I am so sorry for the long wait. I was 2/3rds of the way done with this chapter when the laptop I was using fried itself and I lost everything. I had to rewrite the entire thing! So, while I think the rewrite is leagues better than the first draft, it did take a long to time publish and for that I'm sorry.
***Underground Prison***
Throughout the day (or evening maybe, there was no way to tell) Hawke had vague moments of awareness in which he heard people speaking or felt himself being moved. He swore he heard his name too, something along the lines of "Did you tell Hawke?" or "Does Hawke know?" and while he recognized that it was Anders who responded, he had no idea what his lover said.
Over time Hawke realized there were three voice speaking. The first was Anders, and the second was soft, feminine and probably Dalish considering how much it sounded like Merrill's. The last voice, however, had an androgynous pitch that made Hawke flip-flop between insisting it was a woman and positive it was a man.
Hearing someone say "Carver," however, sobered him with a jolt. With his parents and his sister gone, Carver was all he had left, and Hawke was too sick, scared and worried to be embarrassed by his over-sentimentality. He tried to slur out a messy "What about Carver?" but when the words didn't come out as anything remotely intelligible he tried to get up, worried that his brother was there or maybe in trouble. The movement undid what little his body had done to recover as he curled on his side and prepared to throw up. When all that came out was a dry heave, Hawke became aware of how long it had been since he last ate or drank anything.
"Hawke, deep breaths, okay," Anders instructed before Hawke found himself being rolled onto his back by more than two hands. "In through your nose, out through your mouth."
It took a few attempts for Hawke to even get the steps right, and a few more cycles before it began to slow down the spinning in the room.
"Tell me if you feel nauseous again," Anders said. "The last thing we need right now is you choking to death on your own vomit."
"It feels like I drank a warehouse of Antivan brandy," Hawke groaned. "And what's the point of seducing a healer if he can't even cure a bad hangover?" Hawke didn't realize there was a hand stroking his hair back until it stopped and Anders sighed. "Anders? What's going on?"
"This prison we're in, it's built to hold mages. I'm not entirely sure how it works but it negates our magic. I imagine this must be what Tranquil mages feel. Just... empty, and useless."
"Sit him up," the unfamiliar voice commanded. "We need him alert."
"He needs to rest," the woman in the room argued, and now that he was more awake Hawke realized the voice wasn't just similar to his former companion's.
"Merrill?"
Before anyone could answer a pair of strong arms hooked under Hawke's armpits and began to pull him into a sitting position. He opened his eyes and pressed his palms flat on the floor to help brace himself while everyone shifted him toward a very close wall. Someone grabbed both sides of his face, and his eyes wandered as they tried to find the other person in the swirling, dark room.
"Oh you're a woman," he blurted without thinking. He squinted and widened his eyes to varying degrees, trying to find the setting that best focused his vision so he could piece together her features. She had very messy, sandy blond hair and prominent widow's peak. Though her eyes had a unique curve and her lips had an earthy redness to them, the lines of her upper body were strong and squared. "A hansom woman," he added.
"Hawke!" Anders shouted. "You can't just-"
"It's fine," she excused.
"I wish I could say he isn't usually like this, but I can't. That drugs are just slowing his natural smartassness down a bit."
"How did we even get here?" Hawke asked. He raised one arm and motioned clumsily toward where Merrill's voice had come from. "How'd she get here?"
"Carver," was all Merrill could answer. Her voice broke like she was going to start crying, but she sounded too tired for even that.
"What about Carver?" Hawke asked, trying to move toward the sound of Merrill's voice. When he was pushed back against the wall without an answer, his anxiety grew exponentially. "Where is he? Is he hurt?"
"Hawke... " Anders began delicately, "she means Carver is how she got here. Carver turned her in to the Templars."
"But, that doesn't even, I mean-" Hawke could do little more than stare disbelievingly at Merrill, who was sitting behind Anders and the blond woman on the opposite side of their cramped cell. She was using one arm to hug her knees to her chest, seemingly unable to make eye contact without feeling ashamed of herself. Hawke desperately wanted to know what the whole story was, but even he knew better than to ask right then, and there were plenty of other questions going through his mind. He looked up at the blonde woman once again and studied her features until he was sure he'd never seen before in his life. "Well then, who are you?"
"This is the woman who brought me here," Anders explained. "I'm sorry, but I can't tell you much more."
"Why not? And why aren't you scared or worried or righteously furious? This isn't like you at all. What in the Maker's name is going on here?"
Anders turned and looked through the wooden planks running vertically and horizontally across the cell entrance. Hawke followed the mage's eyes and saw the backs of two fully-armored Templars and, across from them, two more.
"Well, what are we supposed to do then?" Hawke whispered.
"We wait," the woman answered.
"We obviously haven't met," Hawke stated with a forced and tired laugh. "I'm terrible at waiting. I've built my name on impatience and failing to keep my nose out other people's business."
"I agree with Hawke," Merrill added. "I mean, not about how he's terrible about minding his own business. Well, okay, yes that's true too, but I mean-" She stopped and took a deep breath. "I'm being punished for helping Anders and Hawke, even though I was never really much help. I want to change that. I will do whatever you need me to."
"She's right," Anders added. "There has to be something we can do."
"Sweet Andraste, what did those slavers give me?" Hawke asked. "I almost thought I heard you agree with Merrill. You, who bet me fifty silvers you'd never agree with her for as long as you lived."
"Well 'as long as I live' isn't going to be much longer if we don't do something," Anders retorted before turning back to the woman. "We're already here, and Maker only know how long it'll be until they come to torture or execute us. We can't just sit here. You of all people have to know some way to get us out of this. Tell us what you need, we'll do-"
"What I need is for all of you to be patient," the woman snapped. As everyone's strong wills deflated Hawke saw her stern, aggravated demeanor melt away to reveal genuine care, and he was brought back to a time in his childhood when he and Carver would sneak Bethany into town and insist she'd be fine. Their mother would always shout at them when they got back, but in the end she could never stay mad at them. Not when she felt so much guilt and pity for her poor daughter, who never asked to be a mage in the first place. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I know you three have been through a terrible ordeal, and what I will eventually need from you pales in comparison. It may offer little comfort when I tell you this is out of our hands, but for now you must surrender to your helplessness and be at peace with the will of the Maker."
***Grand Cathedral***
After Merrill was dragged away everything progressed in a series of hurried starts and agonizing stops. As soon as Carver stepped inside the Grand Cathedral he was sat down in an empty, dusty room and told to write down everything that had happened. Then he was questioned by a woman he'd never met before, who simply nodded and wrote down notes as he spoke. When that was over two Templars escorted him to a waiting room were he sat for what felt like an hour before Sebastian was escorted into the room as well, the two of them too nervous to even greet each other.
The more time Carver spent waiting in silence for information or an order, the more everything in the Grand Cathedral felt like a carefully hidden secret. He paced across the waiting room, noting how the walls were bright, white and impossibly clean. He was surprised, however, to find his armored fingertips scraping against the texture of rough stone underneath the paint. The doors on the opposite side of the room combined to make a sturdy wooden semi-circle, painted with such a brilliant gold that it looked like a sun rising from the plush red carpet. The entire building seemed to be designed to inspire an assumption of frivolity, but upon closer inspection not a thing there suffered from weakness and a consequence of beauty.
Carver killed time by taking a useless and thorough inventory of the room, ultimately forgetting that Sebastian was even there.
"You are the last person I would expect to see here, Ser Carver" the prince said. Or was he a Chantry Brother? Carver never felt like he had a clear answer. At least Fenris' ire was predictable and his debt to the elder Hawke constant, but with Sebastian one could never tell whether the man's pious "choir boy" routine was authentic or not, Sebastian seemingly included.
"You didn't expect to find a Templar in the Grand Cathedral?" Carver asked.
"I guess that is fair," Sebastian noted. "I hear you brought Merrill in. It must have been easy, I imagine, to get her to trust you. I remember hearing that the two of you were rather... enamored with each other in your youth."
Carver craned his neck back and stared at the other man, trying to gauge whether Sebastian was suspicious or nervous. "Yes, well, it would appear that you brought in someone who was working with Anders. Funny, though, how I've never met her or heard of her before. What even is her name?"
"I... don't know," Sebastian answered quietly.
"You don't know? How long ago did you capture her?"
Sebastian took a deep breath and looked Carver in the eye. "A month ago."
Carver wanted to look away, but there was the beginning of a conversation in those tired, confused eyes across from him. They stood there in silence, with Sebastian's stance open and vulnerable, even as Carver eyed him with the cocky incredulity taught to him in his Templar training. "I ran into that woman, Helena Pentaghast, in Arlesans," he explained, keeping his tone matter-of-fact as to not betray anything more than was necessary. "She... helped me bring Merrill here."
Sebastian nodded his understanding slowly. "I see."
The announcing creak of the heavy wooden doors made the two of them incredibly aware of how tense the moment had gotten. They snapped their eyes toward the trio entering the room and jumped back, fumbling to mimic natural and unassuming postures.
Evansten and Helena exited first, but after a few steps they turned and bowed until Divine Justinia passed them. Sebastian and Carver bowed as well.
For the most part, Carver felt underwhelmed by Justinia's presence. He was aware of her importance, but he found himself incapable of mustering the reverence he should have been feeling in that moment. Her features were just so muted, as her faded grey-gold eyebrows and pale skin did nothing to highlight her features. She was of short stature, and while the structure of her white veil did add at bit more statement to her appearance, her red and gold robes made her look like an ornament decorated to match the room.
This was the kind of opportunity which countless other Templars would have felt unworthy of, and yet Carver wanted nothing more than an excuse to leave.
Her Grace bowed slightly, though not nearly as low as everyone else had, and smiled in a way Carver found disingenuous. He stole an inappropriately direct look at her face and found there were age lines around her mouth, while the skin by her eyes was still taut and young. It was the face of a woman who communicated much and expressed little.
"Thank you," she said. The words were simple but they felt calculated and deliberate, like she'd been planning them for the past hour. "Your service to Thedas is greatly appreciated. You especially, Brother Sebastian. Your warnings allowed me the time I needed to prepare for this."
The amount of time it took for Sebastian to answer was a bit awkward, and when he did it was vague and cryptic. "It was my duty."
The urge to look over at Sebastian itched under Carver's skin, but he kept his eyes forward, even as questions scrolled through his mind. They had just, not a minutes before, been having what the Templar thought was a cautious conversation about how they weren't entirely in board with the current state of affairs, and yet it was Sebastian who helped make it all possible.
"And you, Ser Carver," the Divine continued. "I am grateful for your assistance, but I must admit that I am surprised by your willingness to aid in the apprehension and prosecution of your own brother and his friends."
"My brother made his decisions," Carver explained. "Being family does not excuse what he and his allies have done."
"Was Brother Sebastian here not one of those allies?" Both men were unable to resist exchanging nervous looks. Carver didn't know how to begin answering her, and the look on Justinia's face suggested she knew that. "You look torn, that is good. This is no easy time for Thedas, Ser Carver. We do not need radicals and absolutes right now. Those things have never and will never get us anywhere. For now, I ask that you please reflect on that."
Evansten stepped forward and Carver, as a reflex, assumed proper parade stance. "We do, however, appreciate that you wanted to have the elven maleficar brought to justice here, at the heart of the Chantry she wronged so deeply. Serrah Pentaghast tells me you were adamant on this. You made the wise choice, Ser Carver." On the opposite side of Her Grace, Helena was eying Carver and grinding her teeth. "Divine Justinia has graciously agreed to let you serve as a Knight in the Val Royeaux Order. You should report to the barracks and await further instruction."
Looking past the inferred graciousness of his "reward," Carver knew when he was being placated as a means of keeping him out of the way. He nodded to his superior and bowed once again as he thanked Her Grace and excused himself.
Carver was sure that no one was timing his trip to the barracks, and the entire ordeal was pretty much a result of his inability to take his time, ask the right questions and create a plan. He could hear his heart quickening as he began to imagine how much Merrill was suffering, but trying to be her strong, quick-thinking hero obviously wasn't working. Now she thought he'd betrayed her, and if they got out of their predicament alive he owed her more than he could ever offer.
It was difficult for him to admit, but Carver hadn't done a single heroic thing since he left Kirkwall. It was Merrill who had pressed on despite fear and uncertainty, who had withstood abuses meant to break her morale just to uphold their cover. She had looked into the eyes of a warrior from a world-renowned military family and admitted to supporting Anders' cause. Feeling useless, however, was not going to help either of them. It was time for him to let go of his ego and push his insecurities aside to serve the betterment of someone he truly cared about.
"Ser Carver" was the last thing he expected to hear someone call out. It was hard to believe that anyone recognized him, and it was obvious Evansten had no desire to put him to work. He thought about ignoring whoever was trying to speak to him, but that opportunity was lost when he froze in response to hearing his own name.
"Ser Carver, over here," the voice repeated with a strange echo. When Carver turned he saw that the rather thin Templar was wearing a helmet.
"Do I know you?" he asked.
"Follow me," was all the other Knight replied, already moving down the hall.
"Wait, who are you?" Before Carver could even finish the question his mysterious friend was almost out of earshot. He started following, remaining cautious as he tried to politely avoid the busy Revered Mothers trying to pass him in the halls.
There was something off about his leader, notably the ill fit of the armor. It was shifting as the person walked, with pieces that were miss-matched sizes and weights. As the journey continued, the red carpets gave way to bare stone floors and the ornate doors became plain and weathered. The ranking of the Chantry officials lowered with every new turn as well, until Lay Sisters were hurrying by with arms full of clean linens.
Carver almost walked into the back of the other "Templar" when the person stopped short in front a seemingly random door. A deliberate rhythm was knocked out on the wood, and in response the door opened slowly, though from Carver's point of view it looked like no one was inside. The imposter walked straight into the room, however, and took off his helmet.
The first thing Carver noticed were the ears. After that the thin blonde hair, elongated face, intricate tattoos and wide eyes all came together into a startling realization that quickly became confusing.
"Since when are there Dalish Temp-"
The lean elf was stronger than he looked, and before Carver had time to think he found himself inside the large storage room with the door slammed behind him.
***Divine Rectory, Grand Cathedral***
As Carver turned to leave, Sebastian would have given anything for them to have one more minute alone. Not since he was in his early twenties had the Chantry felt like a prison to him, but in that moment he had no idea what he was doing, or worse, what he had done.
The road to the Grand Cathedral felt longer to Sebastian now that he was looking back at it. His drive to capture Anders was what fueled him, and for the first time in a long while he felt as if the Maker's will was clear. He set off to find Anders and found a woman who knew where the apostate was heading. Despite being on opposing sides, she inspired him to go forward with his mission to Val Royeaux. Throughout his journey he asked himself how anything cold have felt more destined and deliberate, yet in the end it was a band of iniquitous heathens who had turned Anders in.
And there he was, standing in the epicenter of his faith, about to speak directly to the woman who, according to the tenets of his beliefs, was the mortal voice of Andraste. He should have felt honored, but the deep-seeded suspicion that he'd been wronged wouldn't let go.
"I would like to speak privately with Brother Sebastian," Justinia announced "Serrah Pentaghast, you know where to report. I'm sure the other agents would benefit from your findings."
"At once, Your Grace," Helena said as she bowed, leaving with Evansten in tow.
When they were finally alone, Justinia motioned for Sebastian to join her in her rectory. He had to take a few deep breaths before he could begin to move himself forward, and even then his legs still felt numb.
Justinia sat herself behind a plain desk and shuffled aside some papers, pulling out a few specific sheets as she waited for Sebastian to shut the door behind him. "When I look at the language of your letters, Brother Sebastian, I hear a passionate, driven man dedicated to a vengeance he masks as justice. That man is not standing before me today. This month seems to have changed you deeply."
"It has, Your Grace," he admitted. "I honestly do not know what I am here for anymore. I was hoping for your guidance."
"Well, do you still have any interest in reclaiming your title as the Prince of Starkhaven? I will be frank with you, Sebastian. I am losing the support of the Templars more and more with each passing day and Empress Celene does not wish to involve her armies in a holy war. She still believes the Chantry can and should put a stop to all this diplomatically. I, however, do not agree. I have had agents out across Thedas for quite some time now. They have chronicled the growing number of terrorist apostate organizations and seen first-hand the corruption within the Circles. My attempts to solve these matters quietly have yielded too few victories for me to continue my silence."
This was it, the moment Sebastian had prayed for. No more uncertainty, just a clear and definite statement that the Chantry needed him and detailed instructions as to how best he could serve the Divine. The thrill of honor and duty thrummed in his veins for a wonderful, albeit fleeting moment. In the back of his mind he found himself forcing the feeling to remain, pulling it back as it rolled out slowly out like a lowering tide.
"This is not the response I expected," Justinia admitted. "I am both relieved that time has tempered your rage and disappointed that it has left you so lost. If you are troubled, my child, speak now and unburden your soul. It is not my intention to force you to aid in our cause. An unfocused ally whose resolve is waning is no ally at all."
Even then, when Sebastian should have been jumping to correct Her Grace, he found himself rehearsing the answers to a plethora of existential questions, and none of them sounded right. "I do not even know where to begin."
"Perhaps you should start by telling me about this prisoner you brought in," Justinia suggested. "Who is she?"
"I do not know her name. Only that she is a Tevinter mage working with Anders toward a common goal."
"You spent a month with her, knowing full-well she was the ally of a dangerous apostate, and you learned nothing about her? How did you even keep her detained for that long, and by yourself no less?"
Hearing it out loud, Sebastian was forced to fully acknowledge how bizarre his entire journey had been. "She did not try to run, Your Grace. I suspect she wanted to be captured, and that she always meant to come here and meet up with Anders. She mocks those who believe in the Chantry's teachings and equates faith to blindness. She even mentioned you by name."
"That is... unsurprising. Many dissenters, apostates especially, cite me as the epitome of corruption within the Chantry. Few understand how delicately I have tried to balance the needs of both sides."
"Do you truly believe the maleficarum are still worth your efforts?"
"Maleficarum is a bold word, Sebastian. It is the term reserved for those whose hubris rivals that of the magisters who marched into the Maker's Golden City. What we have, in Thedas today, are mostly scared and vulnerable mages falling pray to demons who promise to protect them, and Templars who increase their vigilance in response to this threat. The entire situation has become a vicious cycle, with radicals on both sides who swear by absolutes and condemn compromise. Many people assume I will support, or have already sided with, the Templars, but this is not the case. Zealots on both sides are destroying our society, and they must be stopped if we are ever to resume peaceful negotiations. That is why I need military aid." Justinia put Sebastian's letters aside and folder her hands over her desk. "Tell me, what did this woman say of her and Anders' plans? What are they even fighting for? What would it take to make them feel like this war is over?"
Sebastian thought back to the conversations he'd had with the Tevinter woman, recalling the uncharacteristically pleading tone she'd used only once. "She claims that you lied to the people about something important. That the Chantry is hiding something and manipulating its followers by doing so. She would not tell me anything else about her accusation, and she instructed me to ask you about it."
Justinia's eyes scanned the room for a moment, mirroring her ruminations. She was contemplating something, her face tense like it was constantly on the verge of speaking. "I believe I know what she is referring to."
Sebastian balked in response to her admonition. "You what? Your Grace, I am sure that whatever secrets the Chantry guards are-"
"I am asking much of you, Sebastian," Justinia interrupted. "And if I am going to request you do something as great as reclaim your title and lead your armies in my name then you must know you can trust me."
"Yes, your Grace," Sebastian said with a nod. "I am listening."
The setting sun hit the stained glass of the window in Justinia's small rectory, spotting the room with the reds and golds present in the translucent glass. "The Grey Wardens who defeated the Blight could not have done so without the aid of Arl Eamon. You are aware of this, correct?"
"Yes, and he overcame a great illness to do so. Many called it a miracle."
"He was poisoned by a blood mage and that left him comatose. It did not appear he would recover. The Wardens and their companions did indeed set off on the seemingly impossible quest to find the Urn of Sacred Ashes, and those who heard of this attempted to retrace the Wardens' journey, but found nothing."
"I am aware of all this," Sebastian stated, trying not to sound rude.
"They found nothing because the Urn is here."
The glowing splotches of color shimmered slightly, and for a moment that was the only movement in the room. "You... hid Andraste's ashes from the people of Thedas?" Sebastian finally asked.
"I invite you to give me a better option," Justinia offered, obviously having had this argument many times before. "Do you believe it would be better to allow the Urn to be picked at by every person with a sick loved one until there is nothing left? Or worse, be stolen and its properties exploited for power and monetary gain?"
"So they really do have healing properties?" Sebastian didn't know if he was more curious, elated or disappointed in that moment. It was, indeed, an extremely complicated situation.
"Yes, though the few of us in the Chantry who know of its existence have vowed not to disturb its contents until the coming war is settled and rules are in place to govern its use. Until then it remains in the Grand Cathedral under constant guard." Justinia rose from her chair and tucked her hands behind her back. "I would like for you to go pray there, Sebastian."
"Me?" As soon as the question came out Sebastian felt silly, but it was impossible to mask his surprise. "I am honored, Your Grace, but why?"
"I believe it will help you make your decision. Stand before the remains of the Prophet and tell her your intention. If you find you cannot tell her that you truly wish to be prince and lead your armies to stop this war, then that must be your answer. If you do decide to take on the burden of leadership I will send word to Starkhaven at once explaining your intent and detailing the Chantry's support. If you find that you cannot do this, you are more than welcome to continue your charity and your studies here, in Val Royeaux."
"I understand," Sebastian spoke as he too rose to his feet. "I will do as you ask."
Justinia silently motioned for Sebastian to follow her out of the rectory, and soon the two found themselves in the halls of the Grand Cathedral. Templars and Revered Mothers froze and bowed as Justinia passed and remained in that position for Sebastian as well. Despite the fact that he'd had people bowing to him since as far back as he could remember, something about that moment seemed unnecessary and overwhelming. He almost wanted to ask them if they knew who he was or why they were bowing to him.
Justinia stopped in front of a door that would have been entirely inconspicuous if it weren't for the armed Templars on either side of it. She nodded to the men and they stepped aside, waiting for Sebastian to enter.
"I must address the other Chantry officials regarding what has happened and how we plan to move forward," she explained. "Stay as long as you need, but please, join me in the Audience Chamber when you are finished."
"I will, Your Grace," Sebastian promised with a bow. "And thank you for this opportunity. I shall not take it for granted."
Sebastian wasted as much time as he possibly could watching Justinia leave. He felt as if the grand and rare opportunity to be in the presence of Andraste's remains was wasted on him. He was no prince, no leader of armies. Even if he wanted to, he'd be no good at it.
"You may enter, ser," one of the Templars reminded him. Knowing full well that he couldn't stand in the hallway forever, Sebastian finally went inside.
It looked as if, originally, the room could have been anything. The walls and carpet were the exact same as those in the hallway and there were no windows. It could have been any office or storage room the Chantry needed, and that was probably why they chose it to secretly house something of such incredible importance.
The only source of light in the room was a fire that sat in the palm of a stone statue, which appeared to burn from nothing. Sebastian stared up at the woman and almost unconsciously mimicked her posture by placing his hand over his heart. The room felt like another world,.There was a presence that permeated the air around him, and Sebastian wondered if it wasn't akin to what the mages described as The Fade.
At the base of the statue was a platform made from the same cold, ancient white stone and adorned with a section of gold design, making it obvious that the entire monument had been crudely chiseled out of something much larger.
Directly at the foot of the statue, however, was a pedestal holding a bright gold urn that looked so new it seemed out of place. Sebastian had no idea what he was supposed to do, so he walked up to the edge of the stone and got down on one knee as if he were about to recite the Chant. He laced his fingers together and pressed his thumbs against his forehead.
It was hard for Sebastian to focus on anything but his prisoner, left to rot somewhere in the gargantuan Cathedral. He wanted to believe that she would give up whatever she had planned and repent, to the point where he was almost relieved to hear that Evansten didn't want to lock her up. She was obviously an intelligent woman with an extraordinary capacity for charity and self-sacrifice. She could do well in the Circle, if she could just let go of her wild conspiracy theories and trust the servants of the Maker to guide her path.
As he prayed Sebastian felt a tugging in his chest, and his eyes snapped open in response. He didn't expect to have such a visceral, tangible reaction to seeking guidance, and after waiting for a brief moment he realized what was actually going on. He gripped the top of his breast plate and pulled it away from his body, revealing the phylactery he kept tucked there.
Sebastian grabbed the leather strips tied to the top of the vial and pulled it up until it was dangling in front of his face, staring at it was such a confused disbelief that he became dizzy from it. His eyebrows knotted together as he tilted his head to the side, hoping he'd begun to hallucinate the bright glow and the way the item swung toward the Urn.
As if responding to his denial, the flame in the statue's hand burned white and roared with a sudden vitality that allowed it to touch the ceiling, bringing Sebastian back to the night he hid from the Tevinter mage's firestorm. The sound and the bright light caught him so of guard that he fell backward and dropped the phylactery, which shattered when it hit the ground like a small grenade. The blood inside spilled out like oil and burst into the same white flames.
As the fire began to spread quickly from the ceiling and the floor, Sebastian fled the room, knowing full well that the Templars would think him a terrorist for torching such an important relic. He pushed past the two stationed outside the door and made wild guesses as to which halls could possibly lead to the Divine Audience Chamber.
The phylactery, her phylactery, reacted in that room. Sebastian had to say something, had to do something before it was too late. He raced down the halls and threw open any doors that weren't locked. At the end of one hall he found a set of extremely heavy, dark wooden doors guarded on both sides by more Templars. Before the Knights could react Sebastian opened those as well, and was relieved to find Justinia sitting in her throne at the opposite end of the room.
The relief was short-lived, however. Before Sebastian had an opportunity to speak up someone rushed in from another doorway and shouted, for all the hear "The prisoners have escaped!"