As soon as he was certain the new King was out of earshot, Zevran slammed his fist down on the table as hard as he could. His ale spilled and his hand stung, but it did make him feel a bit better. He drew in a shuddering breath and sat down at the table, staring at his half-eaten midnight feast. Hunger still gnawed at him, its ache reminding him of the bargain he had struck.

When he heard the knock at his door that night at Redcliffe, he expected it would be Naia, though he was unsure if that pleased him or not. Almost every waking moment since Taliesin's reappearance had been consumed with trying to puzzle out his feelings for the Warden, and wondering what she might feel for him in return. He had assumed that their affair meant little to her until she had asked if the earring was a token of affection. Taken by surprise, he had lacked the courage to admit the truth, and he knew she'd been confused by his refusal to join her in her room in Denerim after accepting the offer happily dozens of times in the camp. He had no idea what he'd say to her to explain his odd behavior—

—but his mental agony proved unnecessary. The person at the door was Morrigan.

"What, no proper greeting?" the sorceress purred.

"I am … merely surprised, my dear. Please do come in."

Morrigan smiled invitingly as she entered Zevran's room. All of the hair on the back of his neck stood up. "I have a proposition for you, Zevran—one I suspect you'll find appealing, unless all that talk of seducing me was a tease."

"Oh, come now, lovely Morrigan. I know you well enough to realize this must be some sort of dark ritual," he joked. "I do not wish to wake up a frog tomorrow, not when a Darkspawn army awaits."

Quick as a summer storm, Morrigan's expression turned from a smile to an ugly snarl. "You little wretch. You were listening."

"Listening? Listening to what? My dear, I assure you that all I have done tonight is sit in my chamber and sharpen my blades. And no, that was not a euphemism. You don't mean to tell me that you really are proposing some sort of dark ritual. Not that I don't find the possibility intriguing, but …"

"Do you know how an archdemon is killed?"

"Much the same as any other creature, I would imagine," Zevran replied casually. "Cut off its head, stab it through the heart, feed it some poison … though you'd need quite a lot of poison to kill something so large, it is hardly a practical approach in this situation …"

Morrigan sighed in disgust. "Does your prattle never cease, assassin? What I have to tell you is important."

"For you, or for me?"

"I suppose it depends. Do you care if Naia survives tomorrow's battle?"

Zevran suddenly felt very cold. Morrigan continued. "I think you care a great deal. And if you don't do what I propose she will almost certainly die."

He turned away from the sorceress to hide his expression. If there had been any doubt about his feelings for the Warden, the thought of her dead certainly offered some clarity. He felt as though he might faint, or throw up.

Morrigan interrupted his silence. "Or perhaps I'm mistaken. Indeed, I must be. How foolish I was. I see it all now. Well-played, assassin. 'Twas most expedient of you to put yourself in the good graces of the one who chose whether you lived or died. But a man of your experience would never develop a real attachment—certainly not for a naive little elf-girl from some filthy Ferelden alienage. It must have been amusing to seduce her, though I expect that bedding her proved rather dull in the end."

Zevran's hands tightened into fists. Morrigan continued. "I must say, 'twas a masterwork of manipulation. I think she genuinely cares for you, the more fool she. Did you laugh to see that pathetic look in her eyes?"

In a white rage, Zevran spun to face the shapeshifter. His knife was out of its sheath and in his hand before he could regain control of himself.

Morrigan smiled triumphantly. "Ah. You do care. How touching."

With shaking hands, Zevran put his blade away. "You have my attention, Morrigan."

Morrigan described the Warden's fate, and her plan, in a few succinct sentences. "But that fool Alistair has refused me and Naia won't press him on it. If Riordan fails—which seems likely, he is rather old and creaky—you must know that Naia will kill the archdemon herself rather than see the King dead. And so, here is what I propose. I have some Genlock blood. We take the rest of the supplies from Riordan—surely you can manage that—and make you a Warden. I know the magic required. Then you complete my ritual, and whatever happens on the morrow, Naia will be safe. At least, safe from that particular death. You'll have to protect her from the rest."

Zevran scowled. Drink demon blood, sentence himself to an early death, and father a child on this witch? Surely it was madness. How could he even be sure the ritual would work?

Memories came to him, unbidden. Rinna, begging for her life. His silence as Taliesen slit his lover's throat and his horror when he'd learned the truth of their betrayal. His first good look at Naia, splattered in blood, her red hair pulled back in a messy braid, grimly determined and far prettier than Loghain's sketch had indicated. The thoughtful look in her eyes as she listened to his story of how he came to the Crows and the shock he'd felt when she agreed to take him into her service. A pair of worn Dalish gloves, the first gift anyone had ever given him. That first night in her tent, the feeling of her mouth on his, her body against his. Her compassion when he'd finally told her the full story of his last mission for the Crows.

"Very well. Genlock blood and dark rituals it is."

"I must warn you, you might die from the Joining."

Zevran shrugged. "That does not disturb me. As I told you once, all really good assassins have a death wish."

Morrigan had been as good as her word. The archdemon was dead, Naia was alive. And he couldn't face her. He still lacked the words to explain what he'd done, much less why he'd done it. He'd thought to simply vanish, to go and lead the new life she'd promised him once the Blight was ended—it was certainly simpler than staying around. But he had not anticipated how powerfully the Taint compelled him to seek out Darkspawn. Without the Wardens, without Naia, all that awaited him was a lonely death on a Genlock's blade. Once, he'd sought that death, but now?

For the first time since Fort Drakon, he realized he wasn't hungry. Frustrated, he pushed himself away from the table and left the kitchen, half-running even though he had no destination in mind.

As he wove through the halls of the Denerim palace, his mind racing, he realized there was only one place he could go.