I’ll bwing you… [Warhammer 40K]

[Boroda Orka]

The Harrowing.

I have been waiting for him—waiting with equal parts apprehension and impatience. The heavy, confident footsteps of the Templar come to a halt behind me, telling me that the hour has finally arrived.

"It is time."

Ser Aivis looms over me. As always, the tall, broad-shouldered man is encased in plate armour. His helmet is tucked beneath one arm, leaving his face uncovered and almost expressionless; only the faintest lift at the corners of his mouth betrays the fact that the Templar is in a good mood.

"I am ready."

I rise and set aside the book I had been reading.

"Follow me."

The warrior nods and turns away. For the briefest instant, I catch his gaze.

Sympathy. Affection. A trace of respect.

Very few mages in the Tower receive such treatment from the Templars, and every one of them underwent the Harrowing long ago.

I am the sole exception.

That is why I knew the day of my Harrowing in advance. That is why only a single Templar came to fetch me.

I cannot say I take any particular pride in it. There is nothing remarkable about being more disciplined than the child apprentices—or even some of the full-fledged mages who have already passed their Harrowing. It is no achievement. I endured my own growing pains long ago: first in the prison-citadel of the Adeptus Arbites on a hive world whose name I can no longer recall; then during the voyage aboard a Black Ship to Holy Terra; and finally in the Scholastica Psykana.

After all that, I simply cannot bring myself to sympathise fully with the locally accursed.

Whenever I hear the inhabitants of the Tower complain about the "persecution of mages," I barely manage to suppress a contemptuous smirk. The spineless sons of bitches simply do not understand how fortunate they were to be born into this world.

Their living conditions are little short of paradise. They merely have nothing with which to compare them.

I do.

I lived through an endless war against everyone and everything, with no end in sight. Damned heretics crawling through every crack and keyhole. Bastard xenos. Revolting food. The constant chill of death breathing down one's neck—and death itself did not seem so terrible beside some of the other "prospects."

And here?

Clear skies. Fresh air. Fresh food. Years of comfortable living during which no one tried to kill me, enslave me, or worm their way into my mind, whispering and coaxing me to open the door just a little wider.

What more could a three-hundred-year-old psyker acolyte—who died because of his own cowardice after his Lord Inquisitor fell into the embrace of the Ruinous Powers—possibly dream of?

The bastard had plunged so deeply into heresy that he was declared Extremis Diabolus and put down by the radical Inquisitors of his own faction. Naturally, once the Lord himself had fallen, his entire retinue had to be investigated as well.

I was unlucky.

Spectacularly unlucky.

First, by the time the Lord was executed, I had already spent four years pursuing a heretical sect across a hive world. The case did not quite fall within my Ordo's usual remit, and unfortunately, the hunt had produced no final result.

Second, they sent a bastard after me whom I hated with all my soul—and he returned the sentiment in full.

After a brief "investigation," I was declared a member of the very sect I had spent years hunting. Then, without ceremony, they shot me in the head.

How ironic.

But I cannot claim I was entirely blameless in my own demise.

The fall of an Inquisitor is nothing unusual. The fall of a psyker Inquisitor is common enough. And the fall of a radical psyker Inquisitor—which was precisely what my Lord had been—is all but inevitable.

Everyone who needs to know this knows it, and prepares accordingly. Sooner or later, a fallen Inquisitor is hunted down by his own brethren or eliminated by an assassin of the Officio Assassinorum.

So yes, I was guilty.

Guilty of caring too much for my Lord.

That son of a bitch had once saved me. He pulled me out of a hellish mess, gave me purpose, power, and a place at his side. He freed me from most of the heavy chains that bind sanctioned psykers.

And I…

I could not step over my loyalty to the bastard and report him.

I lied to myself, hoping that the seasoned old monster would do what he had always done—walk the razor's edge without slipping into the abyss.

Yes, it was deliberate self-deception. By the time I left on my final mission, my Lord had already fallen into the foul embrace of Chaos.

Perhaps that was why I fought so hard for the assignment. Perhaps that was why I spent years pursuing the sect, hiding behind the excuse that not all of its members had yet exposed themselves, and refusing assistance from the Ordo better suited to the task.

I was a coward who did not wish to betray a traitor.

I did not want to be the cause of his sentence.

I did not want to return and face the truth.

So, in essence, I was guilty, and the sentence carried out by an acolyte of the Ordo Malleus was entirely deserved. I was less than pleased with the identity of my executioner, but honestly, that was a trivial detail.

I cannot help myself. I grin broadly, drawing frightened glances from the other apprentices in the chamber.

They are afraid.

Not so much for me—we were never particularly close—but for themselves.

In me, following the Templar, they see their own future.

A future they fear.

I fear the ritual ahead as well.

The Immaterium is unpredictable and terrifying. The dangers that lurk within it for a psyker are beyond counting. Even now, I cannot be certain that my entire existence up to this very day has not been some elaborate snare laid by the Ruinous Powers.

Delusions. Hallucinations. Entire worlds woven like fever dreams.

Such things are commonplace wherever the Archenemy is concerned.

I have seen worse.

I have read of worse.

First during my service in the Astra Militarum, and later beneath the authority of the Inquisition.

Those who dwell within the Warp are dangerous, deceitful, ever-changing, and unpredictable. That is precisely why no theory—however wild or illogical—can ever be dismissed outright.

To be born a psyker is to forget the meaning of peace forever. The shields of will and faith must remain raised at all times…

Perhaps even beyond death.

The mercy the Immaterium has shown this world—Thedas—is deeply suspicious.

At first, I believed everything around me to be nothing more than the fevered delusion of a dying soul trapped by one of the Archenemy's repulsive servants.

What else was I supposed to think?

The last thing I saw was the yawning barrel of a heavy-calibre stub revolver. Then came a brilliant flash—the final punctuation mark of my life—as the contents of my skull painted the wall behind me.

And yet, after such an inevitable and undeniable death…

This madness began.

Vague images. The constant flickering of consciousness—on and off. Cycles of hunger and satiety. Distorted, muddled visions.

To the limited extent that I could think at all, I assumed my soul had simply been devoured and was in the process of being digested.

Then, one day, I finally became aware of myself.

After several days of observation and a diligent search for signs of delusion, I concluded that I had been reborn.

Born anew upon some feudal world.

As I grew older, it became clear that the Imperial Creed had yet to reach this place. I could not even begin to guess when humanity had colonised the planet. The language spoken here bore no connection whatsoever to High Gothic—the tongue of mankind from even before the Age of Strife.

None.

No matter which of the countless Imperial worlds I had visited in my former life, their languages had always carried at least some trace of Gothic.

It was strange.

Unbelievable.

Ultimately, however, it was not particularly important.

Thousands upon thousands of worlds still await compliance. It was entirely plausible that the colonists who settled this planet had left Holy Terra long before High Gothic became the common tongue of mankind.

What unsettled me far more was the Immaterium itself.

To be honest, during the first years of my new life, I genuinely hoped that I had been born free of the psyker's curse.

My mind was blissfully silent.

No whispers. No pleading voices urging me to "open the door." No temptations of power, knowledge, or dominion.

No threats.

I did not even attempt to draw upon the Warp. The terror that doing so might crack open that door was so overwhelming that I crushed every such thought the instant it arose.

Yes, I was afraid.

Afraid—and unwilling to relive my former life.

I had no need for the power granted by the Immaterium.

None at all.

I had already had my fill of it.

To live as an ordinary man—even in a world without technology—while being the heir of a Fereldan aristocrat in the land of my birth…

Oh…

It was so close to an unattainable dream.

To eat my fill—and eat well. To drink wine. To tumble servants in the hayloft. Then, when the time came, to inherit titles and lands. To marry and have children. To poke leisurely through the local aristocratic cesspit.

Oh yes, it sounded wonderfully tempting.

As though the Emperor Himself had rewarded me for my service.

But I doubt He would have chosen to reward a weak-willed traitor.

In my former life, such a future could exist only in secret, wistful dreams—preferably indulged in silence, where no one could see or hear.

The only worthy prospect had been to lay down my life in the name of the Imperium of Man before the Warp and its denizens breached the defences of my mind and reduced me to their spineless puppet.

It was not that I objected to dying for the Imperium. Death was inevitable in any case.

But deep within me, there had always been a seditious regret that tasted of ashes and hopelessness.

And envy.

A deep, black envy of ordinary people whose psychic sensitivity was close to nothing.

Thus the absence of those accursed whispers filled me with sheer, almost maddening joy.

I lived in profound gratitude and contentment, savouring the pleasures of a simple life as fully as I could. Bliss and indulgence—those are the words that best describe my first four years of conscious existence.

I suckled eagerly at my wet nurse's breast and soiled myself freely until I learned to use a chamber pot. I devoured the local language, delighted my parents with my early speech and placid disposition, and once I learned to walk, spent entire days wandering through our castle's inner courtyard.

I would lie upon the lush, fragrant grass and watch snow-white clouds drift lazily across a blue sky.

Idleness.

It felt as though I had not known the word for an eternity.

There were no Arbites behind my back. No commissars. No Inquisitors.

Only the tutors hired by my parents, who taught me the local script and arithmetic; the servants who periodically brought me food; and, of course, my mother and father, who did their best to coax some life into their unnervingly calm five-year-old heir.

The only thing that irritated me in those days was the existence of bastard xenos upon this world.

Even that, however, raised certain questions.

The local elves, specifically.

At first, I took them for some feral subspecies of Eldar, perhaps akin to the Exodites I had read about. Yet closer observation and careful inquiry revealed that they were closely related to humanity.

Very closely.

Closely enough that certain xenophiles even produced children with them.

Since then, I have never quite known what to make of the creatures.

On the one hand, judging by the conduct of certain specimens, they are vile xenos destined to burn in the righteous flames of promethium, all while sneeringly calling humans "shemlen."

On the other hand, their biology is so similar to ours that they can produce viable offspring with humans.

Felinids, ratlings, and ogryns—despite their unsettling or grotesque appearances—are accepted and even valued within the ranks of the Militarum Auxilia. Yet I have never heard of any of them producing children with baseline humans.

And the elves were only the beginning.

This world also possessed dwarves who, by every description, resembled Squats, as well as the Qunari—or Kossith. No one could explain the difference between those terms to my satisfaction.

All I knew was that they had horns and despised the Tevinter Imperium, which, as I later learned, was ruled by mages.

Unfortunately, my carefree days ended along with the life of one foolish mare.

No, not a local woman. An actual horse—one of the ancient beasts described in historical manuscripts, native to Holy Terra in ages past and later introduced to most feudal worlds upon which fate had deposited me.

I do not know exactly what happened, but afterward my father, in a fit of rage, beheaded the stablehand responsible for losing control of the animal.

At the time, I acted purely on instincts buried deep within my subconscious. There was no time to think.

The mare charged straight at me, black eyes rolling with madness.

Before I even understood what I was doing, I reached into the Warp with all my strength, shaped its power through fulmination, and hurled a violent electrical discharge into the beast.

Fucking Warp.

That was the first coherent thought to enter my mind several seconds later, as I stared with glazed eyes at the mare's smoking, blackened corpse.

Since then, the same thought has returned to me with depressing regularity.

The truth was that this world—like every other—did not look kindly upon psykers.

Hardly surprising. It is difficult to feel at ease around someone who can kill you with a snap of his fingers. Worse still, should such a person lose control of his mind and soul, he may become possessed, slaughter everyone nearby—at best—and then tear open a rift into the Warp.

Or the Fade, as the Immaterium is called here.

As it turned out, I was a psyker after all.

A mage, in the language of Thedas.

And the fate of a Fereldan mage was life in the Tower: an institution much like the Scholastica Psykana, where the gifted and accursed were instructed in both spellcraft and the disciplines of the mind.

Overseeing everything was the Templar Order—something like a local counterpart to the Inquisition, its members possessing abilities faintly reminiscent of those wielded by nulls.

Oh, how I despise nulls.

Lucky bastards who never have to hear the Warp's vile, maddening whispers.

At the Scholastica Psykana, we used to joke that the universal hatred of nulls—a hatred even stronger than that directed at psykers—was the universe's way of balancing the scales.

The soulless pricks never appreciated the joke.

Thus, after that fateful encounter with the mare, every dream of a serene, gilded life befitting an aristocrat was cast aside.

My parents, though never especially fervent followers of the Chantry of Andraste, understood perfectly well what danger an untrained mage might pose. Too many people had witnessed my "little display" for them to risk secretly seeking out an apostate—a mage who lived beyond the authority of the Circle and the Chantry—to instruct me.

And so, scarcely a week later, my tearful mother and grim-faced father entrusted me to a small band of Templars, who carried the former heir to a bannorn away to the Circle Tower of Ferelden.

To my considerable relief, the armoured warriors radiated no oppressive aura that deadened my senses. Their presence caused me no discomfort, nor did it send me into convulsions, foaming at the mouth, as encounters with "anti-psykers" had sometimes done in my former life.

In truth, most of them proved agreeable enough. They treated me with a degree of respect. They neither struck nor mocked me. They spoke with me, and at times even attempted to offer comfort or encouragement.

One Templar did insist upon calling me a beast and a spawn as though those words were my second name, but…

Pfft.

I had heard far worse in my former life.

The journey to the Tower was hardly pleasant, but it was tolerable—thanks in no small part to the heavy purse my father pressed into the Templars' hands with instructions to see to my comfort along the road.

We lodged in roadside inns and ate plentiful, decent food. The worst of the journey was simply the travel from one night's rest to the next.

In other words, it bore no resemblance whatsoever to the "pleasure" of travelling aboard a Black Ship.

The Circle Tower also proved a pleasant surprise.

The mages welcomed the five-year-old newcomer warmly and pitied the child torn from his parents. The Templars who guarded the "cursed" were far from tyrants. They maintained order and discipline, but there was neither lawless cruelty nor open abuse.

Some openly disliked mages, of course, yet their "hatred" most often amounted to insults, rough manners, and the occasional shove or kick.

It would take more than that to disturb me.

I therefore adjusted easily to my altered prospects. Comparisons between the Tower and the Scholastica Psykana did wonders for my mood, and I simply continued to live and study the ways of this new world.

The more I learned, the more cautiously hopeful I became.

The Fade—the source from which the mages of this world drew their power—appeared far, far, far less dangerous than the Immaterium I had known.

Mages were taught mental discipline, but their methods were nothing beside the nightmares I had endured during my training in the Imperium. The power I was "taught" to draw from the Fade was astonishingly pure, almost entirely untouched by the corruption of the Ruinous Powers.

No matter how much I practised, there was no pressure from the other side.

No one hammered upon the door.

No one whispered through the cracks, scraped at the threshold, or clawed at the walls—begging, bargaining, demanding to be let inside.

No one promised power or the fulfilment of my every desire.

Every discipline I had mastered while serving in a Lord Inquisitor's retinue still worked here—and proved far easier to wield.

I simply had no intention of revealing them too soon.

Before witnesses, I displayed only the progress expected of me in the local forms of psyker craft.

Compared with everything I had endured in my former life, I regarded the ceaseless complaints of my fellow "inmates" with cheerful astonishment.

Life as a mage of the Tower was, in truth, a veritable sinecure.

The food could not compare with the fare served in my parents' castle, but it was immeasurably better than the tasteless, corpse-like ration bars issued during my service in the Astra Militarum.

There was ample time for sleep, provided one had the sense to retire early.

As for the Templars, I found common ground with them within months of my "imprisonment." Cause no trouble. Do not glare at them like a cornered beast. Remain polite. Speak with respect.

Simple.

Even those who made a show of spitting at the sight of me and forcing every word through clenched teeth soon ceased to pay much attention to a calm, undemanding child.

Nor was life in the Circle true imprisonment.

Mages left the Tower on assignments. Some rarely, others often.

Wynne, for example—the healer who instructed another boy and me in restorative magic—was forever travelling across Ferelden to offer her services to the nobility.

With my knowledge of biomancy, becoming a healer would present no difficulty. For the sake of appearances, I would study the local methods, earn the proper standing, and then be on my way.

From the gossip of particularly talkative mages, I also knew that certain escorting Templars did not object when their charges accepted a little private work—especially if the mage later "treated" a valiant knight of the Chantry to an evening at a reputable brothel.

And with a healer nearby, there was no need to fear unpleasant consequences.

The only thing that truly grated upon me in this new life was Andrastianism.

Before joining the Inquisition, I had sincerely believed in the Emperor of Mankind. Afterward, when certain truths were revealed to me, I ceased to worship Him as a god, yet my respect and admiration remained undiminished.

A man should believe in only one god:

Humanity itself.

Every false god is an enemy and an abomination—whether one of the Ruinous Four or some vile xenos-spawned obscenity such as the Tau'va or the degenerate idols of the Eldar.

Being born into this world did nothing to alter my convictions. The more I learned of Andrastianism, the more deeply my hatred of the Immaterium's spawn took root.

The Maker supposedly unleashed the Blight—a calamity that has threatened mankind for centuries—as punishment for a handful of mages trespassing within His city in the Fade.

If that tale is true, then He is no Creator.

He is a thrice-damned bastard.

As for the Chant of Light, the collection of hymns that forms the Chantry's sacred scripture, it strikes me as nothing more than mockery and heresy.

The only Light I acknowledge is the Light borne by Humanity itself.

The Light of the Imperial Truth.

Had I not served as an acolyte beneath a Lord Inquisitor, I would probably have been killed here already—or, at the very least, someone would have tried.

More than once in my former life, a mission had required me to pretend, to lie, and to let heretical words pass my own lips.

So it was here.

Within the privacy of my mind, I grimaced, made obscene gestures, and cursed the Maker and His dead bride. Outwardly, my lips offered dutiful praise to both abominations.

A day will come when I understand this world more fully and when my body has reached its proper strength.

Biomancy will see to that.

Then I shall make my choice: whether to remain in the Tower, idly stroking my belly, or to reveal to the natives the one true and righteous path.

But that lies in the future.

For now, the Harrowing awaits.

Today I must face my first demon and, I hope, finally understand where I truly stand.

I must determine whether everything around me is a cunning snare of the Ruinous Powers…

Or whether I have, in truth, been extraordinarily fortunate.

 

[Echo]

I usually prefer elves/mage rebellion themes in Dragon Age. But you came up with a great idea with a psyker in this world, so all his views are very understandable and honest. Watch.

 

[Kylia Quilor]

Within the privacy of my mind, I grimaced, made obscene gestures, and cursed the Maker and His dead bride. Outwardly, my lips offered dutiful praise to both abominations.

Click to shrink...

The funny thing is that it probably wouldn't be hard for the Missionaria Galaxia to end up reworking the basic foundations of Andrastianism (once they have some force backing them up) into something acceptable to the Ecclesiarchy.

Andraste becomes a Living Saint, the Maker is not the Maker, of course, just the minds of people trying to grasp the God-Emperor... most of the basic tenants of Andrastianism can be easily handled as a local variant on the Imperial Cult, given that

EDIT: You have my interest, to be clear

 

[Boroda Orka]

"Listen, Greg, what about that healer of yours?"

Once the obligatory greetings and courtesies were out of the way, Robert—one of the three Templars visiting the Tower, an old acquaintance of Greagoir's and perhaps even a friend—finally broached the true purpose of their visit.

Lately, this had been happening with increasing frequency.

"We lost our way."

"Night caught us nearby."

"We encountered a suspicious character and decided to stop at the Tower to make certain none of the mages had escaped."

Knight-Commander Greagoir, commander of the Templars charged with watching over the Ferelden Circle, had heard countless excuses for why his brothers needed to spend the night in the Circle Tower. Sooner or later, however, they always asked the same question.

And they always placed particular emphasis on the word healer.

Just as Robert had now.

Each group was small—three to five men at most. Yet there were always one or two among them old enough to be called elderly.

This group was no exception.

One of the visitors was a massive man with half-grey hair and a gruesome scar running across one side of his face. He might have appeared stern, had it not been for the vacant, wandering look in his eyes. His pupils dilated and contracted without reason, sweat stood out clearly upon his brow, and the muscles of his face occasionally twitched with a nervous tic.

The warrior was plainly unwell.

Of late, Greagoir had seen that condition more often than he cared to admit.

"Yes, Rob. He returned to the Circle a week ago," the Knight-Commander replied calmly. "Ser Bars will show you to your quarters. The healer will come after midnight."

"Thank you, my friend."

Robert exhaled in relief and gave a grateful nod to the completely grey-haired Knight-Lieutenant Bars.

A Templar of such advanced years was rare enough.

A Templar of such advanced years whose eyes remained clear was almost unheard of.

Once the "guests" had left the Knight-Commander's office, Greagoir released a quiet sigh and tapped a measured rhythm against the surface of his desk.

All this secrecy was beginning to wear on him.

Sooner or later, the truth would come to light. Greagoir merely wished to postpone that day for as long as possible.

Strangely, he wished it not only for his own sake, nor even for the sake of his brothers.

He was far from certain that a mage who had done so much for the Templars of Ferelden would receive the same treatment in Val Royeaux that he received here.

And that the mage would be taken away was all but certain.

Greagoir cast a glance through the window. Dusk was already beginning to overtake the day.

He rose from his desk and headed towards the training grounds in the inner courtyard. The man he sought ought to be there by now.

As usual, the walk through the Tower's corridors brought him past several of its inhabitants: mages and his brothers of the Templar Order.

There were few others within Kinloch Hold, save perhaps the Tranquil—though Greagoir still counted them among the mages.

The Templars he passed greeted him with the respect customary within the Order.

The mages…

Greagoir sighed as he caught yet another hate-filled glance from one of the younger apprentices—a boy who had not yet undergone his Harrowing.

He did not blame the child.

Youth. Foolishness. And the knowledge that, should his Harrowing go awry, a knight of the Order would cut him down without hesitation.

Experience had shown that mages usually calmed, at least somewhat, after passing that turning point in their lives. It was a pity that in most cases hatred merely dulled into resentment, but little could be done about that.

Few mages ever came to understand why the gifted had to be watched.

Watched.

That was the proper word.

Greagoir had long since ceased to regard mages as monsters or abominations responsible for every evil in the world—at least those who lived within Kinloch Hold.

Yes, long ago the mages of Tevinter had brought about the Blight.

Yes, they had committed a terrible sacrilege.

But were the children raised in the Tower to blame for that?

Of course not.

They bore no guilt. Not the apprentices. Not First Enchanter Irving. Not Senior Enchanter Wynne. Not anyone now living within the Circle.

But mages were dangerously powerful.

On that point, Greagoir agreed completely—as he did with the teaching that magic existed to serve man, never to rule over him.

The Knight-Commander sighed inwardly.

The Tevinters had already demonstrated what could come of placing power in the hands of mages steeped in pride and excess.

During their frequent—and often surprisingly candid—conversations, First Enchanter Irving had argued that the absence of strict control over mages did not necessarily end in catastrophe. Free mages managed to survive in lands beyond the Chantry's reach, did they not?

But "not necessarily," in Greagoir's opinion, was a long way from "never."

Even if the Templars could not watch every mage in Thedas, they would at least watch those within the lands entrusted to them.

Even setting religion aside—and some mages regarded the Chantry's teachings with suspicion, not entirely without reason—the danger remained.

It was difficult to accept being named one of the world's greatest evils merely because one had been born with magical talent.

Yet belief in the Maker changed nothing about the consequences.

A mage could still falter.

A mage could still become possessed.

And once that happened, everyone nearby would begin to pray—and to believe.

Fervently.

With all their hearts.

"Knight-Commander."

The Templar approaching from the direction of the training grounds greeted him respectfully.

Cullen, Greagoir recalled.

The young man was newly assigned and had arrived at the Ferelden Circle only the previous day, so the Knight-Commander was not entirely certain he had remembered the name correctly.

The young Templar looked thoughtful and more than a little shaken, his eyes still wide with surprise.

Understandable, considering whom he had apparently encountered upon the training grounds.

Greagoir had long since grown accustomed to the strange mage—the young, deeply unconventional sorcerer who had grown to manhood before his eyes.

Newly arrived Templars, however, were invariably taken aback upon meeting him.

Greagoir would not have been surprised to learn that some of the veterans had deliberately suggested that Cullen visit the training grounds at precisely this hour, chuckling knowingly as they sent him on his way.

The mage Greagoir sought was indeed on the Templars' training grounds.

The mages' practice yard lay farther away and out of direct sight—a sensible precaution. Neither the First Enchanter nor the Knight-Commander wished to discover what might happen if an "accidental" fireball landed among a group of training Templars.

Nor, for that matter, what might follow if a "stray" wave of cleansing power washed across a group of practising mages.

The youth…

No.

Greagoir could no longer think of him as a boy.

He had become a grown man, and an imposing one at that.

At the moment, he was wholly absorbed in a series of physical exercises performed upon equipment intended for warriors.

He wore nothing but trousers, leaving his bare torso and heavily corded musculature exposed.

Another tattoo, Greagoir noted with an inward sigh as the mage performed dips upon the parallel bars.

A two-headed eagle with outstretched wings covered the breadth of his broad back. One head possessed a keen eye and gazed towards the left; the other was blind and turned towards the right.

The Knight-Commander's gaze shifted to the staff resting against the nearby railing.

Forged entirely from veridium, it had been Greagoir's gift to the mage. The head of the staff bore the same two-headed eagle tattooed across the sorcerer's back.

In truth, however, the weapon resembled a long mace far more than any proper mage's staff.

Greagoir had seen the way Craig wielded it on the training grounds.

Had the unusual young sorcerer been born without magical talent, he would have made a formidable warrior with a heavy two-handed hammer or axe in his hands.

When Greagoir had voiced concern that the staff might prove too heavy, Craig had answered with a crooked grin.

"Heavy is good. Heavy means reliable. Even if the spell fails, you can still crack someone over the head with it."

After seeing the finished work of a skilled smith, Greagoir had decided that it would be in any opponent's best interests for Craig's spells never to fail.

A blow to the skull from that "staff" would mean certain death.

"Craig," the Knight-Commander called.

"Ten seconds," the mage replied calmly between breaths as he moved to the horizontal bar and began another set.

Greagoir gave an approving grunt and leaned against the edge of a vaulting horse.

By then, Craig was already finishing his exercise. He dropped lightly to the ground, snatched up a strip of cloth hanging nearby, and began wiping away the sweat, starting with his shaven scalp.

"Knight-Commander Greagoir. Good evening."

He greeted the Templar with a nod.

For some reason, the sorcerer always addressed him by both title and name.

Almost always.

Greagoir corrected himself as he remembered the elves, to whom Craig rarely extended the same courtesy. With them, it was either their Circle rank or their name, never both—a habit that greatly irritated some of the sharp-eared folk.

"There is another 'petitioner' from the Order in the Tower," Greagoir said. "Could you examine him?"

"No problem."

Craig shrugged and hung the damp cloth over the bar.

"Tonight, as usual?"

"Yes. I will send someone to fetch you."

"Very well."

An ironic grin spread across Craig's face, looking more like a jagged ravine splitting stone than a proper smile.

"Just do not send the new recruit. I think he has decided I am possessed and the rest of you are too blind to notice."

"One can understand why," Greagoir replied with a thoughtful grunt, deliberately looking the mage up and down.

The man standing before him appeared to have been carved from iron and ill intentions.

He stood nearly seven feet tall, with immense shoulders and a body bound in cords of hardened muscle. Tattoos covered his shoulders, chest, and now his back as well. Even his closely shaven scalp bore an intricate symbol worked into the skin with ink and pain.

Only his clean-shaven face remained unmarked.

It was not a pleasant face.

His expression was grim, almost openly hostile, and his jaw seemed permanently clenched, as though every word had to be forced out through stone.

He spoke in much the same way, each phrase squeezed through his teeth.

And his eyes…

Greagoir had seen such eyes before, though neither often nor lightly.

They belonged to men who had walked through fire that never ended, endured losses beyond counting, and witnessed deaths that never truly ceased.

Yet Craig was not even thirty.

Even so, one look at him left no doubt that he had seen the worst the world could offer and somehow remained standing.

Perhaps in spite of it.

Perhaps because of it.

Another mystery in a Tower already overflowing with them.

Put armour on a man like that and send him onto the king's road, and he would not even need to draw a weapon. Travellers would surrender every coin and possession they owned merely to avoid provoking him.

"Was this not settled long ago?" Craig asked with a weary sigh.

In truth, he had been examined more often and more thoroughly than anyone else in Kinloch Hold.

Both the Templars and the mages had watched him closely. The tattoos continued to spread. His disposition grew darker with every passing year.

Yet one thing never changed.

The strange mage was not possessed.

Eventually, the people of Kinloch Hold had simply grown accustomed to him.

"You have cultivated a rather… unusual appearance," Greagoir remarked, spreading his hands slightly as though attempting to encompass the sheer size of him.

"It is practical," Craig grunted. "As far as I can tell, mages neglect physical training far too much. If an enemy closes to sword range—"

"What enemy, Craig?" The Knight-Commander raised an eyebrow. "A Templar?"

"Any enemy."

Another dark look passed across Craig's face.

"An abomination. A bandit. A monster. A Templar. Some damned Dalish screaming about freedom from the shemlen. Some bastard Qunari who decides a mage without his mouth sewn shut is an evil that needs killing. Anyone who wants me in the ground is my enemy."

"Hm. At least some things remain constant," Greagoir muttered. "Very well. I shall send for you—and not a novice. Good evening, Craig. And thank you."

"Have a good evening, Knight-Commander Greagoir. You are welcome… so far."

---

Tonight is a good night.

Admittedly, I would have preferred several more hours of sleep, but when the Knight-Commander asks for another favour…

I enter the "guest" cell where they are already waiting for me.

Three Templars.

Two relatively young men—possible future patients—and one older warrior, tonight's patient.

This world's pariahs pay for their artificially awakened abilities with addiction, failing health, and near-certain madness of varying severity.

I do not know whether I could willingly accept such a fate.

To sacrifice oneself not in battle, not in a noble death for the Emperor and Humanity, but merely to become a madman who, with sufficient ill fortune, might be unable to remove his own trousers by the end of his life…

Yet this warrior still endures.

I can see how much effort it costs him: the constant struggle to remain in control, as though he is dragging the fraying remnants of his sanity back from every corner of his mind with his bare hands.

Knight-Lieutenant Bars had carried himself in much the same way.

An excellent soldier. A man I sincerely respect.

Though Andrastian to the marrow of his bones, when he says that "magic is both the Maker's gift and His curse," he understands both halves of the sentence rather than only the latter.

He treats mages fairly and without fear.

Not warmly, and certainly not with open friendship—such familiarity is discouraged within the Order almost to the point of prohibition—but still far better than many men in armour manage.

Several years ago, when his mind first began to slip, I chose him as the subject upon whom to demonstrate my "progress along the healer's path."

In truth, of course, it was biomancy disguised beneath the outward trappings of healing magic.

The Templars did not care.

Least of all Ser Bars, who gave me the first "gift" I ever received from one of their Order: a magnificent pair of boots made from deepstalker hide.

The finest and most comfortable boots I have ever owned.

Five years later, they still look almost new.

"I am going to paralyse him," I tell the Templars quietly, glancing towards the bucket beside the patient.

The specialised equipment is already in place.

"If he starts thrashing, this will end badly."

The knight looks towards my escort, then gives a curt nod. No doubt they have already been warned what the procedure involves.

I whisper the paralysis spell with barely moving lips, make a brief gesture, and the warrior—already seated and motionless—freezes completely.

In truth, neither the words nor the gesture are necessary, but I do try not to stand out too much.

Admittedly, that sounds rather absurd coming from a man with my distinctly unorthodox appearance.

I sit opposite the knight, press my palms against his temples, and begin the performance intertwined with the treatment itself.

The sight within his body is familiar.

Internal organs damaged by constant lyrium use. Hormonal chaos flooding his system. Swelling in certain regions of the brain—not enough to kill him, but more than sufficient to erode both sanity and quality of life.

Delicate work.

Precise work.

Familiar work.

Very well.

Let us begin.

First, however, I replace the fading paralysis spell with its biomantic equivalent.

This should take twenty minutes or so.

---

For twenty minutes, the strange mage sat utterly motionless with his eyes closed.

At first, Robert feared for his mentor. As the minutes passed, however, he gradually began to relax.

One of the people dearest to him looked better with every passing moment.

The older knight's gaze no longer darted frantically around the chamber. His pupils had settled to a normal size. The unnatural pallor had faded from his skin, and even his breathing had become slow and steady.

"That is it," the mage announced abruptly.

He snatched up the bucket and placed it across his patient's knees.

The older knight immediately doubled over it and began to retch violently.

"That is supposed to happen," said the Templar who had escorted the mage, his voice calm and reassuring.

"Exactly."

The bald sorcerer with the strange tattoos nodded.

"Once he finishes vomiting, make him drink water. Plenty of it—enough to make him vomit again. We need to flush all the filth out of his stomach."

"Poison?" Robert asked in alarm.

"Poison. By-products of lyrium use. It is all in his stomach now, and this is the easiest way to remove it." The mage paused, then added dryly, "Besides, better he vomit now than spend the night perched on the privy like a proud eagle, terrifying the entire Tower with explosive shits."

Robert grimaced at the image and decided not to consider which possibility sounded worse.

"Will he be all right?"

"How should I know?" The mage gave him a crooked smirk. "Perhaps a bandit will stick a blade in him tomorrow. Perhaps some mad Blood Mage will cut him open. I am a healer, not a fortune-teller."

"I meant his health after the treatment," Robert clarified patiently, breathing out through his nose.

He had already been warned about the bald giant's difficult temperament.

"Ahhh. That is what you meant."

The mage's grin widened, though it did nothing to make him look friendlier.

"Liquid food for two days. Plenty of greens. Boiled meat only—poultry would be best. No lyrium for the next three days, and he will be fine. At least until he ruins his health all over again."

"Thank you, mage," Edmond said, offering a shallow bow of gratitude. "May the Maker's grace shine upon you."

"Yes, yes. You are welcome."

A flash of irritation crossed the mage's face.

"Good night, knights."

The mage left, his escort following close behind.

The door had barely closed before the Templars heard their mentor burst into laughter.

"'Explosive shits!'" the older warrior wheezed between gasping breaths, his face reddened by prolonged laughter. "Void take me, I nearly drowned in my own vomit!"

"He is all right," Edmond remarked, covering part of his face with one hand.

"He truly is."

Robert exhaled in relief and placed two jugs of clean water before his mentor.

"Drink, Ser Derek."

"Perhaps I should have wine instead, eh?" The older man grinned. "That enormous ox never said anything about wine. Liquid diet. Wine is liquid, is it not?"

At the looks on his former pupils' faces, the elderly knight burst into booming laughter once more.

"Oh, stop glaring. I am joking. I am joking."

He seized one of the jugs, tipped back his head, and drank deeply.

Robert turned away and allowed himself the faintest triumphant smile.

His mentor truly was well if that unbearable sense of humour had already returned.

To Robert and Edmond, the rough-edged old warrior was one of the dearest people in all Thedas.

And not only to them.

Ser Derek had trained and raised dozens of Templars over the years. His lessons had saved the lives of young knights more times than anyone could count, and whenever steel had to be drawn, he had never once remained behind.

For Robert personally, the Knight-Captain had saved his life twice.

The first time, when Derek had still been only a lieutenant, he had struck the head from a maleficar who was moments away from finishing off his wounded charge.

The second time, he had carried Robert to a healer across his own shoulders after two crossbow bolts struck Robert at point-blank range and their horses collapsed beneath them.

That had happened only a year ago.

---

Author's Note:

*The mages and the inner courtyard: it is never made entirely clear whether the mages of the Ferelden Circle were permitted to leave the Tower itself. The Templars stationed at the doors prevent the player character from going outside, yet Duncan mentions mages walking in the courtyard. I suspect the restriction on access to open air existed mainly to avoid the need for additional game locations. In this story, therefore, Kinloch Hold has an inner courtyard where its inhabitants may walk freely. The training grounds for both mages and Templars are also situated there. During the mage origin, throwing fireballs and practising flame magic inside a library always looked more than a little absurd.

**Units of measurement will, by yet another "utterly unbelievable" coincidence—otherwise known as authorial fiat—continue to correspond to those most familiar to the author and the majority of readers.

---

Original Russian story

And for those whose patience has already failed its saving throw, the continuation can be read early on Patreon.

The translation will continue to be published here as well, only with a bit of a delay.

 

[Boroda Orka]

Duncan stood at the edge of the cliff, staring into the distance while a storm of emotions raged within him. Grief, disbelief, and horror twisted together in a strange union with relief and grim satisfaction.

This was a Blight.

Only minutes ago, he had still harboured doubts, sensing nothing more than a vague unease. But now, after putting down two twisted, Taint-ridden mockeries of men, the Grey Warden finally understood what his Warden senses had been whispering to him all along.

The Archdemon had awakened.

Frustration… and fear.

In the days ahead, mankind would face terrible upheaval and seas of blood.

The only faint comfort lay in the fact that each successive Blight had been shorter than the one before it, and victory no longer demanded quite so terrible a price. Little by little, humanity had learned how to stand against the Darkspawn and the Archdemons.

The First Blight had raged for nearly two centuries. The dwarves had been all but annihilated, and the enemy had ravaged almost the whole of Thedas. Every thinking race upon the continent had stood on the brink of extinction.

Only the sacrifice and heroism of the Grey Wardens had brought victory in a war that had nearly ended all life—save, of course, the Darkspawn themselves.

The Second Blight had been defeated in less than a century, though victory cost the defenders tens of thousands of lives. The Third marched across Thedas with the tread of death for fifteen years, while the Fourth claimed lives for twelve.

Duncan sincerely hoped that the Fifth Blight would pass… more easily than those before it.

But hopes were only hopes.

Turning them into reality would require hard work.

And blood.

Especially considering how badly the Grey Wardens had weakened over the four centuries of peace since the last Blight.

The powers that be…

Duncan grimaced as though struck by a toothache.

Those in power, as always, were blind and deaf to anything that did not concern their own comfort or immediate gain. The dwarves of Orzammar had warned for years that Darkspawn activity in the Deep Roads was increasing. The Grey Wardens had insisted that the Fourth Blight could not possibly be the last—that the creatures would not stop until they found another Archdemon.

But did any of that matter to kings and lords consumed by greed and the endless consolidation of power?

Duncan could not understand it.

How could they be so careless about something that might cost not merely lives—perhaps not even their own, nor those of their families—but the very future of their descendants?

Because of the long peace, fewer and fewer recruits had joined the ranks of the Grey Wardens. The Order tried not to overuse the Right of Conscription, preferring volunteers instead.

But every year, there were fewer of those as well.

Over time, the Grey Wardens' fame had faded, becoming more legend and children's tale than living truth.

And the price of becoming one of them remained immeasurably high.

Terrible.

A sacrifice made solely so that, someday, people would not find themselves facing a Blight without the Grey Wardens. So that someone within the Order might sense the awakening of an Archdemon and warn Thedas of the danger before the creatures and their master reached their full strength—before their armies swelled into numberless hordes hungry for blood and flesh.

For four centuries, Duncan's brothers and sisters had defiled their bodies and poisoned their minds in the Joining, condemning themselves to early deaths, so that now Duncan could feel the Enemy awaken.

So that he could warn the others.

Thousands of great warriors had been doomed to a slow descent into madness beneath the influence of the Taint, only to descend into the Deep Roads at the end of their lives for one final battle.

To die as men.

To take as many of the creatures with them as they could.

A vast sacrifice.

An unimaginable burden.

A burden heavier than any mountain.

And still, Duncan felt a certain grim relief at the beginning of a new Blight.

Not because he was some mad bastard rejoicing in the deaths that would soon claim thousands of innocent people.

No.

But if the Blight had begun not now, but a century from now, it was entirely possible that the Grey Wardens would have remained only at Weisshaupt Fortress, the Order's ancient stronghold.

Or worse—they might have vanished altogether, surviving only as an old tale in the memory of men, after the rulers of Thedas stripped them of the Right of Conscription in the belief that no new Blight would ever come.

And then…

No one would have warned Thedas.

The countless hordes of Darkspawn would have swept across the land unchecked, devouring the dead and dragging the living beneath the earth.

Down into the darkness.

Where a fate far worse than death awaited them.

So perhaps this was for the best.

Duncan smiled bitterly.

If the Maker showed mercy, they would survive this Blight as well, and the Grey Wardens would rise from the ashes once more.

And Duncan sincerely hoped that this time, when the next threat came, they would be ready.

But that was a matter for later.

For now, his road led to Denerim and King Cailan Theirin.

Duncan knew the young ruler well enough through his duties as Commander of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden.

In Duncan's eyes, Cailan was overly enthusiastic and far too light-hearted.

But he respected the Order.

And besides, the King dreamed of glory.

The Grey Warden released a heavy sigh, turned away from the cliff's edge, and continued on his way.

One thing was certain.

There would soon be no shortage of opportunities for glory.

Nor would there be any lack of treachery, betrayal, or knives in the back.

Humans…

And elves.

And dwarves besides.

All thinking peoples were skilled in such things.

In dark times, heroes always emerged as well—souls whose inner light drew worthy men and women to them and inspired greatness in others.

Unfortunately, villains were no less eager to leave their mark, committing atrocities that even an Archdemon itself might never have conceived.

---

"We do not even have any proper dressmakers here! I have a new gown made, and three days later news arrives that the style has already been out of fashion in the capital for two whole months!"

A girl of about fourteen complained bitterly, pursing her lips in misery.

"Mother promised we would go to Denerim next year, but Father smiled like that again… He always smiles that broadly when he is lying!"

"Stella, now why would I lie?"

Her father smiled gently beneath his moustache, occasionally casting unreadable glances in my direction.

Yes…

I had been quite the surprise for my family.

A nearly seven-foot-tall surprise accompanied by three Templars.

"It is simply that the road from our lands to Denerim is neither short nor easy. And besides, you and Eloise are not planning merely to see the capital. You intend to launch a full cavalry raid upon half the ateliers in the city. And the prices there…"

To my sister's credit, she neither threw a tantrum nor caused a scene.

She merely let out such a HEARTRENDING sigh that even something stirred within me—in the place where a soul ought to reside.

Within me.

A heartless warrior.

An acolyte of the ruthless Inquisition.

A damned psyker.

Though…

Perhaps I knew why.

Family.

Family was…

No. I could not quite find the right words for it.

I barely remembered my kin from my former life. Only vague, fleeting images remained.

But the holding cells of the Adeptus Arbites?

Those I remembered clearly even now.

The eyes of the overseers, filled with fear and disgust in equal measure, because back then I had been dangerously unstable.

An untrained psyker.

An unsanctioned psyker.

A damned witch.

And it mattered little that I was unsanctioned only for the time being. The Ruinous Powers cared nothing for age.

The journey aboard the Black Ship was impossible to forget.

I remembered especially well the convulsions whenever I entered the suppression field of another bastard pariah.

Or several of them.

Terrifying women, their mouths hidden behind masks, communicating through gestures and the occasional word crackling from their vox-casters.

Cold, indifferent stares.

The way they shoved aside, with undisguised disgust, the bodies of children and adults alike—those who had collapsed unconscious or were writhing in seizures upon the deck.

I remembered the endless transfers from one hold to another so that we could never learn where we were.

The wail of sirens that refused to let us sleep.

Strobing lights that made my vision swim and left me constantly nauseous.

The perpetual lethargy and crushing heaviness in my skull from whatever chemicals they mixed into our food.

I remembered the water.

So foul, so rank with oil and metal, that it tasted as though it had been drained from the corpse of a dead servitor.

Only at the Scholastica Psykana—the psyker-training institution within the Sol System—did I learn just HOW lucky I had been.

It had taken me ONLY five years to reach Terra.

A voyage aboard the Black Ships could last decades.

It was not unheard of for those taken aboard as children to die of old age before reaching their destination. Warp travel could go disastrously wrong.

Far more often, failed psykers simply died from the appalling conditions.

From misery so deep, hopeless, and bottomless that life in the underhive no longer seemed particularly terrible.

I remembered well the toothless old man who traded away his sedative-laced rations in exchange for newcomers' stories of the sky.

Of grass.

Of trees.

Of the suns and moons of their home worlds.

He would listen.

And he would weep.

Afterward, he would howl and claw his own face bloody with cracked fingernails.

He had been taken from a feudal world aboard a Black Ship at the age of seven.

That old man died quietly a week before we reached the Sol System.

He haunted my nightmares for a long time afterward.

I often heard his lisping voice from beyond that "little door."

Begging.

Pleading to be let in.

Begging me to show him the sky.

Damned Immaterium.

And the foul things that dwell within it.

The only thing that kept us from fading away entirely was the light of Faith in the God-Emperor.

On rare occasions, in small groups, we were led to the ship's beautiful chapel, adorned with majestic statues and gleaming with gold.

The music we heard there was like a choir of angels.

The sermons of the Ministorum priests kindled the fire of life within our hearts.

We had to live!

In the name of the God-Emperor!

In the name of the Imperium of Mankind!

Sooner or later, each of us would have to die for them!

But!

Not!

Now!

We still had to make our own contribution to Humanity's endless struggle against the countless hosts of its enemies.

We were the future astropaths whose choirs would carry voices across the galaxy.

We were the future Primaris Psykers serving with the valiant regiments of the Astra Militarum.

And if our Faith proved strong, if our wills remained unbroken, if we were judged worthy—

Then perhaps we might join the Inquisition and aid it in the righteous struggle against xenos, heretics, and the horrors of the Immaterium.

The Emperor was a father to us all.

The one who sustained us.

And, at the same time, the one who expected our aid.

Impossibly distant and mighty.

And yet close to each of us.

Loving.

Watchful.

Caring.

The one who guarded us.

The one who protected us.

My left hand seemed to move of its own accord, touching my shaved scalp where the Seal of the Seven Names had been inked into my skin.

Seven names by which the Emperor of Mankind had once been known in ancient times.

"Son? Is everything all right?"

The woman beside me looked into my eyes with concern.

"Yes, Mother."

I carefully covered her small hand with my own, with a tenderness that still felt almost unfamiliar.

"I was simply lost in thought. And I am very glad that all is well with you," I added, casting an amused glance at my sister, "even despite the horror of having no proper dressmakers."

Family…

I knew almost nothing about such things.

But perhaps, somewhere deep inside, I had always wanted one.

When I was taken to the Circle Tower, I had not yet realised that.

I had given myself over entirely to hedonism, justifying it with the thought that I was still little, that I needed to eat well and sleep as much as I pleased.

After I came to live among the mages, I spent most of my time thinking about my future among the local psykers.

Somehow…

I simply had not thought about my family.

Had not truly felt anything.

It was strange, almost amusing, that this peculiar sense of belonging had nothing to do with comrades-in-arms, brothers in faith, or even accomplices in terrible crimes against humanity committed in the name of Humanity during my service as an acolyte of the Lord Inquisitor.

No.

It belonged to a handful of ordinary people with whom, in truth, I shared little more than four years of memory and a few dozen letters.

And yet, in that moment, I felt good.

Calm.

The warmth that spread through my chest when Mother recognised her son in a nearly seven-foot-tall bald brute and rushed to embrace me had come as a genuine surprise.

I found a strange satisfaction in Father's approving remarks as he twisted his moustache and declared that I had grown into the very image of him—a true Airel, the sort of man who would have looked splendid in King Maric Theirin's army when he drove the Orlesians out.

I took genuine pleasure in admiring my little sister, who plainly promised to grow into a true beauty.

The darling of the household understood perfectly well that everyone doted on her, and so she twisted both Father and Brother around her little finger as she pleased, recognising only Mother's authority as absolute and unquestionable.

And then there was my younger brother, Geoffrey.

Not as large as I was, but hardly a small lad either.

He was quite serious about becoming the finest blade in Ferelden and dreamed of martial glory—thanks largely to Father, who was terribly fond of recalling his own heroic past.

And yet my visit to the family castle had been entirely spontaneous.

The Knight-Captain I had treated barged into my room one day and asked outright how he could repay me.

"How should I know what a mage needs?" the man had sighed heavily when I tried to sidestep the matter with something along the lines of, "Whatever you wish to give me will do."

So after thinking for a moment, I said I would like to spend a short while as a guest in my father's house.

To my surprise, barely three hours later we left the Circle to hunt an apostate mage "running around somewhere up north near the Frostback Mountains."

The First Enchanter looked displeased, admittedly, but the Templars settled the matter with him.

I suspected that, during my time as a healer, I had given Irving more than a few opportunities to extract something useful for the mages from the knights of the Order.

After all, Knight-Commander Greagoir was not my superior.

He had to negotiate such matters with Irving somehow.

But watching Senior Enchanter Uldred's face twist with rage had been even more satisfying than fondling some beauty's tits in a high-class Denerim brothel.

My relations with that bald idiot—not bald by choice—were as foul as relations could possibly be.

I would have to kill him when the opportunity presented itself.

His rhetoric sounded far too much like an attempt to incite rebellion.

"Not dressmakers—designers!"

My sister rolled her eyes in doomed exasperation.

"We do have dressmakers, and good ones! Oh, why am I even explaining this to you? Only Mother understands me! Men! Father thinks of nothing but our lands, Jeff has nothing in his life but those bits of iron of his, and now you too, Brother! There ought to be room in one's soul for beauty!"

That men, delivered by my little sister with such indescribable contempt, was so hilarious that I nearly burst out laughing.

"My robe is expensive," I said, poking myself in the chest.

And it was.

A proper healer—especially one with a functioning head on his shoulders—would never be poor.

I would say nothing of Senior Enchanter Wynne; she had her own peculiarities. But I, at least, always dressed in quality clothes.

And when travelling outside the Tower, I wore veridium armour as well, richly decorated with embossing.

That, incidentally, had not been a "gift." I had honestly commissioned it from a skilled smith in the capital.

The master craftsman had given me some very strange looks, but he accepted the commission eagerly enough.

Hardly surprising.

It was unusual armour for a mage: a half-cuirass protecting chest and back, pauldrons fitted with chainmail sleeves and bracers, and greaves worn beneath the robe.

The peculiar finishing touch was the helmet—light, open-faced, but designed to protect the back of the neck.

"The fabric is good," Stella admitted with an approving nod and an appraising look. "But the clothes themselves…"

Her slightly wrinkled nose said the rest.

I would never wear anything so dreadful.

"Well," I said with a smile and a shrug, "it is still the uniform of the Circle of Magi, approved in Val Royeaux. Ordinary mages are required to wear it. Once I become a Senior Enchanter, I shall be sure to consult you, dear sister, regarding the future appearance of my attire."

"That would be wonderful, dear brother."

She granted me a gracious nod, while a spark of anticipation appeared in her eyes.

"And when will you become a Senior Enchanter?"

"Soon," I replied with a modest smile. "It has been six years since I attained the rank of Enchanter, after spending only two years as an ordinary mage. I am not boasting, but I am a powerful healer and a capable fighter. I have a good reputation among the Aequitarians—the fraternity of moderates and loyalists—so within the next year or two, one of the members of the Circle council will most likely put my name forward for the rank of Senior Enchanter. I also have decent relations with the knights of the Order, so I doubt Knight-Commander Greagoir will veto my candidacy."

"That is wonderful," Father said with cautious admiration.

As a bann whose northern lands bordered the Frostback Mountains, he was hardly well versed in the Circle's internal affairs.

Judging by his expression, he had not understood everything I said—but his curiosity had plainly been stirred.

"Still, I have heard that the Templars and mages do not have the warmest… relations."

"They do not need to be warm," I said with a shrug. "That would even be harmful. Friendship between a mage and a knight of the Order is like friendship between a wolf and a sheepdog—undesirable and ruinous."

I decided not to elaborate on how difficult it would be for a Templar to cut the throat of a mage he considered a friend.

There was no need to distress Mother or my little sister.

In truth, countless stories existed of such relationships ending badly, among both mages and the knights of the Order.

Tales of forbidden love were especially popular.

Young sorceresses would whisper about them when no one else was listening and pity the lovers.

I had always been more saddened by the fate of the children born from such forbidden passions.

The poor little buggers were hardly to blame for their parents having no brains, yet they often suffered just as much as the adults.

"Normal, professional relations are enough. Not everyone understands this, but a Templar takes no particular pleasure in spending his life watching lads with staves either. The secret is simple: cause no trouble, and perform your duty with dignity."

"Brother, you talk about the Circle the same way Father talks about the war with Orlais," Stella sighed. "'Perform your duty…'"

"My blood," Father said proudly, twisting his moustache. "The men of our line understand that duty stands above all else. Duty to Ferelden and to our family. His Majesty King Maric—may the Maker bless his soul in the hereafter—often used to say that…"

"My dear husband," Mother sighed, "not today. Your stories about how you and His Majesty kicked the Orlesians out of Ferelden are known by heart to this entire family. Even Geoffrey is bored of them now instead of listening to your speeches in rapture."

My younger brother merely spread his hands beneath Father's astonished stare and offered a modest smile.

"But Craig has not heard them yet…" the head of the family said with a sly smile.

A knock at the door interrupted him.

The door opened immediately, and Knight-Lieutenant Edmond stepped into the drawing room.

"I beg your pardon for interrupting."

The knight inclined his head politely.

His face was grim.

His eyes even darker.

"A messenger has arrived from Denerim. He is waiting for Bann Airel downstairs. The Grey Wardens have declared the beginning of the Fifth Blight. Enchanter Craig, we must return you to the Circle Tower at once."

"Damn it…" Father whispered.

Mother and Stella went pale.

"Of course, Knight-Lieutenant Edmond. I shall go and pack my things."

I gave Mother's hand an encouraging squeeze before releasing it and rising from the sofa.

We would say our proper farewells before departure.

"We will be ready in half an hour," the Templar said with a nod before leaving the room.

"Damn it!" Father repeated. "Forgive me, son. I must speak with the messenger."

"Of course. I need to pack as well."

I let Father leave first, then glanced back at the family remaining in the drawing room.

Mother and Stella were pale, shaken, and frightened.

My younger brother looked lost.

"Everything will be all right," I said, smiling at Mother and giving my sister a wink.

I did not know how to comfort people.

Motivate them?

Yes.

But I doubted anyone present needed the sort of motivation I had learned from watching commissars during my service—or during my years as an acolyte of the Inquisition.

Though…

Perhaps that, too, would prove useful soon enough.

"War… you found me."

I whispered the words almost soundlessly beneath my breath and touched my right shoulder, where the banner of the regiment in which I had once served as an Astra Militarum psyker was tattooed into my skin.

"Well. Who could have doubted it…"

A servant approaching along the corridor recoiled and hurried aside.

Only then did I realise, with some surprise, that a broad and vicious grin had crept across my face.

Perhaps the men of the 27th Brimlock had been right after all when they said that war always finds a Guardsman.

Or, as our commissar's favourite saying went:

"Give a man a gun, and something to shoot at will always turn up."

---

Original Russian story

If you'd like to read the full story, you can find it on Patreon

The translation will continue to be published here as well, only with a bit of a delay.