Stefan took a deep breath. His eyes were locked on the four kneeling figures around the flames. Their faces covered in darkness, their robes stained with blood. The chanting was getting louder and louder. The names of the Seven Old Gods echoed through the burial mages were lost in their own spell, and could not sense the presence of the intruding man. Stefan stood in the shadow and called to his grandfather:

"How can I beat them?"

The voice of Keeper Irion was loud in the head of the young mage:

"There is both power and knowledge here. See that sword over there?"

A slight flicker of light passed over the long edge of a two handed sword, revealing the sharpness of the ancient blade. Its hilt was made from Sylvanwood – rare as diamonds, while the edge was Orichalcum – a magic metal, fit for enchantment. The sword itself was a masterpiece!

"A sword? Is that what you're asking me to use? But I'm a mage! I have no use for it!" – Stefan protested in his mind, showing an obvious desperation

"This sword has a name: Magebane. It was forged in the days of Arlathan, when Sylvanwood forests could still be found. It served as a final protection." – responded Irion

"Protection? From what? Aren't the elders dead?" – asked the mage. – "And why Magebane? Wouldn't that mean it's meant for fighting mages?"

"No child, brace yourself, we haven't much time!"

The dead Keeper was right – the chanting black hooded figures were near the end of their spell. The very air trembled with excitement as the blood mages were calling to the gods of old.

"The elders came here to sleep, not die. Their minds braved the Fade, in search for answers. The wards in these halls protected their bodies from deteriorating and form being possessed. But they were never meant to be eternal – the elves knew that one day the old magic will fade away. So the master smiths used the oldest sylvanwood and the deepest orichalcum to forge Magebane – the life and death of the mages. It was forged to be carried in battle by an Arcane Warrior – a mage of both strength, power and wisdom. Those who were buried here were to defend themselves with it for it could purge demonic possession without destroying the body. It has a connection to the Fade of his own."

While his grandfather was relaying the story, the young man had gone towards the altar, on which the ancient blade was mounted. Stefan stood in front of it and reached to grasp it. Just as the story finished, the boy lifted the sword with both hands. It was surprisingly light – lighter than any staff he had used in the Circle.

Along the blade, all the way to the sharp tip, lay an inscription – long tracings of elvish runes. As Stefan passed his hand over them, following the shapes with his fingers, the runes started to glow, faintly. Coldness started to radiate from the blade.

"What... What does it say?" – mumbled Stefan, quietly.

"I cannot say, child. The language of the People changed over the course of many centuries. It's truly lost now."

Stefan swung the blade a couple of times around himself. The blade cut the air, leaving a faint aura after it. The sound it made was beautiful – it was like music, playing in a cavern full of crystals.

The man was not a warrior, he didn't have the training or the knowledge to wield something like this. But it felt right, to hold that two handed sword. It felt as though the Fade was opening its' arms towards the boy.

"They've noticed you. Be strong – you have much more to accomplish. Go, and remember – I'm always with you"

Stefan turned and faced the mages. They were silent now, staring straight at the man.

Two gray bearded men, one young man with golden hair and an old white haired woman. All of them were cut, but none of them were tired.

"Well, well, well... If it isn't the boy of Irion, the prime weapon of Fereldens' Cricle. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, and an honor to actually talk to you." – the eldest of the four people said, bowing slightly.

"You know me? Never mind" – Stefan quickly added, cutting the obviously ready answer from the eldest man – "I don't need any more riddles."

Stefan felt the blade sing its own song – a calling of great power. It felt natural, as though his hands were guided. He held the sword in his right hand and stretched it out – flames burst from the blade, enveloping it whole and forming a big ball of fire at the tip. It shot forward.

Two of the mages – the second gray bearded man and the gold-haired man formed a protective shield. It cracked, just as the smirks on their faces. The two were sent backwards, landing near the big brazier, that held the bonfire.

"Such power. That blade! How did you take it?" - squealed the concerned old woman, as the men behind her stood up after they put out the flames, spreading through their robes.

"None of your business, witch!" – Stefan shouted, not giving them time, as another fireball left the tip of the blade.

If was absorbed by the hand of the eldest mage. He shook his head in a disapproving manner and faced his companions. He cocked and eyebrow and said:

"Now, now, Aphora, where are your manners! This is a dreamer, that's why he can wield the ancient sword. He carries the blood of the People."

"Then we should chain him and sell him to the Tevinters!" – said the youngest Disciple with spite in his voice.

"No, we shall have none of that." – continued the old blood mage, now turning towards Stefan – "I am lord Marcell De Lioux, former senior enchanter of the Val Royeaux Mage Circle. I understand that you are to thank for... saving us from the loud mouth sister of Bertrand?" – he added and pointed with his bloody fingers towards the young gold haired Disciple.

"She deserved what she got, she hurt my friend. Maker, show you mercy, for I cannot!" – and with that Stefan sunk the blade half-way in the ground. Electricity spread across the floor and hit the four people.

Marcell used his magic to stop the assault, but he failed, or did not care to protect the eldest woman. She hissed as she swayed left, her legs shaking, as she leaned against the nearest coffin.

Stefan forced the blade forward, effortlessly braking the ancient strong stone, as if it was butter, and sent a shock wave forward, it crashed in the new shield of the enemy, but didn't do much.

Then the dreamer plucked the sword from the stone and swung it in an arc, sending strong and cold winds forward, pushing the two burnt mages and the old woman back. Marcell stood there, still smiling.

"We want to avoid combat with you. You posses quite the power and it would be a waste to... discard it. I propose-"

"Shut up!" – Stefan cried as he charged forward.

Now putting electricity through the blade, he swung it across the distance, aiming to sink it in the chest of the blood mage. The ex enchanter just stood there, but there was no longer a smile on his face. There was disappointment. He raised his hand and the boy froze.

"Ancient elvish magic is fascinating, and at the very least, potent in some occasions. But we use the power of blood. My offer is this: join us, and we shall give you anything."

There was a flash of fire in the eyes of Marcell. His face up close was strange, as though tormented by something.

"With blood behind this raw potential of yours, you could have it all! The title Archon does suit you just fine, I think. Or would you prefer Emperor of Orlais? King of Ferelden? First Warden?"

"Those markings! You were part of the Mortalitasi order from Nevarra!" – shouted Stefan, while still attempting to get rid of his magical constraints.

"Yes, I studied with them, but Orlais has always been my home... And my brother is the highly misunderstood killer of Kirwall – the one who killed the Champions' mother. But enough about me."

He raised his hand and gently placed it on the shoulder of the constrained dreamer. His blood started forming stains, leaving marks on the clothes of the young man.

"Stefan, use the blade!" – echoed the voice of Irion.

Just as Marcell was about to say something, the elf-blooded human fuelled the weapon in his hand with magic. It glowed bright, severing the magic constrain.

The other three Disciples caught the now stumbling Marcell. He pushed them away and locked his eyes with those of the now free mage.

"You brat! I'll boil your bones and melt your skin, inch, by bloody inch!" – the old man screeched, his voice echoed through the hall. The once calm mage was gone – there stood a crazed old bitter man, with the desire for blood.

"Bertrand, Aphora – raise the dead. Rothrund, with me!" – Marcell barked orders at the other Disciples.

"Now you pay for my sister, bastard!" – cried Bertrand as he slit his wrist and joined the old lady in raising a small army.

The other two slit their wrists and assaulted the mind of the young man.

Stefan took a deep breath, switched the blade to his left hand, and placed his right hand on his forehead. A wave of energy spread, as the warrior mage released a blocking spell. The two blood mages were now receding back and drew circles of protection. Rothrund took the defense and held both force shields, as Marcell started shooting ice bolts at the young dreamer.

As though someone took hold of the mages' hand, he raised the weapon and swung it, so that each bolt crashed on the edge, shattering into a thousand pieces. Many shards flew, but few hit the man. Those that did, left big bruises.

A loud cracking noise sounded as the screams of Aphora resonated all around. All eyes looked her way – she was lying on the ground, twitching. Her minions crumbled. Bertrand knelt next to her and said:

"Aphora, what's wrong?"

He reached to touch her, but he was stopped by Rothrund:

"Back away, boy! She's lost – a demon is possessing her!"

"Kill her, before she rises to be a threat!" – barked Marcell

Stefan charged towards the shields and send fireball after fireball, while the two blood mages were not paying attention. Soon the balls crashed, shattering the defenses.

"But... But she was like a mother to me! I, I can't-"

Bertrand screamed as he was pierced by a shade, now at the command of the possessed Disciple.

"Damn it! Rothtund, deal with Aphora, leave this elf-blooded scum to me!"

Two battles evolved from one: Stefan, constantly swinging his new weapon, sending fireballs at Marcell, who now was hurling stone coffins back at his attacker. And Rothrund, calling on the blood of the now dead Bertrand, to try and split in half the abomination Aphora, who was summoning waves of shades.

As the fighting went on, things seemed more dire than ever. Stefan was using all of his power and knowledge to hit Marcell, but he just couldn't reach him. The Disciple had experience far beyond the common mage and was using it to heal himself, while attacking his enemy.

Aphora charged forward, dashing towards the two other fighters, as Rothrund was surrounded by dozens of shades. She slashed her claws at Marcell, and shot bolts of liquid fire at Stefan.

"Die, lesser demon!" – cried the blood mage, as he charged a strong bolt of dark purple lightning. He shot it towards the demon possessed woman. It hit, and left an ugly gash on the head of the abomination. Blood poured out. He used this to his advantage and sent Stefan flying away.

The young man crashed against the wall, falling down badly on his left arm. That left the blade under him. He tried getting up, but failed.

"I said die, worm!" – squealed the ex enchanter as he burned the left side of the monster.

The fight went on for a while, and Stefan was left out of it. He regained his consciousness, but could not get up. His left arm hurt bad.

Rothrund had killed dozens of shades, but a few more were surrounding him. Stefan gazed in the direction of the dead Bertrand and found him dried up. All his blood was gone to fuel the power of the second Disciple.

Aphora finally charged forward and slashed a piece of meat from one of the legs of Marcell. He shouted and stuck his hand in the abomination. It exploded, coating everything around with blood and remains.

He laughed, quite cruelly and saw that the shades receded, freeing his companion. He said:

"Let's take care of the boy then"

As he neared the him, limping, Stefan conjured a shield around himself. The two gray bearded men laughed.

Marcell leaned forward and bend one knee to be face to face with the dreamer:

"We can wait, my dear. As long as it takes for you to break that shield and beg for mercy " – his voice raised and he started shouting – "as I tear you to pieces, slowly, very slowly!"

Rothrund laughed, but then he let out a moan of pain. Blood spilled the back of Marcell. He looked back at his companion and saw three arrows sticking through the neck of his fellow Disciple.

"Now Stefan!" – cried his grandfather, bringing the laying boy back to reality.

The shield dispersed, the sword flew up, and soon it nestled in between the lungs of the eldest mage. Marcells' face lit up in joy as he exhaled and fell down, crashing in the dust, right next to his fellow mage.

In the distance, Stefan saw a group of people, and recognized Lanaya. Then a quick breath and he lost consciousness...

...

Stefan found himself sitting on a small barrel of wine, next to an elven land ship – an aravel. He saw his reflection in the opened barrel full of water, next to him, and saw himself as a child. He immediately looked up and saw his grandfather smiling down from the land-ship. A halla was laying bellow his feet on the grass.

"Wait, this... this isn't real, is it?" – immediately asked Stefan, his voice ringing with the youth of a child.

"Yes, this is but a dream. And we don't have time..." – his grandfather said, calmly sipping from his engraved silver cup.

"Do we ever have enough time?" – said the boy with a deep sigh.

"Time is all we have, and it's not wise to lay it in someone else's hands or to discard it. One must learn to live his life and spend his time in joy and celebration. Unfortunately many have forgotten that."

"So..." – Stefan started after a brief silence – "Now that I've reached the point of questions: What the Hell is going on grandpa?" – the mixture of harsh words and the innocence of the child tone made Irion laugh.

"Now, my boy, you need to go to Tevinter – to the empty resting place of Dumat, Old God of Silence. There you'll find an ancient text, depicting a ritual that you must complete. It is to be done on sacred Dalish grounds. More I cannot reveal."

The keeper coughed and looked the boy in the eyes. They both smiled and then the dream started to break down.

"Wait, I have so many more questions!" – cried the boy

"Don't worry, you'll find the answers." – said the elf, quietly.

...

Stefan awoke, feeling the gentle touch of Lanaya.

"He's awake." – the female Keeper said, her voice ringing in the aravel – "Bring me water and food."

The mages' hand was healed. Soon he regained his strength.

From Lanay he learned that the ruin started collapsing from the infestation of Shades. She formed a party to venture inside and save all the relics, and see if anyone was alive. Stefan was asleep for three days, but now he had awoken.

Suddenly Stefan froze. He stood up and climbed out of the aravel. He looked around, with a concerned look on his face.

Lanaya followed, hissing and ordering him to lay back down.

"Salion!"- Stefan cried out – "Where is he? I need to..."

Stefan read the expression on the females' face. She looked up at the topless bandaged man and shook her head, as tears formed in her eyes. She wiped them away and said:

"We... We found his body near the entrance to the burial chamber. He... He apparently was seeking you out."

"He lost a lot of blood." – Stefans said, his face now expressionless – "I promised him that I would save him."

"I know you gave it your best. You possess quite the healing skills but those were not enough. He died bravely, and we will remember him as he was – a fearless captain, and a brave adventurer."

Many elves gathered. Some cried, some comforted the Keeper. Stefan, however was emotionless. He failed him – despite his heroic act, he failed him and he died. He wasn't sure how to react.

"Come now and rest. You were mumbling during your sleep. I know you have a long journey ahead of you."

A week passed and during that time Stefan was back to his full health, Lanayas' magic healed him completely. He trained a bit with the sword, which was now a gift from the Dalish to their half-blood brother.

The Keeper even issued that a small tattoo was to be made on his shoulder – a reward for dealing with the mage intruders, and a sign that he would always be welcome amidst the People!

Soon Stefan had knowledge of basic swordsmanship, not nearly as good as the other Dalish warriors. He had Magebane – the greatsword of ancient Arlathan, and the respect of the Bercilians' inhabitants.

He was to travel north to Amaranthine and take a ship to Cumberland – from there north to the Tevinter Imperium.

But not everything was rainbows and sunshine. He had tasted blood magic and its power. If he ever was in a desperate situation, he might use it again. And that he feared the most – to end up like Aphora, an abomination.

"Maker, protect me and my loved ones." – and with that thought he exited the camp of the Dalish, his sword locked in place by a leather harness to his back – his bag full of food and supplies, and his mind – deeply troubled.