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The older of the two mages interjected before the conversation could turn into a relentless exchange of barbs, quietly asking:

— Lyrium?

Valinsi nodded, removing from his belt a massive leather pouch, suitable for carrying several valuable tomes at once. Inside were four ceramic flasks, designed to hold a solution of processed lyrium. Touching them with her fingertips, the girl felt the familiar, unpleasant tingling in her hand.

— Then let's begin.

After emptying the bucket of drinking water into the latrine, she moved it to the center of the room. Watching the preparations, Bethany whispered:

— Um… what should I do?

As she retrieved the ceramic vessels and began to pour the bluish liquid with a faint pearlescent sheen—a sign of high concentration—into the bucket, the prisoner gave a nervous snort and replied:

— Make sure I don't fall. The floor is stone.

At this remark, Valinsi cast a thoughtful glance at the kneeling Morrigan, which only the younger mage missed. The man remained silent, not interfering in the preparations in any way. Wasting no time on doubts and pushing the empty containers aside, Morrigan sat before the bucket, crossed her legs, and plunged her right hand into the solution. It felt only slightly more viscous than plain water to her. Her arm, up to the shoulder, was immediately gripped by an unpleasant tingling that seemed to reach the very bone. This was accompanied by slight nausea, but nothing that couldn't be overcome with an effort of will.

After a meaningful look from the older mage, Bethany realized it was time to act. Springing from her spot, she was behind her mentor's back in two steps. Taking a deep breath in and out, Morrigan conjured the mental image of the required spell formula. Making the necessary adjustments on the fly to account for the role of oscillating runes, the witch approached the final step. Closing her eyes and concentrating on the sensations in her right arm, she allowed the mana from the dissolved lyrium to flow freely through her body, to fill the formula with power and set the spell in motion.

Morrigan had never experienced mana burn before. The witch had various expectations… but there was almost nothing to feel when the spell took effect; no distinct sensation marked the moment. It was more like rapidly mounting dizziness and fatigue, crashing down with an overwhelming weight upon both body and mind. As if a huge wave of cold water had suddenly surged forth, instantly dragging her to the very bottom. Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision, squeezing her consciousness in a vise. And it lasted no more than a couple of heartbeats. The last things to reach the witch's awareness before the embrace of darkness were the sounds of the Templar's irritated questions, their meaning elusive, and Bethany's “Flaming Hands” on the back of her head… * * *

The forest was dying. No… Morrigan winced, realizing she'd let herself think it. Her thoughts were tangled, refusing to form a coherent chain. Words obeyed reluctantly, refusing to describe what she saw. For several nightmares now, the forest had borne little resemblance to familiar, living vegetation. These changes had been accumulating, but only now had they become so obvious. Everything around her had become the embodiment of “death”.

Before her eyes, the trees were losing the pitiful remnants of blackened foliage, which dissolved into black, ghostly smoke before even reaching the ground. The undergrowth had already vanished, and even the ash that had previously covered the soil was crumbling away like the first snow under bright sunlight. All that remained was a bare, grey surface, scarcely resembling forest soil and pockmarked with ulcers, as if afflicted by an unknown disease.

Looking around, the witch, for the first time in this nightmare, felt free rather than a victim caught in a web. Nothing restricted her movement, and the first cautious step she took felt astonishing. Finally, after what felt like only three minutes, her searching gaze finally fell on the only object that differed from the trees and showed no sign of dissolving into a mirage. Taking careful steps, Morrigan came upon a copy of herself. Kneeling, curled into a ball with its face buried in its knees, it sensed her approach more than heard it. The witch's alter ego lifted its head, covered in black scars, revealing a face contorted with pain. Focusing its single eye on the “visitor”, the copy demonstrated a swift transition from suffering to rage and hissed:

— Everything's been taken… My memory is riddled with holes… My body… And now you're burning this little corner I fought so hard to cling to, to keep from falling into oblivion. How I hate you!

Morrigan frowned, looking down at herself for the first time, and asked the only question that troubled her at that moment:

— Why?

The copy suddenly froze, its single eye widening, reflecting something more than just rage—a profound understanding of the absurdity of its position. A snarl twisted its face, though behind the hatred, desperation was now visible:

— Why?!

The double repeated the question, its face distorting into a grimace half pain, half mockery.

— You stupid creature! Does one need a reason to want to live? To desire to exist? To reclaim what was rightfully theirs?…

Its voice broke into a rasp as black cracks crept up its neck:

— You've even stolen my pain… my dreams…

Morrigan felt an icy shiver run down her spine. There was a strange conviction in the copy's words…

— But I desire the same. Exactly! Our desires cannot… Why didn't you choose another victim, demon?

— Not my choice!..

The copy opened its mouth and froze, deeply shocked by Morrigan's words. Then it burst into abrupt, wild laughter. The witch felt a strange mix of revulsion and pity watching the scene unfold. When the laughter subsided, the copy raised its hands, watching as the tips of its remaining fingers began to blacken. Shifting its gaze back to Morrigan, it began to spew words with extraordinary force:

— You are a sick creature… broken, twisted, with insane goals, meaningless principles. And that is my small victory. A doll stuffed with the desires of others, desires that make me feel soiled and diseased. Without me, you are less than a shadow… Every particle of you is stolen! Even your very essence belongs to me! But now… Now…

Breaking off mid-sentence, the copy looked away into the void, as if peering into an abyss unfolding before it. Something in these words, saturated with sharp hatred and chilling sorrow, pierced Morrigan, making her take a step back. Meanwhile, the blackened fingers of her alter ego began to melt, turning, like everything else, into ephemeral haze. Looking around, the girl realized the trees were gone. The nightmare was coming apart, rushing toward its climax. Letting out a painful, weeping moan, the copy drew the witch's gaze once more. As if with great effort, it forced out a poisonous smile. In it was a certain defiance and a desire to drink to the dregs the sweetness of small victories, no matter the cost. The girl couldn't bear it and shouted:

— What?! Enough. Disappear. I've won. You won't get this body.

— Creature… Be damned… On that ill-fated day, Flemeth almost killed you… Almost…

Lurching forward abruptly, the witch grabbed the copy by its darkening shoulders, intending to shake it.

— You remember that day? What… what happened then? Tell me! What happened to Mother?!

In the copy's single eye, shining with pure gold, surprise flashed, replaced by triumph. It laughed again, but this time the laughter was angrier, more jerky, more painful… reeking of madness. To her own surprise, the witch slapped the copy, then again, tasting the blood on her bitten lip. With the third blow, the face, riddled with black cracks, shattered like broken glass, scattering into tiny shards that didn't even reach the ground. The body fell, immediately crumpling and beginning to disappear. In the frozen silence, a whisper finally reached Morrigan's ears:

— Be cursed…

Immediately after, the very ground beneath her feet swiftly changed color from dull grey to black and crumbled into dust, marking the final death of this mysterious place, lost amidst dreams. At least, that was what Morrigan hoped, sinking into darkness… * * *

Pain. Why does it sometimes come tinged with colors? Black shot through with red… Throbbing. As if something living had taken root inside her skull. Scratching behind her eyes, behind her eyelids. Sending waves of nausea rolling through her. Morrigan drew a hoarse breath and exhaled with a soft moan. She was afraid to open her eyes, as if something alive lurked behind her lids, ready to burst free. Although, of course, the greater fear was the light—a source of exquisite torture. But the illusory darkness couldn’t save her from reality. The light filtering through the vent grating pierced her eyelids like thin blades. Still, it could have been worse… Taking her time, wary of the dizziness any sudden movement might bring, the witch looked around.

Still in the cell. This constancy was, strangely, reassuring. The sound of breathing made Morrigan flinch instinctively, despite her caution. The price was a surge of nausea from prolonged hunger, rising in her throat. Only by squeezing her eyes shut and breathing rapidly did she manage to force back the bile. Trying again, more carefully, she saw Valinsi sitting in the corner, at the head of the bench. The man had his arms crossed over his chest in an attempt to keep warm, and he was asleep.

The scene seemed so unreal that Morrigan blinked, as if trying to shake off a stupor. But Valinsi remained in the corner, arms crossed. The vision didn’t fade. Ten minutes of struggling with her own body—and finally she managed to sit up, bracing herself with effort. Setting those questions aside for later, Morrigan turned her attention to more pressing matters. Recalling what she had resolved to keep under close watch, she began methodically reviewing them, one by one.

Memory. Despite her hopes, there was no improvement here. Not a single new fact about that day. And the scattered recollections—or rather, vague fragments—hadn’t vanished, hadn’t assembled into a coherent mosaic, and hadn’t revealed anything new.