#14daysofcirclemages

The older man tucked his feet to the side to steady the boat as he pivoted his top half back toward Cullen. “Oh? Aye? Something else you need, ser knight?”

“Ah—oh, no! No. Cullen, please,” he insisted with a sheepish smile as he raked his fingers through his short blonde curls. “I just wanted to thank you for your services. It truly was appreciated. As were your anecdotes! They helped take my mind off my lack of sea legs, anyway, ha!”

Kester was surprised to hear anything from those he considered stuffy suits of armor at best. Unless it came to Knight-Commander Greagoir. He held great respect for him keeping everyone in line—templars and mages. Maybe the tower was finally starting to get some recruits with some proper manners! That’d be the day. Not that he was ungrateful for the young man’s thanks, not at all!

Of course, Kester wasn’t one to keep things to himself, saying all those points out loud for Cullen to hear, right along with his appreciation tacked on the end of his statements.

Kester got a nervous laugh and nod, a halfhearted reply before they bid each other true farewells. Kester’s mumblings devolved into a hum to himself as he rowed away—“Busy day, buuuusy day. Hmm-umm-um…”

Cullen shook his head. Nothing could bring him down right then. His anxious excitement at the sight before him would have washed away all negativity, even if he were offended by Kester’s longwinded prattling. Not today.

He looked up at the fortress that was Kinloch Hold. Bathed in the oranges of the setting sun, the stone structure loomed and dwarfed anyone and anything in comparison. Smack in the middle of Lake Calenhad it sat, a structure of magnificence and mystery.

“Oi!” The other recruit called back to him. “You just gonna stand there and gape? C’mon!”

Cullen’s mouth pursed. Now, what was his name again? Maker’s breath, he’d have to learn it sooner or later. Hopefully by the time he did the other’s surly attitude would lessen. He chalked it up to the guy probably being as anxious as him, or that he probably just needed a good meal.

He knew he himself did, at least. It’d been almost a fortnight since he left Honnleath, and he was already missing his mother and eldest sisters’ homemade cooking. He had said his goodbyes to his family and left them after becoming an official member of the Templar Order of Ferelden.

He’d trained for many years at this point—devoted himself body and soul, pushed himself past limits most wouldn’t dare to know or care about—all for this moment. It was all paying off. He wasn’t about to muck it up now.

Cullen forced himself to press on, past the mixture of his awe and apprehension. He could contend with it all later. For now, it was time to meet his superiors.

The structure swallowed him up as the double doors opened and closed. It was easy to note Tevinter’s design in the architecture. The lyrium buzzed in his blood stream as he took a spot next to the other recruits—six in all, four men and two women. The magic in the air was thick, thicker than he ever felt before. It was to be expected, but it still threw him for a dizzying loop.

The Knight-Commander soon graced their presence, a man he would soon come to look upon with utmost respect, even more than he did right then. Cullen puffed out his chest with pride, making a mental note thrice to write his family of this day.

Introductions were made and a small tour was underway. The apprentices were up and about, scurrying this way and that with their studies or duties, greeting the new recruits with either respected silence and nods, or a light ‘hello’ or ‘welcome’.

Cullen kept up in the middle of the group as they passed through the next giant door’s threshold. Then another, and then another after a slightly skewed hall. There was so much to take in and no time to do it!

And then they entered the library and, Maker’s breath, so many books! Shelves as high as the ceiling, even! Back in Honnleath, the Chantry’s collection was never this extensive, nor was the monastery’s. Surely, there was even more and—

Cullen was so enraptured with everything around him that he fell behind the others, accidentally brushed by another. It was enough to send him and the other person off balance, and send their stack of books clattering to the floor.

“Maker! I’m sorry, I—” Cullen came to a dead stop as he leaned down to reflexively help pick up the mess.

Fingers brushed and amber met emerald.

“Sorry,” he repeated, near breathless.

Golden hair, long eyelashes, a freckled nose, and rather annoyed, pursed lips—they all belonged to a girl. A very beautiful girl, at that.

“It’s all right,” she said with a huff. “My fault.”

“No. I’m…ah…” Cullen was at a loss for words. “The fault was mine.” He gathered up a part of the books and gave them to her.

The girl tucked a loose strand of her golden locks behind a pointed ear. She was an elf. A servant, then? No, she was wearing robes, those of a mage.

“Are you an apprentice?” Cullen found himself asking, clearing his throat of a sudden falsetto of his chords.

She was already stepping away but was stopped by his inquiry, looking surprised by it, even. She turned and raised a brow. “I am.”

Cullen found himself smiling, his next sentence flowing out of him like a leaky tap. “I see! We’ll probably be seeing a lot of one another in future, then!” His brain finally formed a stopper. “Ah, not that…I mean…”

As he talked, the girl’s expression skewed more and more into one of discomfort. Cullen closed his eyes and swallowed, had to break eye contact to recuperate.

Now who’s prattling on? Might as well sign on to be that old boater’s apprentice! Maker’s breath…

“Rutherford!” Knight-Commander Greagoir called back. “Is there a problem?”

Cullen nearly tripped again. “No, ser! Just, um—”

“My apologies Knight-Commander!” the girl called over. “Won’t happen again!”

She then said, looking directly at Cullen, “Greagoir isn’t a patient man, trust me.” Her expression went from discomfort, to kindly, and then back to severe in seconds.

Realizing the multiple eyes on them at this point, Cullen watched her motion with her head and an extra, silent ‘go’ to him before finally getting the point.

He gathered himself and rejoined the group to continue their introductory tour, glancing back one last time to catch the lithe figure of the elven girl in her oversized robes.

Her face then was unreadable, her emerald eyes dullen, nearly black.

* * *

The following week for Cullen was a blur. Before any further lyrium doses, Chantry sermons, or training came the donning of his new armor.

It was another joyous and memorable moment as he reflected on himself in one of the mirrors of the templars’ quarters.

He flexed his fingers in the gauntlets and wriggled his toes in the boots. A reflection of a reflection bounced back and forth on the chest piece that was emblazoned with the Order’s heraldry—a sword pointing downward, flames on either side.

He could do some good here. He would do some good here. He swore it. To himself and to the Maker.

Today would be his first “shadow watch” with an older recruit. Her name was Audrey. She was a short and stout woman with pitch black hair that was always pulled back into a ponytail, one so tight it wrung the early wrinkles out of her forehead.

He quickly learned that she took her duties more than seriously. That was all well and good to him, but she seemed a bit…harsh at times. Cruel, even. This afternoon was no different as they stopped for a snack and “straightened out” one of the apprentices on kitchen duty.

A grumble formed in Cullen’s chest. “It seemed like they had their fire magic under control.”

“Nary an ember out of line,” Audrey replied, a hand fixed on the pommel of her sword as she swayed down the stone halls, almost a skip in her step.

“Then,” Cullen scoffed with a frown, “why the shove afterwards?”

“Psh. Seriously, Rutherford? You give these mages an inch and they’ll take a mile.” She stared down another group of apprentices as they passed by.

Cullen placed a hand on the back of his neck. “Where are we off to, anyway?”

“Recreation. Follow me.”

Audrey led him down a floor. He’d only seen this room a couple times during his walks, but those times he wasn’t in full armor. Going down wasn’t so bad, but he imagined going back up. Maker, he was going to have to train a lot more for endurance. He snapped back to the present when he and Audrey paused at a smaller wooden door that led into the center of this floor.

“Ready for your first watch, kiddo? I won’t be here all day with ya. Gotta learn to manage this mess on your own sometime.”

He nodded, resolute. “I’m ready.”

Audrey pushed open the door like it was nothing, announcing their arrival like some kind of cavalry charge. Cullen turned to the side in embarrassment. All this commotion for barely a dozen mages, all whose eyes were on them now. Great.

“Really?” Cullen groaned.

“I told you. Let them know who’s boss.”

“I think they know.”

Audrey sniffed. “Says you, greenhorn.” She gave him a rough pat on the back with an armored clank! “C’mon.”

“Maker, preserve me,” he mumbled.

Cullen took a moment to observe the large room. There was a place for card and board games occupied by several mages who’d gone back to conversing, thankfully. It looked like some of them were gambling, too. Some with nothing more than stone pebbles. The others who kept their eyes on him and Audrey occupied other sections for light exercise and reading respectively.

His stomach suddenly knotted so hard it ached. In the latter nook, Cullen saw her—the elven girl from the other day. She was watching him. Closely. It made him squirm, and, damn it all, his face felt hot!

Audrey followed his line of sight. “Oh. Good eye. She’s a bit of a snoot, that one. Best to look out for her likes, especially.” Audrey grumbled for a moment and wrinkled her nose. “She stinks of old magic.”

“Huh? Who?”

Audrey nudged him between his plate. “Don’t play dumb, boy. I saw you eyeing her. That elf is one of the First Enchanter’s precious, hand-picked apprentices.”

“Oh? Really?” His amber eyes widened, and the corner of his mouth lifted. “That must mean she’s—”

“It means—” Audrey overrode his esteem with her disdain, “she might as well be Maker-damned royalty and nigh untouchable.” Audrey paused grumbled again. “And most don’t look at her twice like I do because she’s Irving’s favorite little knife-ear.”

“Don’t call her that!” Cullen snapped, a little louder than he should have in hindsight. He gulped down his further shame.

Audrey took a step to the side, arms crossing as her crow’s feet clenched at her temples. “You got a soft spot for their like, Cullen?” It was rare to hear a superior call him by his first name, if at all. “All right. You said you’re ready? Prove it, then. I’m off.”

Cullen’s stomach dropped. “But, wha—Wait a second! You—”

“You’ll learn one way or another, Rutherford,” Audrey interrupted with a shake of her head and a pitiful look in her eye. “Feeling sympathy for them doesn’t earn you anything but disappointment.” She paused for another long moment. “And if’n I’m thinking the way you are, you’ll earn nothing but heartache.”

Her words hit harder than he thought they would. It was…irritating. Cullen watched the woman pace away and took his post with a heavy sigh.

Heartache? That’s not… He grimaced—both at Audrey’s implications and his face flushing once again. Don’t be ridiculous.

She flexed her shoulder. With every move she could feel the new undulations of her skin. Unfortunately, even with healing magic, there was massive scarring where Selph sustained the worst of her burns.

With treatments, her pain subsided into numbness, then into a stinging dryness. She was given a medicinal lotion for application, and that day was the first where she finally got a good look at herself as she applied it.

That weight grew heavier, as heavy as the black and blue bags under her eyes. Her head spun, dizzy. She had to push the thought away; sleep couldn’t take her, not then.

Selph’s hair, once long and kempt, was now shorter than shoulder length. The ends were uneven, frayed and singed from what had transpired. Another apprentice kindly helped her trim it to make it more even, but it would take time for it to grow back to what it once was. A long time.

Brows furrowing, Selph sighed. Her ears now stuck out like sore thumbs, something she tried to hide in the village she once called home. At least here it didn’t matter if one was an elf or a human—a mage was a mage. Still, the unfamiliar sensation gnawed at her.

“Time’s up,” said the templar hovering in the entryway. “Follow me.”

Selph finished applying her ointment as fast as possible. She wasn’t about to argue with the fully-armored, sword-wielding knight who wouldn’t think twice before striking her down.

She straightened her clothes, ran to her bed—nearly downing several other apprentices in the process, put the medicine in end table she shared with her bunkmate, and was back at the templar’s side within seconds.

“Stick close,” the templar said, “and no funny business.”

Selph nodded, silently wishing she could at least see the face of her escort as they headed into the hall. The templar led them past other guards and mages as they bustled about their duties, out toward a set of stairs that led down.

“A basement?” Selph asked aloud, not gaining any answers.

Instead, the templar pivoted toward the arrival of an older Chantry sister. They, too, didn’t speak. They only nodded toward one another as they led the way down, sandwiching Selph between them—the templar in front, the sister in back. If Selph happened to fall behind, the sister nudged her forward with a harsh hand. It hurt her scars, but Selph kept her whimpers as quiet as possible. She was still adjusting to this place, to its massiveness and overwhelming aura that added to the pressure already upon her. Her stomach twisted, the discomfort going up her throat.

The door was down a set of stairs that led into a darker tunnel. Indeed, it was a basement, but it wasn’t one room as Selph assumed it to be. It was a long, cold and dank hall that branched off to more doors. Some were left to her imagination as to what they were. Others—ones with piles of hay and filth behind enchanted steel bars—left no room for any other presumptions.

Selph audibly gulped, her throat suddenly dry. “Um. Where are we going exactly?”

“Your phylactery is due to be added to the register,” the Chantry sister said without so much as making eye contact. “And because of your extensive injuries and recovery time, yours in particular is due posthaste.”

Phylactery. A fancy and foreign word to Selph. “Phy—ah, what’s that?”

The templar curtly replied, “Quiet. You’ll find out soon enough.”

The further they went into the stone-laden hall, the dimmer it got. Torches lit the way as the temperature also dropped. A thin layer of fog swirled around their feet. They reached a final door where a mage awaited them. The mage and sister did some kind of exchange in front of an imposing ornamental door. Selph was forced to turn her back as they did so.

A spark and groan indicated that whatever locks held the door in place were now undone. There was even more fog within the following chamber. Selph glanced at the mage as they left them behind, their pitiful gaze at her doing nothing to ease her anxiety.

As soon as they passed the threshold, Selph’s teeth chattered with another temperature drop. Where she was in the depths of the tower, she didn’t know, and she couldn’t help but feel that this sensation served a greater purpose. It was too familiar for her liking.

Awaiting their arrival was First Enchanter Irving and Knight Commander Greagoir. The sister placed a firm hand on Selph’s shoulder, stopping her in place as she parted from Selph to join the heads of the tower and the two senior mages behind them. The templar escort joined the others of their regime on the far wall, a line of soldiers so still they could have been statues among the old architecture of the chamber.

Selph’s wide eyes wandered as she held herself for warmth. A set of stairs led up to a second story with shelves that contained phials of red liquid. Selph swallowed once again. Despite the First Enchanter being there as a somewhat friendly face, she shivered, and not from the cold. In fact, she was starting to feel rather hot.

Irving and Greagoir spoke with the sister before she departed the chamber. Greagoir then went toward his templars, and Irving approached Selph. His kind eyes complete with crow’s feet shone brightly, even in the dark and neutral grays of the room. Hands behind his back in his normal fashion, Irving nodded to Selph and explained to her what was to happen. There was going to be a procedure involving lyrium—another foreign word to her then, albeit less so—and her blood. It was to be taken and put into one of the phials she’d seen earlier.

“My…blood?” Selph’s brows scrunched, and her stomach did a fluttery tumble. “Why? What for? Is it going to hurt?” Her face felt flushed.

Irving shook his head. “Only for a moment, if that, child. All apprentices have this procedure done.”

“What for?”

The light in the elder man’s eyes dimmed in his hesitation. In Irving’s stead, Greagoir answered Selph’s question, all while directing the senior mages and Selph to their proper spots for the procedure.

“To ensure that should you attempt to leave the tower without permission or attendants, you can be tracked down and taken in for custody. Your phylactery will be held here until you advance out of your apprenticeship, in which it will be sent to the capital for official records.”

Distant. Concise. Sterile. Everything Irving’s words weren’t.

Selph gave a fearful glance to Irving as one of the senior mages gestured to a chair near some medical-looking equipment. Greagoir’s words were clouds of gnats in her ears. She grew hotter.

Irving and the other senior mage sat her down in the chair, exchanging words and nods. Selph comprehended none of it. She felt beads of sweat forming on her temple as sounds began to filter into her ears as a high-pitched whine. Her hands were then placed in restraints that wrapped around the chair’s handles after one of her sleeves were lifted to expose her flesh. It, too, was restrained by a thick belt, a much tighter fit than the restraints. It felt like her arm was being pulled apart.

Selph whimpered, now feeling a bead slide down her brow, her sweat now colder than her skin. “W-what’s going to happen now? Is this going to take long? First Ench—”

“Shut your gob and keep still!” hissed one of the templars now restraining her legs, mumbling further under his breath as he finished, “Maker, these procedures are a pain in the arse.”

Selph was soon met on the side by one of the accompanying senior mages, a woman. She gave Selph a kind smile, tried to reassure her as she held up a thin, curved blade. The woman was talking, but her words were funneled into that same tortuous white noise as Selph’s vision began to blur.

She felt like she was on fire as the blade pressed into her raised vein. The second senior mage slid adjacent to the one drawing her blood, a sight only caught in Selph’s peripherals as she strained to look away from the activity.

In the other mage’s hands was one of the glass phials. Inside was some glowing blue liquid—lyrium, she would come to know. With magic, the mages guided her blood into the container, the mixture within becoming one with her blood. It undulated before sustaining a bright red glow as they finished and corked the phial.

The procedure was quick, but it felt like it took a millennia for Selph. She was bandaged and undone from her restraints, but she didn’t move. Her whole form was leaden against the chair.

The templar who escorted her there was to escort her back as well, and their impatience got the better of them as they grabbed her flaccid arm and pulled her up. “Come on, gi—AHH!”

They pulled away as if they were burned, because they had been. The templar’s gauntlet sizzled as they stepped back from Selph who was now kneeling on the ground.

Selph coughed and vomited. Her arms trembled as they tried to hold up her weight. She was so hot! Burning! Steam was rising from her fingertips!

The people around her backed away with looks of horror as Greagoir and the other templars drew their swords.

“Andraste’s pyre, she’s an abomination!”

Abomination? Selph imagined the mayor saying the same thing. The villagers. Their children.

Everyone.

Fine. They wanted an abomination? They’d get one. She stood up, wiped the back of her mouth with her sleeve, and screamed. Fire flickered to life in her palms.

But…this wasn’t her. She wasn’t doing this! The sound that erupted from her lungs wasn’t normal. The fire in her palms burned too hot. These feelings—she was watching this happen, but not through her eyes. Every sinew within was like strings being pulled by a malicious marionette. She was watching herself slip further and further away.

Why was this familiar?

Why did this hurt?

This couldn’t be her…

“N-no! No, no, no! NO!” Selph fell to her knees again, forcibly extinguishing her flames and digging her nails into her arms. She started to bleed.

Irving stepped between her and Greagoir. Their mouths moved, slower and slower until they smeared into painterly blurs. The room spun. flashes of a twisted world bled into the corners of her vision until it covered everything cold and blue with something stagnant and green in its place.

It’s YOU, isn’t it!?  You ruined everything! More bile filled her throat, but it refused to come up, the acid scorching her throat. She felt the ghost of a slap to her temple, the grit of gravel and straw piercing her skin—a recent memory surfacing, trying to weaken her resolve. Go AWAY! GET OUT!

The space around her continued to fracture and bend. It formed fragments of mimicry, a mockery of the space around them. Red and steaming liquid bubbled from the cracks in the earth and formed a hunched shape before her. Beady eyes, white and molten with something more than the rage for which its namesake was given, formed amongst its inflamed rivers of lava-like skin.

“Cursed knife-ear!” “She’s go’ magic n’ all! She’s a witch!” “Teach you”—"back to you ‘ole you”—"keep to you own you—!”

“If the little knife-eared witch survives…”

She couldn’t breathe. Survives…?

Survival. It’s all she’s ever known. It’s all she’s ever had. It’s all she’s ever…

It was all too much, their voices. All of them. Their hate, their disparages, their malaise.

“Stop…”

In the sickly sky beyond, a severe dark shape came into view—a black…castle? Whatever it was, it wasn’t of the world she knew. There was a painful tug in her chest, as if looking at it was a sin in and of itself.

I̴͍̾'̵̼̅M̷̲͂ ̵̬͋SO̶͎̊Ȓ̶̝R̴̳͑Y̶̪̕.̷͎̅.̴̬̿.̶̥͋I̜̋ ̷̈͜C̶̦̈́Ŏ̶̬Ȕ̴̞L̴͕̅D̵̮̽N̴̫͐'̷̻́T̵̻́.̵͍͆.̷̰͐.̵̰̀

The…thing? It was talking. To her.

And then, Irving was there. He stood above her, manifesting magic that felt heavenly in this hellish place. He cast it upon her…or, rather, the creature before her. Whatever was the case, there was a sudden feeling of sadness and emptiness that replaced the one of utter heat and hatred. Regret and relief became like the glow in that phial.

Harsh breaths came between the familiar voice’s acidic spitting. She soon deduced it to belong to Greagoir. “The consequences be upon your head if any of this proves to be a fool’s choice, Irving!”

Irving cleared his throat, stuttered over his words to find coherency. Whatever happened had taken a toll on both of them. “We had the resources, and it was weak. She fought this the entire way to the tower, and through grievous injuries. She will survive and thrive, Greagoir.”

“She’s your responsibility now, Irving.” The Knight-Commander’s tone was low with heavy warning. “And NONE of this mess leaves this chamber! Understood!” Greagoir sheathed his sword to punctuate his subsequent bark at everyone else in the room. His booming echo made sure the demand made its way to all present ears twofold.

Nothing and no one objected.

Greagoir then bid everyone out of the chamber through gritted teeth. This conversation was over. For now.

The last thing Selph remembered was gravity’s existence and the cold, still silence of the chamber…and from within. The presence that had once held her close in its comforting warmth had burned up until only embers remained.

She held in her tears—fearing their extinguishing as well—and everything went dark.

Pulling herself into a ball, Selph began to cry, letting the earth around her encase her in a pseudo embrace. She missed her papae—her father. More and more as of late. Terrible dreams were keeping her up at night, dreams that woke her from the deepest confines of sleep. Sometimes, she felt like she wouldn’t wake, feared it.

She didn’t want to burden Eira with this nightmare talk. She couldn’t. It would only bring them further troubles, and her stepmother had enough to worry about now that she was raising Selph alone. A human, let alone a servant, raising an orphaned elf was already problematic.

Even still, Eira loved Selph, deeply and wholly. Just like she had loved Selph’s father. He left their Dalish clan to be with her, had brought Selph with him. At the time, Selph was too young to remember much of their departure from the northern outskirts of the Brecilian Forest. The memory thickened into a deeper haze as time went by.

What she did know, what she held onto, was that her father loved her. Always. He had cared for her alone and through the grief he carried of the loss of his vhenan—Selph’s birth mother. Eira made him smile, made him sing like he used to around the bonfires with the clan. To Selph, Eira was a walking miracle.

And then he died.

Selph pulled herself into a tighter ball, desperately trying to push down the resurfacing memories and emotions that came with them. The earth around her seemed to shift, cradle her further as she was attempting to do to herself.

No. Not the earth. It was a…presence? It was warm, like a blanket fresh from a sunny day’s laundry line. A soothing balm of whispers reached her ears, nothing coherent, but comforting all the same. Selph fought a sudden drowsiness; her eye throbbed less, her skinned knees didn’t burn, and she stopped chewing on her lip as the freckled scrunch of her nose and brows untensed. Soon, she found herself laying on the scratchy grass of the bank. A prickly feeling transformed into one of utmost comfort, and her consciousness slipped into slumber.

The sun began to set, and the nightmares eluded Selph. Only upon hearing her name cut through the cooing voices did she stir.

Eira rounded one of the trees to Selph’s spot. Her large brown eyes were always calm, always kind. The pull of her mouth into a thin line conveyed something her eyes didn’t show. “Thought I’d find you here.”

Selph yawned and stretched, feeling lightweight and refreshed. Eira came into view as her vision adjusted, as did the rest of her forested surroundings. The sun had dipped behind mountain peaks in the far distance—a sign that she had stayed out too long.

“What time is it?” Selph rubbed crust from her emerald eyes, dirt from her bangs, and started a quick and loose braid of her lengthy hair. She scrambled up to complete the brush-off of her person.

“Late,” Eira said, stepping forward to help Selph get any missed spots off her oversized smock and breeches. “We’ve got barn duty.”

Selph turned toward her guardian with a smile, realizing then that her blackened eye was now in full view. As was her swollen lip and suspicious grass stains on her knees hiding the scrapes she got when she was shoved to the ground.

Eira wasn’t angry. In fact, the façade of anger she wanted to portray fell from her expression, promptly replaced with one of sympathy. “Halwen told me what happened.”

With a frown, Selph crossed her arms. “Did she? Or did she spin you a story again, gossip gab that she is?”

Kneeling down to meet her stepdaughter’s height, her loose bob of dark curls shifting, Eira tapped her forehead to Selph’s. “She spun me a story, obviously.”

Selph tried to hide her relieved smile, reaching out to hug Eira tightly. Eira picked her up and spun her around, and Selph let out a weak giggle before planting back to the ground.

Eira then grasped Selph’s hands, her eyes welling with tears. “I promise you, Selph, we’ll be able to leave this place soon. But until then—”

“I know.” Selph cut her off with a sudden huff. "But I didn’t kill the crops! Adelaide and her goons are idiots! From a family of idiots! Frosts happen, right? I’ve read a buncha books on it! And we’re in a part of Ferelden that gets cold! I mean, colder than most of Ferelden, but still!”

“Selph—”

“I didn’t do it! I’m not cursed!” She paused to take a breath. “I’m not a cursed knife-ear…”

Eira pulled her into another hug. “No. You’re not. Not at all. You’re a blessing, the biggest blessing I could have asked for, along with your father, Maker rest him.” Her last words were choked.

Selph never knew her mamae. She died giving birth to her. But Eira was everything she could have wanted in a mother and more. She taught Selph to read and write, her falling into hard times and becoming a servant a betrayal to her educated background. Her roots were from Rivain, but her immediate family was from the Free Marches. All Selph knew at the time was that she left them behind in pursuit of better opportunities in Ferelden. Eira did her best with what she could, even if Selph didn’t fully believe it at times. Selph would look back on all Eira did—all she tried to do—with affection and amity.

However, at present, she wept in Eira’s arms in anger and sorrow only she felt she could understand. Emotions came back in a flood, as did the gentle blanket of warmth. It now surrounded her and Eira both, became a calming presence once again to the anguished girl.

With a big sniffle, Selph then inquired about it to Eira. The woman looked around, a breeze lifting some leaves around them before falling back to the ground. For a split second, her eyes glazed and hardened. Selph didn’t see.

“No, but I believe you,” Eira said, “and I think the pressure of another harrowing day of dealing with a bunch of spoiled brats is taking its toll.” She dropped her tone to a whisper toward the end, the fear of her status always at the forefront of her actions.

“Right…” Disappointment coated Selph’s response.

“Let’s get you back home, yeah? We’ll feed the livestock and join Halwen in the kitchen. Together.”

Selph scrunched her brows. “But I’m supposed to be on net duty with Eliot this eve.” She grumbled, kicking a stone after pulling on her shoes. “Stupid smelly fish.”

Eira couldn’t help but let out a belly laugh at that. “You told me you enjoyed net duty with old man Eliot!”

“When I can bathe after! Adelaide said she was gonna tell her dad to take my bath privileges away. Then I’d be a cursed and smelly knife-ear.”

“I see.” Eira frowned at the repeated pejorative. “Then I shall just have to relinquish my bathing privileges as well!” She placed her hands on her hips, lifting her chin to the tinted orange sky. “And then I’ll get Halwen to relinquish hers, and so on and so forth, until the whole village is rank with our rebellion!”

Selph blew a flippant raspberry. “Halwen will stop bathing when a pig sits on the Sunburst Throne.”

Eira laughed once again. “Too true, my child. Too true. Anyway, let’s get you home. A cool cloth for that eye and some elfroot rub for your lip and knees will do you good. Then we’ll get to our evening chores, get you a hot meal, and get you to your bed just in time to read a few chapters of your book, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Selph let herself smile, felt tears well in her eyes again and repeated, “Yeah.”

Selph took Eira’s hand, but not before glancing at her reflection in the stream. The girl nearly stopped breathing. Next to her and Eira was a pale, human-like figure. Their features were barely visible in the sun’s setting light, but there was clearly a third person with them.

Eyes widening, Selph felt the start of a yelp bubble up from her chest. It was quashed when the figure slowly gifted her a wave. The calming, warm sensation returned to envelop her with the gesture, and Selph found herself smiling wider and waving back.

“Selph?” Eira tugged on the young girl’s hand. “Sweetheart?”

“I’m glad I get to come here when I want,” Selph said with genuine excitement, ignoring Eira’s open concern before finally snapping back to the present. “Sorry! Let’s go!”

The young elf then bounded off ahead of Eira, her energy renewed. Once again, Selph didn’t see her stepmother’s eyes glaze and harden. Even if she had, it was impossible for Eira to convey what she felt in that moment as a worrying, icy chill crept up her spine.

“Wait.” Selph brought down her covers, darting into an upwards position. “Did they kick you out of bed again? Are you okay?”

Jowan’s penciled jaw shuffled, and he hummed another sound of disapproval. “Me and several others. My bum’s throbbing right now.” He dropped to a whisper. “Bastards.”

The door to their chamber abruptly swung open, just as Jowan was saying. A templar with full arms and armor propped themselves in the door frame. They called out to the room packed with sleeping or groggy apprentices, all like sardines in their bunks.

“All right, you lot! Up and at ‘em! New recruits’re comin’ in today an’ we want all’a ya on yer best behavior!”

Selph recognized the knight’s voice—Tristol, an older member of the Order. Jowan’s side must have gotten his minor, Spann. The latter wasn’t so forgiving, much to the apprentices’ dismay.

“Right,” Selph mumbled after putting it together. She began casting a light mixture of heat and healing spells on Jowan’s aches, using her magic before prying eyes and prodding swords would stop her. “You never answered me,” she said, pointing her firm statement at him.

Jowan’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Never better with your help, of course.”

His sarcasm wasn’t lost on her, but she blushed all the same. “Oh, sure. You should learn how to do this for yourself. At this rate, you’ll never be called to your Harrowing.”

“Ha!” His laugh died in his throat. “Meanwhile, Irving’s been talking of yours coming up any month now,” he then said, a bite to the end of his assertion before his balm of a second could negate it. “Besides, it’s not the same unless it’s you patching me up.”

Nibbling on her lower lip in thought, Selph cast him a knowing glance before forcing herself to focus, trying to hide her rosy cheeks as Jowan palmed her shoulder.

In the meantime, the other apprentices stirred and fumbled about before any other templars like Spann became their alarm clocks on top of Tristol’s.

This day dragged, seemingly longer than others. By late afternoon, she was on her way to the library, heading to gather several older tomes for First Enchanter Irving while he was caught up in a meeting with Knight-Commander Greagoir.

It was surely regarding the new recruits arriving for the Order. That was fine. It kept her busy. Selph was glad to have this task—any task—to get her mind off that. It would be more fuel for the fire with which all the mages would have to contend in this prisonic place. She couldn’t help but be anxious, even if she was used to it.

It was to be expected. The other week some of their older members retired. Others outright died from age, expeditions and encounters with maleficarum and the like, or from lyrium sickness. The latter encompassed many side-effects, some more horrible than others.

Selph had seen them, had seen the effects, and perhaps that was why she held on to a sliver of empathy for some of the templars. Only some, and that was never something she’d admit out loud. They had to be replaced sooner or later. It was like clockwork. Predictable. It was similar for her and her fellow mages. At any point she could be gone, replaced.

Forgotten.

Selph ran her fingers along a book’s tattered leather spine. The dust it dragged away caused her to pull back with a frown. She was used to it, being forgotten. They all were. In one way or another.

Be quiet, she chastised herself. You’re lucky enough to be one of Irving’s apprentices. She’d heard that enough to turn it on herself now, grimacing internally. But they don’t know the truth. And they never will.

“Which is good,” she whispered to herself, grabbing the book and tucking it close to the others in her arms. “It’s good,” she repeated, squeezing until her knuckles turned white.

Selph became wrapped up in her thoughts, distracted. So much so that when she collected the last of the books for her task, she clumsily ran into someone. Upon regaining her spatial awareness and grounding herself, she had a horrible realization.

There they were: the new recruits taking their tour, and she ran smack into one of them. Or he ran into her. The latter case would never be considered.

Fear hit her hard and fast, like they had read her thoughts, like she’d become one of the tomes now spread open on the ground in a haphazard pile.

It was a coin flip on what came next.

What she didn’t expect was the opposite of what she bet on that flip. The recruit was rather surprised and timid, his expression unlike any she’d seen before up to then. In another shocking surprise, he apologized to her. Even more of a shock was when he decided to kneel and help her!

She met his deep-set amber eyes that suddenly grew wider. Taking in his features, she noted both his angles and how they rounded to softer edges. The shadow of scruff hardened him, but his blonde curls were a rekindling of youth.

They exchanged a few words, more than she could remember. New to the tower or not, she didn’t make a habit of chatting with templars.

But this recruit was…different. In the most perplexing of ways. To her, at least. In the following days, they passed one another in the halls as he started his training in the tower. Their visions would lock, and his gaze would linger. He would greet her or wave and she would reluctantly reciprocate if pressed, and his face would turn pink like before. She couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable or not.

And that was worrying.

Another new day came. The tower’s chambers thrummed with the echoes and patters of rain mixing with the footsteps of its residents. Selph was supposed to have grounds cleaning duties that day, but the weather said otherwise, keeping all indoors under extra watchful eyes.

Selph forcefully exhaled and stretched her limbs as break time came about. She, instead, was helping with the younger apprentices in their classroom studies. Selph didn’t mind helping plan lessons, but she was looking forward to seeing the last of the spring blossoms that wouldn’t survive the nearing frost.

There goes my one day to see the sun for this month… she despaired.

As she gathered herself and fixed her hair pin, Jowan found her. He was uncharacteristically bright and beaming as he met her pace on the way to the next floor. Selph tried to commit his expression to memory with a smile of her own.

“Selph! There you are!”

“Here I am,” she replied, nudging him in the arm. “What’s with that face?”

Brows raising as he broke momentarily free from his daze, Jowan pursed his lips. “What d’y’mean? Am I not allowed to be happy?”

Selph’s smile twisted into one more wry. “Is that a rhetorical question? Or has something actually gone well for you? For once?”

Rolling his eyes, Jowan nudged her in return, almost knocking her willowy frame off balance. “You make it seem like I’m just a ball of misery.”

“Because you are, Mister Misery,” Selph dropped her voice a couple octaves in mockery. “At least without me around.”

“Ha, ha.” Jowan hummed and shook his head, slowing his steps and scratching the scruff on his cheek. “Very funny, Missus Misery.”

Selph felt a rush of heat up her neck. She scoffed and slowed to match his pace. “Well…misery loves company. So? What’s going on?”

They came to a fork in the hall—one that would continue onward toward the Chantry vestibule, and one that would take the way around to the recreation chamber.

Jowan hesitated with his answer, moved aside some of his stringy black bangs and cleared his throat. “I…” he started, his eyes looking faraway before dimming. “I’ll catch up with you in a bit and tell you everything. How long until you’re need back?”

“That’s not ominous or anything,” Selph said with a serious squint.

Jowan’s groan nearly turned into a whine as he tilted his head back. “Just—! When are you due back?”

“Whenever Senior Enchanter Callie asks for me? I’m technically a substitute today, just helping out. I’m sticking close, whatever the case may be.”

“Oh, that old biddy will be fine without you. I’ll meet you in recreations in a bit, then. But for now, gotta go!” Jowan was already on his way before finishing his goodbye.

Nodding with a bit of confusion, but not questioning him further, Selph affirmed their meeting for later to herself. There was a strange sensation surrounding her for a moment, settling in her gut uncomfortably.

She pushed it aside as she entered the chamber and made headway for the reading nook. It was empty, like usual, and she seized her chance to delve into the botany books that had been collecting cobwebs to pass the time. It would keep her close to the classrooms, and she got to indulge in plant life, if only in crusty pages.

She lost herself in her readings until in walked that recruit—the one from the library. He and another templar barged in, one of the worst in the tower: Audrey. She announced their arrival, a most irritating performance.

As Audrey did all the needless theatrics in their entrance, the recruit stood and wrung his hands on his sword’s pommel, more than embarrassed, Selph noted. She wanted to laugh, but held back for her own sake.

Audrey was the one who took Spann under her wing, “taught him better than Tristol ever could,” she’d often say.

It was by luck that Selph didn’t have any unsavory encounters with the woman herself, but Jowan had enough stories to make her stomach curdle and blood boil. It would seem as though she would dodge another arrow with her this day as well; the recruit and her exchanged some heated words she couldn’t hear before she left him there. Alone.

Selph scanned the room again. He wouldn’t have a tough time with anyone currently there. Audrey had to have known that. Or, maybe, she hoped he would. Either way, the ones present weren’t what anyone would call “troublemakers”. Maybe dramatic, sometimes, but nothing past a little tiff or two.

She swallowed, reborrowing her nose in her book. And why in Andraste’s name do you care, Selph? It doesn’t matter.

Too soon, most of the other mages and apprentices funneled out, leaving her alone with him. And too soon from there did he begin making his way toward her…?

No. To the board games.

That didn’t stop him from giving her a glance and a smile. And, Maker preserve her, she reciprocated.

Okay. Okay, okay, okay. She tried to ignore him, tried to read again, but it was no use. She’d been caught observing, and the recruit kept eyeing her as he set up a game of chess.

For…himself?

She knew it wasn’t uncommon for one to play a solo chess session. Still, Selph shifted in her chair. How long had it been since she got there? Where was Jowan?

Her worries came to a head when the recruit approached her and introduced himself. Cullen was his name. Cullen Rutherford.

“Looks like I wasn’t wrong when I said we’d see more of each other!”

Selph pushed out a tiny, strained laugh, holding the sizable tome over her small chest. “It’s, um, not necessarily that difficult when we’re confined to a tower.”

Selph feared she’d toed too close to a line, but Cullen simply laughed—nervously, his cheeks turning that pink she’d seen before. “Very true. Same faces, different day. Still, I thought I might get a moment with a mage or two just to talk and introduce myself. Take a moment to listen to the wards instead of…well…” He trailed off.

“Audrey?” Selph so badly wanted to add the title of ‘The Blowhard’ afterward.

Cullen looked around as if he would be the one punished if caught badmouthing another templar. “Maker, is she always like that? She’s going to do my head in.”

Selph’s mouth formed into a line, and she shrugged in place of a plethora of unsaid words.

“A-anyway.” He stood up straighter, his armor clanking. “I’d heard you were one of the First Enchanter’s hand-picked apprentices. That’s quite the honor!”

Standing and tenderly putting the book back while he spoke, Selph shuffled around Cullen and more into the open. She took painstaking care of her steps and held her middle in the absence of the book, cursed not taking it with her.

“Yes, it is.”

“It must have taken a lot of discipline and willpower.”

“It did.”

“So, you like to read in your off time?”

“Mm-hm.”

A long bout of silence stretched between them then. Cullen was, once again, the one to finally break it.

“My apologies,” he said, defeated. “This…isn’t a test or anything, I promise. I do just want to talk.” There was a pause before he continued. “A-and you can talk to me anytime if I’m around.”

Selph sighed, at an impasse. “No, it’s—O-okay, I’m—It’s just that I’m supposed to be meeting a friend of mine, but…” Now it was her turn to trail off. “I think he stood me up.”

“Do you have to be off, then?” Cullen asked, his brow quirking. His genuine curiosity of her continued to surprise.

“I still have some duties to attend to,” she lied, but it was a poor one.

Nevertheless, Cullen’s eyes widened with realization. “Right! Of course!” He then took a dare. “Perhaps we could indulge in a game together some other time? Do you play?”

Right. Chess. Selph glanced at the board for several seconds, and then back to him. “I do. A little.” She shifted her weight again, her hair swishing with the action. “I mean, I’ve read a bit on it, but…never really played much.”

“I could teach you sometime, if you like,” he offered. “Hands on. I’d like to say I’m good, but if my eldest sister were here, she’d make me eat my words.” He caught himself with another nervous chuckle. “That is, I could always use a practice partner if you’re willing.”

‘Willing’. That was a strange word to use considering their positions. It was invitational, potentially twistable. Already twisted. Selph’s brows came together, and her throat tightened.

“I…” Her tongue felt like sandpaper. “M-maybe.”

Idiot! Idiot, idiot, IDIOT!

“A maybe it is, then—ah, um…I never got your name.”

“Oh. Right.” She felt heat bloom across her freckled nose and into her cheeks, wanting nothing more than to kick herself. “Selph.” She took another moment to breathe. “I’m Selph.”

“Selph,” he repeated, like he was testing the name on his tongue and with his Ferelden accent. “It was nice to formally meet, and talk a little.”

Another strained smile made its way to her lips. He seemed genuine enough. For now. As for her, she was at a loss for what she should say in response. The ‘shoulds, woulds, and coulds’ truly didn’t matter when it came to the power imbalances in the circle. But if he was actually different…

Selph almost lost herself in a flood of thoughts and leveled her focus.

“Likewise, Cullen.”

She didn’t sleep, and if she did, it wasn’t for long. Worst of all, her nightmares were back. The warm presence that once brought her comfort was gone. Its warmth had changed, morphed into something…different. It had burned brighter, had become too hot. So hot it burned itself up, burned her up.

It had shown her things. Terrible things. Things that she refused to acknowledge right then.

Bits and pieces fell into place in the days that passed, but it was all a cold comfort. Every time she opened her eyes, the pain was there as a reminder of all she lost.

Rations were being passed out by one of the sisters, indicating alongside the sun’s current position that it was noon. Selph took hers with her unoccupied hand, nodding in artificial thanks. She adjusted the blanket around her shoulders, glancing in her other palm. Within was Eira’s favorite hair piece. It was a tarnished thing, and its pearls had lost their luster, but it was the only thing of her old life she had left. She refused to let the templars or sisters take it from her.

Selph shuffled back into place, clutched the barrette, and tried not to agitate her dressings. It was difficult; the blanket was itchy and thick, and she suffered more than minor cuts and bruises. She quickly finished her rations—a softened apple with some dry bread and stinky cheese—satiating her growling stomach.

She feared even that would be too much noise for the templars, was thankful for the food no matter how stale or rotten. Afterward, she went to brush her fingers through her hair to calm herself, but found it shorter than she remembered, frayed at the ends. Her lip quivered, but she didn’t make a peep.

Noon turned to eve, the sky went from a bright and brilliant orange to the deep, starry blue of night. Soon, the wagon rounded a hill with a steep slope, one leading toward a rocky shoreline.

Far out on the waters, a great silhouette came into view. Selph’s eyes couldn’t help but widen in awe. Even the other children had little noises and whispers pop up among themselves.

Kinloch Hold. The Circle Tower of Ferelden.

Selph read about it in some history books she borrowed in the village. She read about those who housed themselves there, about the mages gaining an education and harnessing their magics.

Mages. Magic. It was still hard to accept. She had magic, and this was to be her new home.

“If the little knife-eared witch survives,” the mayor spat during her departure, his bulbous face red with fury. The first impression of that despicable man faded long ago for Selph.

Still, it hurt. It hurt down to her core. They all wanted her dead, but it was ultimately Eira who paid the price for Selph’s secrecy and ignorance.

And yet, Eira had secrets of her own. “Sticky fingers for the mayor’s coffers,” Halwen had said with pride as she ratted Eira out. Bit by bit for years in order to save outside of her meager salary. All so she could keep her promise to Selph and Selph’s father.

But Eira was her stepmother second, and a servant first. The consolation for the village was that a thief was stopped and received the highest penalty for her actions, and her ‘conspirator’ was on death’s doorstep, leaving their village one way or another. Forever.

Irving stood at the heavy entrance doors of the tower. His hands were behind his back, correcting his posture that was only getting worse with age. It didn’t help that it was already late, but this meeting couldn’t wait. As First Enchanter of Kinloch Hold, his presence was mandatory for this procedure.

Though he was apprehensive, and exhausted from his daily duties, Irving wasn’t as on-edge as his colleague, Greagoir. The latter stood next to him in full plate with his skeptical glower and tightened jaw. Of the two, Irving seemed more unassuming, but of the two, Irving was a mage. Irving would call himself mediocre at best, enjoying his administrative duties in the tower more than the upkeep of his magics, but Greagoir didn’t become the Knight-Commander by allowing anyone or anything to prove him incompetent or careless. They were equals on opposite sides of a spectrum, meeting as respectfully as possible in the middle.

“How many are we to expect again, Greagoir?” Irving asked in his scratchy and throaty tone, one hand beginning to stroke his lengthy beard.

Greagoir stared ahead. “The last message we received estimated four or five for this route.”

“Ah. More than I recall.”

“Three days have passed since, however.”

“True, true.”

Greagoir gave a noncommittal response and wrung one of his gauntleted hands on the pommel of his sword. Irving continued to remain visibly calm, their contrasting dispositions surfacing once again.

It didn’t take long for the group’s arrival, the double doors rumbling with a loud thrum that echoed off the high ceiling. They swung open, their enchantment momentarily disabled. The first to enter were the two Chantry sisters, stepping forward to deliver the specifics of the new arrivals while the templars decompressed. Only to Greagoir were they to speak; Irving would talk to the others himself and hear the short version later from Greagoir.

Several templars then guided in the new wards with Greagoir’s command, and the doors to the tower clanged shut once again. All of them were children—as expected, and all of them were despondent and downtrodden—also expected. Irving’s expression and stance remained still and serene, but inward he felt that pang of kinship he could never fully banish when seeing their faces.

Two girls and one boy. One of the girls was an elf. Irving could tell she was more harrowed than the others. That wasn’t unexpected, considering the stature of most elves in Ferelden, but…

Irving felt himself pulled to the hunched girl. His robes shuffled along the floor, the sound drowned out with the conversing of templars and sisters. He tried to get a better look at her as he knelt to her level.

Her blonde hair was short, uneven, and frazzled, unnaturally so. Glancing down, Irving saw her hands were clasped so hard together that her knuckles were white. There were small lacerations on them and her face, nothing too serious. However, her shirt had a wide, open neckline, revealing the bandages beneath. And, though the shirt was oversized, he could see the unevenness and bulk of them. She also had a sheen of sweat retained from fever.

Irving grumbled and stood. “Pardon my interruption,” he addressed the sisters and Greagoir. “Does this girl need a healer?”

“Once things were finished here, yes,” one of the sisters chimed in nonchalance.

Pursing his lips, Irving further pressed. “I trust that Wynne would be up to such a task while we finish.”

The tension in the air made itself known, and the sisters frowned. One of the templars from the journey stepped forward to address Greagoir.

 “This one’s trouble, Knight-Commander. Head of her village warned us that—”

“What sort of trouble, Cerand?” Greagoir cut in.

“The combustion sort, Knight-Commander.”

Greagoir shot a glance at the elven girl with a curt sigh. “Any casualties?”

“Along the way or from the pickups?”

“Both.” Greagoir said, his voice demanding.

“One,” said a sister, the disgust and impatience in her voice clear, “and she was almost beyond recognition when her body was recovered.”

“I see.” The Knight-Commander paused for a moment. “Burn injuries then?”

Before either the sister or Cerand could answer, Irving once again inserted his own question. “When were her dressings applied?”

“When we left the settlement,” answered the sister with a tsk.

Irving nodded and furrowed his brows. “Nearly a fortnight ago?”

A long silence then fell over the group, one that wasn’t addressed as Cerand finished what the sister started.

“There was also one casualty along the route. A boy from Denerim. He was a runner. Tried to use ice on us as he escaped and nearly killed Sister Edith. Bran took care of him.”

Irving felt his jaw clench, probably as tight as Greagoir’s then. News as such was normal, but never any easier to hear. And he wasn’t giving up so easily.

“Did this girl attempt any such violence or escape attempts? Were there any further issues of the ‘combustion sort’? If this girl is as much trouble as you claim, then why didn’t Bran ‘take care’ of her as well?

“I…” Cerand was at a loss for words.

In his place, Sister Edith stepped in. “You dare to—!”

“Enough,” Greagoir said with another longer sigh. “Cerand, retrieve Senior Enchanter Wynne from her quarters. The others will stay until our discussions have ended. Agreed?”

Edith and the other sister exchanged looks of annoyance, but they didn’t argue any further. The late hour surely dictated their cooperation, and Irving used that to his advantage. Cerand was sent off to start his climb to the senior mage quarters with several mutterings under his breath, and Greagoir returned to his discussions with his knights and the sisters.

Irving turned to kneel once more to the elven girl. “What’s your name, child?”

The girl, as well as the other children, looked at the elder man with awe. Flickers of renewed hope showed in their eyes. Irving smiled, glad to have given them that, at the very least.

“I-I’m Selph,” said the elven girl, tilting her freckled nose upwards for proper eye contact.

“And how old are you, Selph?”

“N-nine.” Her green eyes darted to her clasped hands again before back to Irving. “I’m nine.”

Irving then turned to another child, the boy of the group. “And you?”

“Uh, Devon. Devon Willard, ser. I’m eleven.”

The other girl then jumped in. “I’m Elowyn! I’m nine, too!” She gave a momentary grin to Selph with a missing top tooth.

Chuckling at the latter’s enthusiasm, Irving extended his hand and took them all one at a time in a light shake. “Well met. My name is Irving, but you’ll all come to know me as First Enchanter. Despite the harrowing circumstances you must have faced along your journey, allow me to be the first to welcome you all to the Circle of Magi.”

There, in the cold and stony halls of the tower, for the first time in what felt like forever, Selph felt a different kind of warmth—not like that of the bygone spirit, but one of kindred acceptance.