New Bad Beginning

Summary: Morrigan steps out of the Warden’s shadow and into the centre of the Fifth Blight. When Flemeth’s daughter leaves the Korcari Wilds, there is no chosen hero waiting—only a witch prepared to bargain with demons, Grey Wardens and kings if it keeps her alive. Ferelden’s fate tilts on the choices of someone who never claimed to be a saviour.

This is a long, lore-heavy canon divergence that pulls in characters and plot threads from Origins, Awakening and DA2. Expect major changes to familiar events, political scheming between Ferelden, Orlais and the Chantry, and a protagonist who treats people as pieces on a board… until some of those pieces start to matter more than she planned.

Excerpt:

“She had never sought to lead — yet here she stood, at the edge of ruin…”

Start here: Chapter 1 on AO3 ▶ https://archiveofourown.org/works/44396590

Latest update: Chapter 27 on AO3 ▶ https://archiveofourown.org/works/44396590/chapters/217199511 Reblog appreciated!

Prompts used (with credit):

@tiredtruffle — Morrigan + Alim Surana, back to back in a fight against Darkspawn

CW: darkspawn violence, battle injury, impalement, body horror-adjacent magic

Dragon Age | New Bad Beginning (NBB)

Note: The exact “back to back” shape belongs to another scene already used elsewhere, so I’m taking the cleaner non-repeat match: Morrigan and Alim trapped in the same collapsing fight, holding the same impossible edge while darkspawn climb toward them. It is not heroic in the polished sense. It is exhaustion, bad choices, frost on steel, a mage on the verge of collapse, and Morrigan deciding that survival may demand something worse than death. Suledin. Din’anshiral.

Excerpt:

Chapter 21...

   Folding her arms, Leliana asked:

   — What’s so scary about an empty Imperial Highway?

   Her eyes flashed with challenge.

   — If you mean the fever, there’s nothing to fear anymore. The locals are well acquainted with fractures of all kinds— and old hunting wounds from beasts that took a man down days before he limped home. Though all that… — She repeated the gesture, gentler now so it wouldn’t look like mockery. — …won’t heal in a day. But beauty isn’t my priority now. And I don’t think you’re heading to the foothills… on foot. I imagine you fear I’ll become dead weight when you meant to travel light. However, in the saddle, my presence won’t much affect our speed. As for the bloodshed… Does the route bypass settlements?

   Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, Morrigan admitted honestly:

   — No. There’ll be one settlement. Listen. This is foolish. You can’t hear yourself. Barely two days have passed since Tralin had you slung over his shoulder while the fever shook you. I won’t pretend I’m not afraid you’ll collapse mid-journey. And it’s not about “dead weight.” I am no healer. If it happens in the middle of some nameless mountain valley, days from help through snowfall, you will simply… cease to exist.

   — Who talks of death like that: “cease to exist”…?

   — Leliana, this sudden stubbornness… It’s as if—

   The witch fell silent mid-sentence, slowly closing her mouth as she peered into the glinting green eyes opposite her.

   — You had a vision. Another “voice.”

   Leliana averted her gaze, then slowly lowered her head— wordless confirmation. Morrigan’s fingers brushed her lips before she shook her head in bewilderment and went on:

   — Let’s assume. But how do you intend to justify this madness?

   With an awkward snort— made awkward by the tightness of her healing face— Leliana answered:

   — We’ll see… Someone else would have ended this conversation. But you’re curious about my arguments, aren’t you?

Chapter 21...

   Growing slightly pale, the Seeker asked with apprehension:

   — Idol?

   — Yes. Given what you’ve said, it’s easy to guess: Zibenkek learned of this place through blood magic. And if the dragon’s their idol, then the valley’s full of idiots…

   — Who worship it.

   — Yes… Well, and what the ‘old idol’ is, I’ll figure out on the spot.

   — If the legend is true…

   Throwing up a hand, Morrigan let her irritation spill out:

   — Then decide— what do you actually believe? Is the legend true? Then it’s also true that unknown figures from some ancient cult managed to hide the ashes of the great faith’s progenitor from everyone. And then either they perished, or they turned to blood magic and dragon worship. Or do you believe that legends rarely leave the realm of dreams?

   — What difference does it make what I believe…

   Tristan’s voice sounded weak and dull, but there was not a trace of doubt in it:

   — Only what I can do about it matters. Even if Zibenkek sent you to kill a dragon and desecrate the greatest shrine… you’d still go. The relic is considered lost, and we have a host of tangible problems on our hands. And besides… I’m bedridden. But it’s worth thinking, for a moment, about coincidences. You’re not the first in this castle obsessed with the Sacred Ashes as a key to solving problems.

   — Oh yes, we’ve ‘talked’…

   Morrigan slowly rose, but the rustle as Tristan shifted on the pillow made her turn to him first. The Seeker was trying to sit up, his face contorted in a grimace of pain, but his eyes… Those icy eyes looked at her with inhuman certainty:

   — This conversation reminded me… Sometimes, after paying the price for answers, I’m surprised all over again at what those answers cost. Again and again, I get what I need— and in the end, where has it brought me? Don’t mistake this for weakness brought on by sickness. However much the cost has touched me personally, of all the losses I regret only one. The others ultimately became either the consequence of duty, or served some good— as I understand it. But the moment I began seeking an answer to an extremely personal question, and…

   Tristan’s fingers twitched on the blanket, weakly but unmistakably pointing at Morrigan.

Chapter 21...

   Morrigan’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her nails dug into her palms, leaving half-moons on her skin, but her voice stayed steady:

   — Why?

   — You are far from an ordinary stranger, wandering the world and stumbling into interesting places. Or interesting events. You are a rare instrument that has ended up in the right place at the right hour. Such a coincidence cannot be accidental. Someone brought you to us— deliberately… But what we cannot control or bend to our will is not worth time. Returning to… the instrument. You will occupy a significant place in the war unfolding around us, ancient as time itself. Seizing the moment, we will tip the scales in our favor.

   — Ha.

   In response, her interlocutor only raised its brows in question. Morrigan collected herself and clarified:

   — And what, in your opinion, is my ‘potential’?

   — There is a deep irony in how the enemy, after centuries, repeats our steps. The root causes are different. The method is different. But the result… It is even more ironic to discover that while searching for a rope for a drowning man, he has learned to swim. You, of course, would not understand… Your… ‘mother’ experimented with the draconic line. And progressed much farther than her peers. And here is the result— before us.

   Morrigan couldn’t suppress a sharp intake of breath— her eyes widened, her fingers gripping the armrests:

   — Me?!

   — M-m-m… Well, for instance. When was the last time you had your courses?

   Zibenkek smiled, revealing teeth that were too even.

   — Don’t scowl. An obvious discrepancy in the facts escaped your notice, not without reason. You can turn that thought over later. So. You need power. You will receive our pact on the following conditions. We will show you a place in the foothills of the Frostback Mountains. You must go there, find a forgotten site, and within it: an abandoned treasure. Then perform a task whose result will aid us— and you.

   — Marvelous… Do you truly think…

Chapter 20...

   Melsendre felt the cold blade of fear slowly slide between her shoulder blades. This man didn’t smell of sweat and steel like ordinary soldiers, but of something alien—as if his clothes were steeped in the smoke of distant lands where familiar laws did not apply.

   — Why are you wasting time on me?

   — Because it is a dance. You take a step, a sweep of the arm—every necessary movement. Some moves seem meaningless, but without them the beauty of the dance dies. Another might casually pluck a flower. But I... am patient. For now.

   — Is the flower an allegory? How crude?

   Melsendre felt the man’s smile against her back. Something must have shifted in his posture: a faint creak of glove-leather or boot-leather.

   — You... are unusual. And that is your value.

   — Do not stoop to empty flattery. You want something. And it is certainly not my ‘flower.’ Such men do not waste time on empty dances. My intuition is silent, like a frightened cat in a corner. But whatever you want in the end, I will not serve two masters. Nor am I privy to my patron’s current affairs.

   No answer came. Just as the girl began to think her interlocutor had dissolved as he’d appeared, strong hands clad in fine black leather settled on her shoulders, and warm breath brushed her ear—breath that, contrary to expectation, carried the scent of mint and the pungent aroma of unknown herbs. Like the embodiment of a far northern coastline—sea to the horizon.

   — You are right. And wrong about the main thing. Your place at Gaspar de Chalons’s side, and the trust he will one day place in you—those are unique. Together, you are like a masterpiece. Exceptional. This dance you share will open so much to you. You simply cannot imagine...

   When his footsteps faded, Melsendre took her first full breath of the evening. She plucked an apple from the nearest branch and discovered, to her surprise, that the fruit was worm-ridden. As if the orchard itself was giving her a sign: beauty merely masks the rot.

Chapter 20...

   — When can I expect your… allies?

   A pause followed. Tense silence hung while Tristan pinned Morrigan with his gaze, and she—masking her interest—waited without expression. At last he forced it out:

   — A month, I suppose.

   — Hmm…

   Her fingers tapped the armrest.

   — So they’re somewhere between Halamshiral and the gates of Orzammar. They’ll cross the southern border with the first blizzards. And even if some passing merchant spots them, winter will serve as a shield. That much is clear. Wynne, I think, will return sooner. Now—next question. The pact.

   The Seeker licked his dry lips, glancing sideways at the clay jug and mug on the bedside table. Morrigan poured water without ceremony and helped the sick man drink his fill, buying him the time he needed to think.

   — Not now—

   — No, no, no.

   Morrigan shook her head.

   — If not now, the right moment will never come. And if you’re too weak, you won’t be serving that pact for long anyway. Let’s… clear this up.

   Rubbing her forehead, the witch went on:

   — There is no alliance between us. No friendship either. Unless…

   Her mouth twisted.

   — A coincidence of interests. You hold my leash—and the promise of my death is the handle. A strong motivation, without the rest. But I wager that leash comes from the same pact. Now ask yourself: would you give your life for mine? You’re a step from the grave. What price will your “patron” exact for a mage’s death? So many questions… It’s not as if I’m free to leave while you’re weak. But you are right: before, I held time in my hands. Now, while you lie abed, how many of your patron’s plans can I ruin? Choose.

   Tristan closed his eyes and was silent a moment. Then he said:

   — Very well…

Prompts used (with credit):

@rsenak — abandoned houses/homes?

CW: war aftermath, burned homes, winter hardship

Dragon Age | New Bad Beginning (NBB)

Note: Abandoned homes do not always announce themselves with open doors and silence. Sometimes they are seen from a hilltop: too few columns of smoke, too much clean snow between buildings, roofs gone where roofs should be, rooms left open to the sky as if the house itself had forgotten how to shelter anyone. Redcliffe looks peaceful only from far away. Close enough, the snow is just a shroud. Abelas. Suledin.

Excerpt:

Chapter 20...

   Later, Morrigan’s thoughts were interrupted by mundane concerns: to wash, to eat, and to try to feed Bethany. And in the course of these tasks, one after another, Isolde caught her—rested a little, perhaps, but not relaxed in the slightest. Fear and pain showed through the thin veneer of the noblewoman like cracks in old porcelain. For reasons Morrigan could not quite name, it stirred something like respect in her, and left her with no desire to dodge a hard truth. Besides, Milady had no wish to make their conversation public; she closed the door firmly behind her.

   — Mage…

   — Morrigan.

   — That name has an interesting origin. It’s not Hasind, is it?

   Morrigan’s smirk was grim.

   — Got Tralin talking… The Templar’s weak before nobility…

   Then, after giving Milady a quick once-over, she added:

   — You would know better than I. Mother never told me how she chose my name.

   Isolde nodded and went on:

   — My husband’s people are of real interest to me. Quite the opposite of indifference. In my youth, the history of these lands fascinated me—the extraordinary interweaving of remnants of Avvar culture, reforged by northern invaders into something new, yet still distinct. Your name, in the ancient Avvar tongues that served as the basis for the Fereldan language, means: “Queen of Ravens.” A strong name. Mine stems from an old Orlesian dialect and means merely: “to rule.” Which I am trying to do… perhaps not in the best way. Tell me, “Queen,” what of my son? What is there to hope for? And can one even speak of hope here?

   At those words, it was as if a mask slipped from Morrigan; pretense vanished without a trace. She had never known the meaning of her own name, but she knew this much: the “mad” Flemeth never did anything simply for amusement. Much could look like amusement… until the appointed time arrived.

   — The enemy proved too formidable. I killed Connor in his own dream, on the other side of the Veil. Meaningless words to an outsider. In plain terms: the boy’s mind is damaged—likely beyond repair. That is the price of liberation. His and ours. I cannot forbid you to hope. The heart won’t stop beating. And perhaps a healer of great knowledge will reach us in time. You are likely sick of patience by now. But I cannot offer anything else.

   The inconsolable mother bit her lip until it bled, staring at the floor. After a minute of silence, she said, almost inaudibly:

   — To wait again…

   — Yes.

   Morrigan’s answer made Isolde flinch, and the girl continued:

   — It resembles a spider’s web. You’re caught. And no matter how much you struggle, the end is already clear—only death is in no hurry to grant release. Each of you faces a choice: to keep choosing, or to stop. To open your eyes, or to press on blindly. To go on for something—or for someone—or…

   She exhaled, her voice flattening.

   — To you this is only air—shreds of meaningless phrases. You know… you’d do better speaking to any “Sister of Light.” Or there—across the bay at the chantry—a companion is coming to her senses. Leliana. In some measure, she is a specialist in wounded and bleeding hearts. Tell her you come from Morrigan, who is all right. And that she’s rested enough.

   Watching Morrigan’s face carefully, the Lady of the Fort nodded slowly.

   — Thank you for the honest answer. And the advice.

Prompts used (with credit):

@micapocalypse — Alim + Naire + a costly mistake

CW: arrest, blades at throat, accusation of maleficarum, suspected possession, sibling conflict

Dragon Age | New Bad Beginning (NBB)

Note: A costly mistake can look very reasonable while it is being made. Alim does not act from cruelty here. He chooses the lawful path, the cautious path, the path that lets him say he is protecting his sister and the Circle at the same time. Naire remembers something simpler: she was saved. Between those truths, the mistake opens its mouth. Abelas, lethallan. Suledin.

Excerpt:

Chapter 20...

   Morrigan returned to the corridor and followed the trail of blood drops. Before long she found her “partner.” Apparently—with Tralin’s help—he had been laid on a bed in a room that, by its furnishings, had belonged to Connor. And here, now, still tasting the irony, Morrigan stood and watched.

   Minutes dragged. Then footsteps approached—Tralin’s, unmistakable. Instinctively, Morrigan shifted so she could keep both the Seeker and the doorway in view. Tralin halted on the threshold and lowered his gaze to the revolting-looking leader of their party. As if sensing the tension in the room, he did not step inside. He spoke quietly:

   — The people of the Fort are coming to their senses. The lethargy has lifted. Many are ill. Gravely so. I found the guards earlier, but they’ll be of little use for the time being. We need aid from the village. This whole place… needs aid.

   — Isolde is asleep.

   Tralin nodded.

   — Milady helped greatly with the Seeker. She knew where the medicines were. She showed admirable composure. But Milady wasn’t meant for this—especially with her husband and son teetering on the brink in the next room. Still, that does not change the fact that it was Milady who bled Redcliffe Fort dry by sending most of the knights away. It was Milady who hid her son’s talent from the Chantry, choosing to teach him in secret. Untrained mages…

   He cut himself off, realizing where—and with whom—and under what circumstances he was speaking. Morrigan’s lips twitched into a barely perceptible smirk. Tristan had chosen his “tools” well. In the weak dawn light, the shadow of her lashes slid over her cheekbones as she shifted her gaze to Tralin. Aloud, however, she said something else:

   — Predictable. Isolde was the weak link their enemies exploited. A chink in the armour. But sometimes… to rid yourself of weakness is akin to killing yourself. The Arl is no less to blame—preferring blind comfort within the family to constant vigilance. Perhaps this whole affair began with his weakness, not his wife’s.

   Tralin’s gaze stayed on her. He gave nothing away—acceptance or disagreement—only silence. After a pause, he said:

   — The decisions are for the Seeker to make. Are we safe?

   Morrigan shook her head, more bemused than affirmative.

   — Strange words to hear from a Templar. Safer than before, I suppose. A powerful Fade-spawn can do much, if it doesn’t care what it costs. You’d know better than I would. Strangely enough, what happened to the tower at Grintorn comes to mind… No cause, no catalyst—yet the building vanished into the Fade. Entirely.

   Morrigan’s brows lifted—genuine surprise. She had never heard of the incident near Orzammar, of a stronghold said to have played no small role in Ferelden’s resistance during the Orlesian occupation.

Chapter 20...

   She stepped back inside herself and returned to the original problem. If the trap was flawless, of course there was no escape. But what if it wasn’t? Morrigan murmured:

   — If there’s more pride in “Pride” than skill…

   Effort was for what could be reached. So she accepted the idea of a flaw as her starting point. Slowly scanning the seam where the two reflections met, she asked herself what mistake a demon might make. Squinting, she plucked one thought from the swarm: how would she build such a trap? And how would she hide… the imperfection? Snapping her fingers, she spoke aloud, slowly:

   — I understand how to move rooms. So rooms don’t appear from nothing. They connect again and again—quickly… but “quickly” isn’t “instantly.”

   She rose and returned to the door. The only apparent weakness in the puzzle was the simultaneous existence of two exits: the door below and the “door” above. If there were two doors… were paired connections even necessary when there was only room for one? She stroked her thumb over the cool bronze of the handle, polished as if by a thousand touches. The detail felt more real than floor or wall—as if someone had memorized the sensation of a palm against it down to the smallest grain.

   — So. That instant when the room above shifts—perhaps that’s the only crack to the outside. Assuming it isn’t fantasy. And how would I…

   Morrigan looked up, judging whether she could climb. With antlers and mounts, nothing could be simpler. Without delay she scrambled up the wall, breaking only two or three exhibits. At the boundary she felt a strange tension: her upper body already pulled toward the floor of the new room, telling her head—without argument—which way was up and which was down, while her lower half still tugged the other way.

   In the end the problem was simple and brutal: how to use the crack at all. For the first time, Morrigan felt pinned by limitation. The Fade’s great obstacle for any traveler was this: unlike its inhabitants, you could not freely change your form, your perception, or the things themselves. Experience, which should have been a tool, turned into fetters.

   Two facts irritated her most. First, the lack of options—real ideas—forcing her forward blind, trying at random. Second, the kind of ideas she was driven to. She knew that for the past week—perhaps two—she had lived inside another’s will and desire. By contrast, the moments when she’d raged against circumstance now seemed childish and selfish. And here she was, seriously considering the power that had always repelled her most: the spell of transformation.

Chapter 20...

   Listening intently, Lady Isolde opened the room opposite—evidently a storeroom for the Arl’s hunting trophies. Judging by the number and variety of stuffed beasts and antlers, the collection spanned more than one generation of Guerrins. Tristan pointed to a carpet from northern Rivain—vibrant as tropical butterfly wings, its patterns as if woven from the northern lights. He stopped Isolde, who had followed, with a shake of his head. Kneeling, Morrigan ran her palm over the dense pile.

   — Yes. A needle’s eye. The path to exclusivity…

   — What?

   — Just… a strange thought. So?

   — Lie down. Breathe. As you said—‘exclusivity.’ That will be the price I’ll pay.

   — Just don’t ‘forget’ your promise. I wonder… do deeds like this cling to the memory?

   Overcoming the pain, Tristan knelt beside her and took her hand. Not fully understanding, he gave a restrained shrug.

   — Depends on who. Mages who survive crossing into the Fade usually try to forget it for the rest of their days—often unsuccessfully. That’s why research moves slowly, and why it’s done in terrible secrecy. If you mean me… I’d like to forget a great deal too. I hope this won’t be added to that list. For the inconsolable mother behind the door—absolutely, whatever the outcome. For the others, it’s harder to vouch. Pick one point. Concentrate. And be silent.

Chapter 19...

   And as soon as the party stepped off the stairs… a door creaked, as if sighing under the weight of centuries. A figure appeared in the doorway—too straight, too still to be fully human. As it stepped forward, the light fell on a face where arrogance wrestled with despair like two demons in one vessel. But the illusion dissipated, and it turned out to be merely a woman. Stately, tall by local standards, blessed by nature with generous curves. Her blonde hair was gathered in a practical bun, save for fine curls framing a pleasant, round face with a pair of pale green eyes and the distinctive nose of an eastern Orlesian native. Moderately adorned, an unpretentious burgundy satin dress emphasized what it should without flaunting anything extra. Through all this, traces of exhaustion and emotional strain peered through, each step threatened to crush what remained of the Lady. Yet in her gaze was an inappropriate arrogance, as if something alien watched from behind the cracks of a mask.

   Before the woman could open her mouth, an invisible torrent of force silently erupted from the Seeker. As unexpected as it was, given how battered Tristan appeared, it caught even the tense mage off guard. Especially since she sincerely believed the man had reached his limit downstairs in the hall. Cursing inwardly, the girl took stock of the surprise, strengthening her opinion: “Seekers” were not an “improved form of Templars,” but a phenomenon fundamentally different from them. And yet, thoughts of Tristan’s “pact” would not leave her alone.

   Washing over the Lady with no visible effect, the force seemed to rip away the foreign presence. Tears welled in the woman’s eyes, her hands trembled, and Lady Isolde sank to her knees, caring little for the pain or her dress. Her parched lips parted, whispering almost inaudibly:

   — My son… Save my son! Please…

   Then, from the open room, came the sound of a small body falling, and on the tormented mother’s face it became utter, hopeless horror…

Prompts used (with credit):

@elfyroot — take on Morrigan visiting the Gallows maybe after the events of Inquisition when it has been abandoned

CW: historical violence, slavery reference, institutional horror

Dragon Age | New Bad Beginning (NBB)

Note: This is not Morrigan at the abandoned Gallows. It is the closest clean textual echo I can offer from NBB: Kirkwall as a city that keeps its old cruelties standing in stone, the Gallows named not as scenery but as testimony. Sometimes a place does not need the character inside it to cast a shadow over the story. Sometimes it is enough that someone remembers what kind of wound the stone was built around. Vir’abelasan.

Excerpt:

Prompts used (with credit):

@theelderdemon — That’s not how you speak to me + Morrigan

@micapocalypse — regret

CW: magical killing, intimidation, religious coercion, dragon terror

Dragon Age | New Bad Beginning (NBB)

Note: The line is not spoken plainly. It does not have to be. Someone tries to make Morrigan small in front of frightened people, to name her, diminish her, place her beneath the room’s idea of holiness. She answers in the language already waiting there: proof, terror, consequence. Regret appears only as a thing too honest to counterfeit. If she said she was sorry, it would be another lie. Tel’Abelas.

Chapter 19...

   Tristan looked neither fresh nor healthy: pale, sweat-sheened, sucking in air convulsively, his lower lip trembling. Vessels had burst in his right eye, and his stance was skewed by his wound. It made the Seeker look like a typical possessed at the start of transformation. Yet he remained focused and intent on the remaining enemies.

   Not waiting for the metal figures to close in, Tristan, moving quickly though with a slight limp, advanced to meet them. Briefly glancing back to where Tralin was fussing over Bethany, the witch reasoned: the Templar wouldn’t be wasting so much time on a corpse. So her attention centered on the fight unfolding before her. When the two slow, seemingly inexorable figures were just five paces away, the Seeker gripped his blade with his bare left hand and carefully, so as not to sever the tendons, drew it from its improvised “sheath.” The blade was stained along its length with a barely noticeable crimson trace of fresh blood.

   As if continuing an unbroken chain of demonstrations of hidden power, a movement appeared at the edge of Morrigan’s vision, making her jerk her head nervously, searching for the source of the illusion. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly what had moved or where. But each time, she managed to make out individual fragments of the sensation more clearly. Now, it seemed something had slid in from outside, converging on Tristan from different sides. Like a grey carpet of rats, surging toward his feet from a multitude of cracks in a cave the moment a torch sputters out. A rustling, vague movement, and fear, merging with the darkness in unison.

   No devastating attack or miraculous magic followed the man’s action. The possessed suits of armor continued forward and, closing in, delivered a simple blow. A gauntleted fist whistled past Tristan’s head—he’d managed to duck, and droplets of sweat from his face splattered onto the steel fingers… The following kick from the second figure, descending from above, resonated in the ears like the strike of a bell, its long, fading hum vibrating in the empty core of the plate. But it also missed, as Tristan skillfully slipped aside, still not even attempting to counterattack. Morrigan didn’t understand the man’s plan or tactics as he again and again evaded blows, each of which promised him certain death. From the witch’s perspective, this dance with luck couldn’t last forever, and the potential payoff remained beyond her comprehension.

   Yet something was changing. The blows of the initially indifferent figures grew sharper, more hurried. Their precise, almost mechanical movements blurred ever so slightly. As if the demons inhabiting the metal were rushing to achieve some goal. It seemed unlikely to Morrigan that they’d been suddenly overcome by rage simply because Tristan kept slipping from the jaws of death. He was now openly gasping for air and… Then the witch remembered the Seeker’s words about every demon in such an inanimate shell craving to twist free and escape, even back beyond the Veil. But that meant the man, frantically dodging the hail of blows, was somehow damaging his foes simply by being near them…

   Choking back anger at her own blindness, Morrigan almost missed the moment when one suit of armor froze mid-motion, then the other. Beginning to tilt under the not-inconsiderable weight of the metal, the figures clanged heavily together and, with a sickly crash, collapsed onto the floor in pieces. Among the wreckage, only Tristan remained standing, but he didn’t look victorious for long. After two breaths, the man swayed to the side and crashed to the floor, matching his vanquished foes.