued to drip from her nose, indicating that the victim of the spell had given up...

Sprawled on the floor, breathing heavily, one step away from mana exhaustion, Morrigan laughed as if for no reason. When, half a minute later, the mild hysteria subsided, the girl looked around at least a little. A broad-shouldered man in mild shock seemed to be doing the same. What set him apart from other mages was his short haircut, with a single plait running down from his right temple to his massive jaw. He also had large, coarse features that lacked any trace of grace or refinement. The man seemed to be trying to figure out where he was and what had happened. When he looked down at the belt in his hand, the mage frowned, stunned.

At the same time, Morrigan felt the touch of a soft, hot body, shivering incessantly. She turned her head with difficulty and found the girl huddled against her side. She wasn't even sobbing. It was more like convulsions, accompanied by frequent shuddering breaths. It was only now that the sorceress could fully appreciate the appearance of the victim for whom she had fought a hopeless battle. The trembling maiden was barely tall enough to reach Morrigan's shoulders. But despite her diminutive, even frail appearance, nature had given her feminine curves. As the sorceress hesitantly placed her palm on the black, flowing locks, careful not to touch the pointed ears, the neat head lifted to reveal a broken, sad face and a pair of piercing blue eyes. Below the waist, the girl's thighs and buttocks were a mangled, blood-soaked mess. The sight conveyed unmistakably the humiliation and pain she had endured. Neria Surana. Unable to utter a single coherent word, she stared into the yellow pupils. And through the grimace of suffering shone sincere gratitude.

When Morrigan turned her gaze back to the mage, she found that the gravity of her own actions and the result of the intruder's interference had fully reached the man's mind. In addition, the mage noticed the absence of a protective barrier and the lack of capable defenders.

Leaving the rest for later and discarding the unfortunate belt, the mage hurried to the stairs. His hand flicked to the lapel of his sleeve and the familiar triangular blade caught the wizard's eye. A deft flick and fresh drops of blood sprinkled the step with runes. Using them as ink, the mage quickly began to restore the smudged section. Squinting, Morrigan noticed that the blood was soaking into the stone, requiring far more for each symbol than it might have seemed at first.

By the time the man managed to close the chain of runes, he looked tired, pale and covered in painful sweat. It was as if the runes had drained the mage of his blood and strength, and not just metaphorically. Neria was shielded from the unfriendly reality by the blanket of restless sleep on the stranger's shoulder, and even now she was shaking and sobbing. Turning, the man's eyes stumbled to the sad result of his own actions, and then met the golden glow of Morrigan's pupils. Something in the man's posture spoke unmistakably of a continued willingness to resort to violence.

— Who the hell are you?

— О... We need to land on solid ground sooner rather than later. The situation favours it. But that's not what the paranoia is screaming at you. A few sentences. The right of destruction is on the doorstep. Niall is dead two floors up. And Neria sleeps on my shoulder.

The man shook his head, quickly drawing his own conclusions, and said brokenly.

— I was hoping none of the higher-ups would get here and we could hold out long enough to...

— To do what? What's the scenario in your head? Or is that just an abstract desire to survive, without any perspective? You're looking at me, and there's not a single fact to point to an obsession or anything else. Am I right? How different are the Templars' abilities from yours? It's been a week outside. And the help isn't coming to save the island, it's coming to burn it down.

— Be that as it may, there's no way.....

— On the contrary. Time is running out. And even the creatures above can feel it. This isn't about principles or rules in your head. It's about a choice. To talk? To fight? No, no, no. Be silent for now. Alim sang a song for me, so that another magician could learn to evaluate facts soberly and impartially. Yes... My speeches are that which paves a thin path of trust through the defences of caution. And the sight of it is such that the list of signs that scream danger is enormous. After all, who else could come down from above?

With a defiant glance at Neriah and then around the room, Morrigan continued.

— But the way I see it, we're in deep shit right now. And the threats are worth assessing differently. The recent conversation was transparent enough to realise that your word carries more weight than anyone else's. And your defence of the present is not an empty word. Let's forget about the Templars for now. How many hungry mouths and provisions remain? How many die every day despite this barrier? How many fighters are left in the ranks? And what will remain of discipline, reason and will when the slightest spark leads to such a sad end?

The mage pressed his lips together in anger, but the questions hit home. Wrinkling his nose, the man scanned Morrigan's form. The sorceress was in no position to pick up the nuances of facial expression, but the scrutiny didn't look carnivorous. It looked more like an assessment of an opponent. The mage shook her head, clenched her fists and expressed her own thoughts.

— Strong, sharp speeches will not help the suffering. "Heroes" and their ideas breed corpses. And your appearance is further proof of this. Even if we ignore the doubts about the nature of the guest, what alternative do you offer to trying to get through another day? Hope is the only thing that keeps you going.

— Hope has been a miserable help all this time, slowly and inexorably thinning the ranks of your underlings. The plan. I've been to the Templar lair. Where the lyrium supply is.

The Morrigan raised an eyebrow, waiting for a reaction. And it was expected. The bait was good enough. The mage narrowed his eyes, trying to judge whether this was a trick or not. But he immediately grinned grimly, apparently remembering that it was a rhetorical question. The man's voice sounded deeper and slower, as if tasting the waters before plunging headlong into them.

— You mean if you manage to get down.

— No. There's a creature guarding the fourth floor. Niall and I managed to get past it. But it's too great a risk for the party to be trapped. If we're going to get through, we need to take it out first. And that takes teamwork.

— And you want to do that?

— Help. Whatever you've got in mind, you can't do it alone. Besides. Access to the libraries. A safe place to sleep. And food. Even if it's in a cell behind bars. I'm exhausted, but worse, I have too much Lyrium...

— The Templars don't risk storing potions of high purity inside the tower. They are kept outside, in the outer barracks... So clothing is not on the list of needs... Still, three questions remain, and the first is: who are you?

Morrigan chewed her bottom lip, realising that the truth was dangerous, but a lie was more likely to bring down the fragile bridge of understanding. This conversation was already under the pressure of circumstance, with death looking over her shoulder. The sorceress could have sworn that if this mage had felt even the slightest bit more confident, he would have preferred to take the risk and get rid of the unknown variable. The type who preferred only what he understood and could control. Sighing softly, the girl replied.

— The witch of Korkari. Morrigan, daughter of Flemeth. I'm right in my suspicions, she has nothing to do with this circle. Or any other, for that matter. But the fate of Alim, the recruit of the Grey Guardian, in the south was intertwined. And brought me here. And to get in. I convinced the Commander of the Templars to take the risk. Just like you. I'm of little value.

The mage nodded, interrupted and continued the sentence.

— There is a chance, there is a chance. I recognise Gregor. So the old man has given up. How did you survive up there? No... The better question is, how did you get up there?

— A lot at once. It's like we're already friends. A few hours ago, I thought I was more dangerous than most of the knuckle-draggers around here. Now I'm just saying it's a miracle I survived. But that should tell you something. The rest. Some ignorance will have to be dealt with.

— Let's see... The last question is more a question for me.

The man pointed to the corpse of the mage by the stairs, who had died with a horribly twisted face, half of which matched the agony he'd experienced, but the other half.... There was a grimace that looked like ecstasy, showing the limits of human facial muscles. And now one could only wonder what was in the mind of this body at the moment of death.

— You're responsible for this death.

— Is it all so clear?

— For me? Yes. If only I had enough power in my hands to judge only from the standpoint of my own principles...

— Meaning?

— A cage, some food and sleep. Let's try that first. There is an objection to such foolishness, but... You're right. It's hard for many people to tell the difference between dying today or tomorrow.

The mage lifted a weary glance into the darkness of the stairwell and added over his shoulder.

— And some people don't mind hastening the end.

* * *

The same forest again. The same nightmare. And the ash falling upwards, disrupting the natural course of things. Morrigan felt the surroundings sharper, but could not be sure if it was something subjective, for what was happening in the present was more vivid than something from memory. Or this objective observation. The mind buzzed with doubt and conjecture. The realisation of the place where the sorceress had to fall asleep... made its own impression on her mind.

Without the slightest warning, feeling the strange mixture of familiar and unfamiliar presence behind her shoulder, the girl was determined this time to turn around and face the unknown. To her own surprise at that moment, unlike the others, she managed to do so effortlessly. Behind her was the same forest, as if it were a detailed reflection of herself. And with that thought, Morrigan saw her own reflection at arm's length. Familiar clothes, unchanged hairstyle, familiar jewellery.... But what immediately caught her eye was the absence of half of her head... An irregular line separated the apparently living face from the void filled with the blue smoke dripping from the "wound". Other similar "wounds" were then discovered, but none could compare in severity to the first. Immediately raising her hands to her face, Morrigan was relieved to see that there were no similar injuries. At the same moment, a pair of replica hands closed around her neck in a serious attempt to strangle her.

At the same time as the doppelganger's lips moved soundlessly, a familiar whisper came from all directions.

— Give me back mine... Give her back.

Morrigan struggled to breathe, trying to loosen the grip of the burning cold fingers. But the fingers seemed inanimate, not yielding even the slightest bit despite her desperate efforts. The girl's vision blurred, shrinking at the edges...

* * *

Morrigan took a breath and jumped to her feet, looking around. The girl's chest was throbbing, unable to get enough air, as if she had just come ashore from drowning in uncharted waters. The locked pantry, which had been given to the sorceress as a resting place and cell, was back in place. In the corners, simple drawers held folded sleeping and household supplies, rolls of cloth and parchment, leather-wrapped sticks of dried ink, bundles of quills and other odds and ends. And the prisoner's sleeping quarters were crammed into a single corridor. There were no windows. The only source of light was a narrow strip under the closed door.

As she calmed her breathing, Morrigan felt her neck, but contrary to her fears, there were no signs of strangulation from the dream. The girl's thoughts swirled around the experience. The sorceress had rightly feared that even though she was relatively safe, her personal circumstances would make her dreams in this place far more acute than her previous nightmares. And yet, what had happened exceeded all expectations. On the one hand, Morrigan realised that the closer she came to the "enemy" who was trying to become the owner of one body for two, the worse her own situation became. On the other hand, she could not completely shake the desire to see the enemy clearly, so that he would stop being an abstract threat and get a face. The last thing the girl expected was that the face would turn out to be a copy of her own. ..... Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Morrigan shook her head. The accumulated fatigue had not fully released the girl's body and mind, for what had happened had interrupted her rest. But even that seemed acceptable.

Quickly going through the memories of what had happened in the tower, the sorceress came to the main question — why did it take almost moments, at worst minutes, for demons to take over the bodies of other gifted people? While the personal story had dragged on for weeks, developing relatively slowly and without escalation. The time difference was too great for any assumptions. There were only two assumptions swirling around in the Sorceress's mind, and they were not riddled with contradictions. Dismissing her own exceptionalism as stupid narcissism, the only thing left to do was to point to the only powerful person in her own environment. Her mother. This brought thoughts back to the original incident on that unfortunate day. What if the reason for Flemeth's defeat had been her attempt to protect her daughter? Here, the demon had spent long days gnawing away at the legendary witch's defences. The alternative relied less on individual power. Those trapped in the tower because of the breach remained in the Shadow for days on end. Who could know the exact facts of such a phenomenon? Except the Empire, which had spent centuries gathering experience from the most unusual and reviled research.Morrigan surmised that such an environment could exhaust a mage's ability to resist. The conclusion was clear: we had to hurry.

There was a long list of other questions that demanded at least lousy answers. Starting with the doubts gnawing at her brain about the reality of what was happening. And ending with new concepts, firmly rooted in her mind, that the sorceress had never heard of before. Also, no-no, but her thoughts jumped to the image of a boudoir, soaked in a vivid emotional background from .... Morrigan grimaced painfully as she realised that the name of the room had popped into her mind unconsciously. A new word from the void. The girl rose and stretched.

The headband was now covered by the typical Circle clothing, a little smaller than it should have been. But it would have been inappropriate to pick on such trifles. The garment looked reasonably clean and almost unmarked. Unfortunately, the lack of even drinkable water made it impossible to wash away the traces of past battles. The blood that had stuck to his skin visibly itched under his clothes. Morrigan knocked forcefully on the door to let them know she was awake.

I had to wait at least a dozen long minutes before I heard footsteps, the lock creaking and the dim light of the candles outside flooding the room. A familiar, broad-shouldered figure appeared in the doorway.

— With a wake-up call.

Nodding, the sorceress asked an unexpected question.

— How's Neria?

After a short pause, the man interjected.

— Why such concern for someone you only saw a few hours ago?

The enchantress shrugged and met the mage's gaze.

— My reasons, not your concern. I doubt that concern is cause for unnecessary suspicion. Beyond those already in your mind.

The mage shook his head in mild irritation.

— You don't... Oh, come on. This exchange of remarks isn't going anywhere. Follow my lead, no sudden movements. Those who can still fight will gather to talk. A new target might help us hold out a little longer. Otherwise. Sometimes it seems...

— Like you're rotting alive?

The mage frowned. A deep suspicion flashed in the man's eyes, immediately replaced by an inner struggle with paralysing fatigue.

— Perhaps. Perhaps.

— I didn't hear an answer to the first question.

— It didn't exist...

The man was already turning away, looking over his shoulder.

— Without the help of a healer, the girl will need a week or so. Assuming no infection, of course. We don't even have any precautions left, so... Yeah.

As they moved along the dimly lit corridor, the shadowy rooms came into view. Every nook and cranny bore traces of disorder, whether it was another shelf of scrolls and books, workstations or living quarters. Candles burning. Scraps of ruined clothing and beds crumpled where they shouldn't have been. Debris from furniture. Traces of attempts to start fires on the floor. Even though there should have been fireplaces on the floor. Brown bloodstains near the bodies lying in the semi-darkness. At first glance it was impossible to tell whether these bodies were still alive from lack of medicine, food and water. Or if they were rows of the dead. Finally, the filth of the latrines in the dark corners. Once again, Morrigan marvelled at the lack of odours that should have enveloped the floor. The few figures she encountered belonged to two groups. Mages in Circle robes who instinctively looked away, hiding their faces and lowering their gazes. Pitiful forms of proud mages, in whose hands the knowledge of the secrets of magic was concentrated. Others in robes unfamiliar to the girl. Humans, elves and half-breeds, mechanically performing routine actions, or sitting in corners with absent faces, staring into the void. And it was as if the darkness and fear did not really touch them.

Something clicked in Morrigan's mind and she asked.

— It's the Pacified, isn't it?

The mage replied without turning around.

— So. The Templars almost universally don't care about those the Church unofficially equates with things. When the ranks of the brave warriors could not hold back the onslaught of the creatures, they retreated in an organised manner, saving the lives of their brethren. And the few Circle Guardians died, as did those who joined them, whether foolishly, for their own skin, or for the sake of high ideals. That's how we managed to save most of the Formari and the other reluctant servants of the Firmament. Ironically, they endured the hardships that followed far more easily than their own saviours. Virtually none of them fell to the demons.

— The creatures on the other side are primarily interested in mana-enhanced flesh. At least that's what I've heard. So I'm talking to one of the surviving Circle Guardians?

After a short pause, the man nodded and Morrigan continued the conversation.

— The other is actually ironic. The Templars left the pacified behind, aware of their importance to the Circle. But that's exactly how the Churchmen were left. There are bodies of Churchmen scattered here and there on the upper floors. I doubt there are many who have risen above monk among them. Just ordinary people. But whoever left who to die, I don't give a damn. By the way, did anyone try to get out of the tower through the windows?

The mage paused, crunching his neck, as if trying in vain to maintain the inner peace that had been overly tested under the witch's pressure. Still, the man replied almost evenly, letting only a small amount of irritation creep into his voice.

— Tried. I used a lot of creativity to solve this problem. But on this floor, the windows are so supernaturally strong that no one can scratch them. Nor the walls.

— Interesting...

  The man shrugged and continued on his way. A minute later, the walk ended in a large hall filled with huge shelves of books. Five magicians were already gathered around a modest table. Two men and three women. Each of them varied in age, from Morrigan's age to those who were old enough to be considered old. The group shared a similar gaunt physique, a hard look with flashes of madness, and the mark of weariness that undermined them inside and out. She recognised one of the women at once. A neat bandage of scraps of cloth marked her shattered head.

The Morrigan's companion nodded to the audience, receiving an equally restrained response in return. In complete silence, Valinci began his speech.

— You wonder who our guest is? I'm not far behind you. But, to make a long story short, the first thing that matters is that the girl was upstairs. And I suppose she'll be the only guest until the Templars storm in, treating any survivors as collateral damage. Whether you believe that or not... Under normal circumstances, I would try to convince you that my faith is sufficient. But today, such words would be empty. Pushed to the wall, I'll admit it's more of a trap. But the joke is, it doesn't matter. So. It's up to each of us to decide if we want to take that risk. Yesterday. Well, you already know the general outline. I snapped and let my emotions get the better of me. I almost took my own life in anger. Even though I've always been a risk taker, I've always preferred the safety of those in our care. So I spent the rest of the night trying to keep a cool head about what had happened. And here's what I've come to. The last few days have been like a dream. Lost our sense of time. Hardly able to think critically. Many of us are ready to curl up in a corner and die. Contrary to our nature. Niall and I are perfect examples. I'll be honest. This is our last chance. There's a void ahead. Not today, but tomorrow people will start to give up and one by one we will fall into the abyss.

A wiry mage of some years, resembling a knotted root, coughed and asked.

— What does the presence of a stranger bring? We can make a last attempt at suicide without her. After all, you too recognise this source of uncertainty.

Valinci opened his mouth, but this time it was Morrigan who answered first.

— There is a mistake. The difference is what you want. To die or to survive. Besides, I understand the nature of what's going on a little better than you do. Uldred, I believe, was the beginning. A source of knowledge, stupidity and blind vanity. Wasn't he the best bloodmagician in the Tower? О... I can see it in your eyes. Some of the people here knew. And at that moment, the stronghold became almost entirely the domain of Pride. Every demon encountered was but a pitiful guest of the host. Something Valinci mentioned. Think about it. How many dead lie scattered around the tower, especially here? How many days have passed since their lives were cut short? Do you smell decay? Or your own faeces in the corners? On this floor, darkness is common. But above, even in total darkness, you can make out fine details at two or three paces. We're not on the edge of the shadows, we're in the belly of a monster. And it's almost digested you. Those higher-ups you met above are well aware of the situation below. But how many of their kind have come to you? That's another question. I didn't see a single child's body on the ground. I didn't see any novices in the corners either. Where? The building on the fourth floor was entered through a window, so why didn't anyone escape through the windows here? Here's an idea. There's a good chance that there are two people in possession of the Shithouse. The first one has the dogs on you. The second has hidden the boy. How did he lose sight of the Templars in the heat of battle? I can't imagine. The first spread the veil. The second locked in what was happening within the building to the extent of its influence. It created a precarious balance. But it can be changed.

A middle-aged woman with a pair of not-so-fresh bruises on her right cheekbone sighed and joined the discussion.

— I suppose they are all down on the ground floor, sealed off by a barrier far more perfect than ours. And they're all healers. There's no other explanation for the complete absence of familiar faces. And I refuse to believe that they're all dead. These facts look like a jigsaw puzzle that can't be solved sitting here. It's foolish to deny it. But it also looks like a masterful lie. However. Valinci is right. It's more a personal decision. To take the risk or to stay until the end. But before you decide, there's a very clear question. I understand from personal conversation, Val, that the guest is responsible for Johann's death... Tomara's head. And since she claimed Niall was dead, maybe there's a connection? It's not a "hidden risk". It's a matter of principle.

Valinci nodded. He looked silently around the table, as if searching for a suitable answer.

— I can confirm the part about Johann. Tomara can speak for herself. The rest is speculation. As for the principles.

While the bandaged woman averted her eyes, not wanting to be involved in this conversation, the man clenched his jaw with such force that it looked like he was going to grind his teeth into powder. As if to squeeze out the desired answer, the wizard continued.

— Firm principles are a luxury only a loner can afford. He always scoffed at the elders who presented this idea as a value worthy of consideration. The pride of senile fools wrapped in false wisdom. But only until this cursed week. Now every one of those old men has died for the rest of us. And I stand. And the vows are clear — to protect. They gave their lives for this. And if my price is to compromise my principles. I'll consider myself fortunate. Let the witch be dealt with by the First Wizard, when death isn't looming any second. As for the fear of being stabbed in the back. Let that feeling keep you on your toes.

The sorceress who had made the accusation spat on the ground and turned away. But she didn't leave. It showed she wasn't entirely sure of her own words. The remaining man, who had been silent for a while, suddenly stepped forward and asked the next question.

— Principles or not. Unlike the others, who were obviously willing to jump into the abyss only if it was impressive, I did not find the arguments put forward convincing. How do the various claims support the story of a... witch?

Valinci sighed irritably and began to recite the facts with a shake of his head.

— Obviously. No one remembers such a member of the circle. Or a novice. Or a church girl. Logically, she's either a demon, or possessed, or...

The mage raised his eyebrows, hinting at the obvious answer, and continued.

— I do not undertake to claim my own knowledge as exhaustive... ....

The mage who had set the tone for this exchange waved his hand irritably, interrupting Valinci.

— Yes. Yes. I know more about demons and spirits than you do.

— So the consensus is that it came from outside? Regardless of its current state. Abyss... I think we've talked about this before, and we're just wasting time...

— Obsessed. Don't be shy with that word. Short and sweet.

— That's fine. As you wish. Dead end again. We've literally come full circle. I'm going to say this one last time, loud and clear. We all know the situation is deteriorating. Few will survive until the Templars arrive. Will those pitiful remnants be saved? I doubt it now. How do we prove that the survivors aren't possessed? It's the same problem we face. And it's all about personal trust and reputation, not logic and facts. Our defeat will make little difference to the rest of us. That's why it's a personal decision. The only significant consequence of failure is death.

There was a moment of silence around the table, and in the absence of new remarks or questions, Valinci took the floor again.

— Then we're agreed. One hour. Pack, eat, think. Say goodbye. Let the emotions, whatever they may be, fade. We'll meet at the barrier. We'll go over the details there.

Some nodded, others shook their heads in disapproval, and still others left without expressing their personal attitudes. When the table was empty, Morrigan turned to the tall mage and asked.

— Take him to Neriah.

There was a pause. After a moment, exhaling with irritation, the girl added.

— You're welcome.

The man frowned, lingered in doubt, but finally nodded in agreement.

* * *

When Morrigan entered the room where Alim's sister was, she found the girl lying on her stomach, wearing a long shirt that covered her legs only to the middle of her thighs, the edges of bloody bandages showing from underneath.

At first glance, the living quarters were much more spacious than those of the Templars on the fourth floor. But with more space came more bunk beds and almost no room for personal drawers, bedside tables or chests of drawers. Personal chests were out of the question. Most of the beds were empty, and an area the size of another hall was barely lit by two or three candles at the entrance. As a result, the far corners were shrouded in darkness, creating an atmosphere of unease mixed with looming menace. Especially for the battered psyches of the surviving members of the circle. It was immediately clear to the wizard who entered why most of them preferred to huddle in small groups in the library's small rooms, falling into restless sleep on hastily made bedclothes instead of comfortable beds.

With a painful wince, Neria lifted her eyes to her guest, which immediately widened in surprise to reveal the piercing blue. Leaning against the bedpost, the Morrigan gazed thoughtfully at the diminutive member of the circle. The sorceress wondered what lay beneath such a trivial facade. Was there something behind the extraordinary affection of a brother who had actually agreed to be slaughtered for the sake of his only sister? Or was it simply an expression of Alim's personal motivations? And did the talk of the girl's talent really rest on her mastery of sigils, unsupported by anything else?

Neria's next move elicited a surprised look and a raised eyebrow from the Morrigan. Despite the pain of the still-healing scars, the girl carefully slid her foot off the bed, found her footing and slowly rose to her full height, stepping towards her and extending her open right hand for a handshake. Morrigan shook her head, not commenting on the obvious folly, and without hesitation shook the tiny hand. Only to discover with renewed surprise the calluses on the delicate looking fingers, typical of a scribe's constant work. A voice came from the girl, modest and humble in contrast to what she had heard the day before.

— You're the one who saved me, aren't you?

The sorceress nodded briefly, waiting to see what would follow the question.

— Thank you... I don't know how to say it. Thank you.

— One word is enough. I didn't come to collect payment from a debtor. It was more to satisfy my curiosity. And to be honest, it's not entirely sincere. The thing is.

Neria raised her hand sharply and placed her fingertips gently on the lips of the girl who was at least a head taller than she was. She shook her head negatively, wrinkled her nose at the painful sensation and said.

— I don't want to know why. Because. I did something stupid, I provoked Valinci. We both knew that our emotions and dark impulses were out of control. But in that moment. We lost our way. I stepped out of line. И... I'm sorry. I'm confused. It probably looks really stupid from the outside. It is stupid. You know. I usually keep my feelings to myself. But right now. I'm scared and I'm tired. Not the way you get tired after a hard day's work or monotonous labour. This environment, this fear and the death of others. It's more like the tiredness of waking up to find myself in the middle of this nightmare again. Perhaps I should start by saying that the Tower was not a dark place or a prison for me. Very few people know this, but contrary to the rules, my brother grew up here with me, providing me with care and familial warmth. Confident in my own strength, I set goals for myself. I achieved them by overcoming difficulties. The path ahead was clear. Like a ladder going up, step by step. And then suddenly. One thing, then another. A third. Others tell how, in the past, misfortune after misfortune was overcome, crippling the soul and mind for years. You listen and you don't believe in fairy tales. Until you experience it yourself. It's been a steady descent. Step by step. First my brother left. Then the little things. One after the other. And then this. Down and down and down. But she got up in the morning, did her work, forced herself to live. When Valinci took his swing. I was struck by the thought: "That's the way to do it. A new step down. I think of that moment and... This passivity looks terrible. But when the belt came down. Pain, humiliation and...

A tear rolled down her cheek, tracing a lonely path from the corner of her eye. But she continued, as if afraid to stop and not be able to go on.

— The hubris, the intelligence, the confidence... All that stuff. It's all gone. Just a ringing emptiness in my head and a primitive desire to run away to survive. Probably someone has been and will be on the line a lot more than me, has suffered and will suffer mentally and physically. But it's something, detached. I can empathise, I can compare. But that knowledge is nothing compared to personal experience. If I'm not being hypocritical, I don't care about other people's suffering when it comes to my own. So when you came along and stopped it... There are no words to describe the feeling and emotion of someone pulling you out of a nightmare. It may have been an accident. You may have been driven by self-interest. There's no need to add more reasons to a single outcome. You saved me. Poured out on you. This flood of... emotions. I'm sorry again.

The girl exhaled slowly and turned away, as if embarrassed by her own impulse. She tried to take a step back, but swayed with weakness and fell back onto the bed with a groan. Morrigan stepped forward and caught her companion in an embrace. They stood in the middle of a large room full of dancing shadows. The one in thoughtful surprise at what she had heard and her own feelings, the other frightened at her own frankness and unexpectedly embarrassed by the contact of her cheek with the firm breasts of the stranger covered by her clothing.

— What's your name?

There was a pause. The sorceress' mind wandered far and wide, and nowhere in particular, before she gathered herself and answered.

— The Morrigan.

— And mine...

— Neria. Neriah Surana.

— О...

The conversation was definitely not going well. The taller of the two slipped into thoughts of the unenviable fate of the survivors. For even if they had managed to escape the nightmare of the Tower, could the nightmare really let them go? And was there not a sobering, frightening analogy to the Sorceress's own situation? The smaller person found the situation disconcerting, and suddenly found it difficult to find words. But at the same time, the girl enjoyed the stranger's warmth.

After a while, Neriah squeezed out a question.

— You?

It was extremely vague. And there was no wonderful understanding without words. The Morrigan hummed and said with a touch of tenderness.

— Lie down and rest. Whatever the next day brings, you'll need your strength. I can't promise anything, but I'll do my best to save you.

A shy smile appeared on the elf's face, like a wavering, elusive mirage that vanished on closer inspection. Then the girl nodded, hardly taking the stranger's words seriously, but grateful for the support. With Morrigan's help, she found herself back in bed. Without saying goodbye, the sorceress turned and walked away, sinking into her own personal maze of doubt.

Wandering aimlessly down the corridor, the sorceress did not understand — why was she vouching for another life that had nothing to do with this one? At first, the girl tried to penetrate the logic of the sudden impulse. Neria is important as Alim's sister. Besides, the sorceress' personal curiosity plays a role here. Trace, who honestly admitted that the rescue of the evil elf's only relative had warmed something deep inside Morrigan. So, shells aside, what was left? Selfishness. The desire to do what made you feel better, even after the fact, with noble motives behind the decision. And that, the girl realised, depended on one's subjective perception of things. Morrigan wrinkled her nose, imagining what kind of debates about instinctive and conscious perception of morality, ethics... would lead her into. But there was something else... Envy.

The sorceress stopped in the middle of the corridor, causing the stooped mage who was slowly approaching her to stagger backwards. She marvelled at the simplicity of the idea. Every action was explained by a single concept. Her rational mind began to methodically string together facts into a chain of reasoning. Some time ago, Morrigan had noticed the disappearance of her childhood weakness for expensive and shiny objects. A weakness that was harmless as long as it was controlled. And yet a weakness that had been strongly frowned upon by the girl's mother. And then... Then the Morrigan discovered a new, less than positive tendency to tolerate only inconspicuous, interesting or useful companions around her. Liliana had drawn a parallel with the cynical perception of possessiveness. Eventually, the truth of the new self-perception emerged. Step by step it brought her to the present moment. To the answers, the search for which the girl had unconsciously avoided.

Leaning her arms against the nearest wall, Morrigan whispered.

— Why... Why would I do this?

And the truth was that Neria didn't need the sorceress as a pretty face. Or as the possessor of a rare art form. Not even as a useful tool. It was about the bond between brother and sister. This alone made Alim's sister unique. Unique. Envy of such a selfless bond in all its fullness and versatility seeped into Morrigan's bleeding mind with every admiring elf tale. And it was not a light feeling, but a dark desire to possess. That is why the sorceress did not forget the young elf for a moment from the first second she entered the stronghold. And that's why she rushed to her rescue without thinking, having made up the necessary excuses. Morrigan felt that something without a clear shape or name was changing irrevocably within her. When she opened her eyes, the girl stared at the corridor wall with a straight, hard stare that burned like molten gold. The sorceress realised that she was losing the battle with herself, that she was cornered. If she resisted, if she started to fight back, it would hurt both Neria and herself. Reality didn't care about personal circumstances. Morrigan understood that the elven woman needed support, protection and full treatment. Not in the future, but here and now. But most of all, she needed to escape the nightmare. 

Slowly exhaling, Morrigan smiled grimly.

— Breaking out of the nightmare....

The girl couldn't help but notice the chain of reflections that linked the sorceress' personal problem, the situation with Alim's sister and the disaster inside the stronghold. She had decided for herself that defeat came exactly when you recognised yourself as a loser. The Morrigan will get Alim's sister out. Put her in the hands of her brother. Solve her personal problems. And leave them both as a chapter in the past. There are enough clever tools like Leliana and Bethany to move on to new goals.

* * *

The group of mages who had been present at the preliminary discussion were gathered at the barrier. Not a single one backed away. The Morrigan looked around at the sombre audience, divided into disparate groups, then approached Valinsi and Tomara and asked.

— Who is the author of the barrier?

The man furrowed his brow, but finding no reason to hide the fact, answered.

— Niall and his mate. Tinwall.

With her suspicions confirmed, the girl grinned. Tomara touched Valinci's shoulder politely and indicated the time.

— It's time to discuss a plan. If there is one.

The man nodded gratefully, not for a moment allowing himself a weakness like a smile or a remark to defuse the atmosphere thick with nervousness and tension.

— So, the Morrigan. The first major obstacle will be the demon at the stairs to the fourth floor?

— That's right...

Using the nearest candle burner and dripping beeswax, the sorceress began to skilfully draw the central hall of the third floor, the columns and the demon's position on the floor. Explaining the picture in short sentences, she outlined the method for overcoming the first obstacle. The key element was Lyrium, and therefore it should not contain the power, thus minimising the risks. After a dozen leading questions, with Valinci acting as translator, Morrigan outlined the group's spell repertoire. Almost immediately, a sharp mind suggested the order in which they should be used. Tomara and Darin, the oldest mage in the group, used the Fireball spell. The second mage, who hadn't introduced himself yet, knew Dirt. And Valinci had Weakness. In addition, a woman named Lida, who mentioned the importance of principles, and a silent woman named Anna possessed Mind Blast. This diversity demonstrated each mage's passions and areas of study, and provided useful tactical flexibility. Morrigan suggested using Dirt as well as Mind Blast and Weakness on the demon at the same time. The latter's unchanging position made it an excellent first target. Having limited the movement speed of the enemies that possessed some form of flesh, the next step was to use two Fireballs. At the same time, Anna remained ready to try again to incapacitate the demon if necessary, preventing it from escaping the fiery inferno. Despite the initial resistance, most agreed that the plan was reasonable. Even the explanations were considered thorough enough to allow them to agree to it without change, though their faces remained sour.

Frowning, Valinci summed it up with a question.

— Very well. Let's say we did it. We made it to the Lyrium alive. Then what?

The Morrigan smiled predatorily and answered very seriously.

— Then we start a fire.