The girl slowly opened her eyes, focusing on the image in front of her. Uplands. The grasslands that stretched into the distance, typical of the uninhabited expanses of Corcari, soon disappeared from view as they descended. Further on, the view was lost in the vast landscape. Old, sloping hills, covered from top to bottom with ancient coniferous forests, interspersed here and there with clearings with tree debris sticking up to the sky. Such wounds had been left by fires and fierce winter winds. But with the coming of spring, they were covered with fresh green.

The girl's gaze wandered aimlessly for a moment around the wild, untouched curves before it caught a familiar landmark. Recognition flashed in her eyes. Quick movements of the eyes — from the conspicuous clump to the memorable gorge and beyond. And then the delicate dark eyebrows crept up. Five or six columns of milky smoke rose lazily from behind the distant hill on the skyline. A sure sign of a forest fire. But there was little chance of it gaining full strength. Autumn was too close. Heavy cumulus clouds, creeping westwards over the hilltops, came down every other night in cold, torrential downpours.

A light, cool breeze carried the scent of the damp forest and lazily stirred the loose, raven-winged curls that were tied in a tight bun. The girl frowned — there was a house in the direction of the smoking columns. But her memory failed her, not a single fact from the last twenty-four hours. Instead there was a blind certainty — there was nowhere to go back to.

The woman's body became rigid and stiff. The first jerky movements were painful. A long rest on the cold, damp ground, leaning against a smooth wall of grey basalt blocks, did not bode well for the traveller's health or good humour. With a grunt she got up and looked around. The wall behind her rose three or four metres before it was covered in rubble. The stones that had once made it up lay scattered on the ground, as if they had been slowly drowning in grass for decades. And no other vegetation nearby.

In addition to her elaborate hairstyle, the girl wore roughly sewn trousers made from scraps of tanned leather and soft, silent deerskin boots. A tightly knitted, sleeveless jacket of warm wool with a hood and a bundle of black southern raven feathers on her left shoulder. The feathers were striking in size, the wingspan of the bird that once wore them reaching a metre and a half. The undergarments were a bare linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, barely outlining a chest that needed no support. The only piece of jewellery was the bandage on his left shoulder. Rough leather with intricately carved ornaments. A skull intertwined with scrolls symbolising wind or roots. An ancient necklace of tarnished metal segments. A necklace with an amulet expertly carved from bone and a roughly facetted garnet. Five bent iron rings woven into a short plait at the left ear. The earlobes are not much stretched with rings of tarnished silver. The ring on the ring finger of his right hand was inconspicuous, a band of scratched gold.

Picking up a sturdy two-metre oak staff from the ground, the girl moved along the wall, gently touching the surface with her free hand, trying to remember what it was. Soon the wall was cut off by a pile of rubble. Here was an opening to the ground, allowing a view inside. The whole ensemble had once been an outpost with a single watchtower. Every surviving element bore the hallmarks of imperial architecture at a time of rapid expansion. The chopped straight lines. Ornamental arches, naked functionality without decoration and extreme durability. There was a faint trace of the late buildings that characterised Ferelden a century ago. Time and the harsh climate had wiped out four-fifths of the efforts to reuse the fortress.

Once inside, the girl looked around. When she had finished her inspection, she began to climb nimbly up the remains of the wall to get a better view of the ruins. Her memory told her without a stutter that similar outposts spread out in a semicircle a day or two deep into Korkari, with a single centre — the ancient fortress of Ostagar. But only the bones of the one and only had survived the past winters and the wrath of the Hasindians. The same one whose ruins were now inspected from above by persistent eyes. What remained was the memory of why the girl had awoken so far from home, and in this particular place, and not in the middle of the familiar forest. Suddenly a shadow of doubt flickered across her face and her free hand darted to the leather strap of the duffel bag at her waist. Thin, green metal tubes, sealed with black sealing wax, emerged from it.

Pulling them out one by one, the girl studied the surviving engravings. Symbols in ancient Teven, the language of the Empire, were interspersed with archaic Ferelden script and heraldry, characteristic of the ancient Order of the Grey Guardians. There was also a reference to the last surviving gnomish state, Orzammar, with the symbol of a Paragon unknown to the girl. And also the Circles of Ferelden as an offshoot of the Church. And separately, the Temple Corps. Four of the tubes were braided with the symbols of the Dolian clans, though the girl knew of only three that roamed the surrounding lands. The last tube bore the heraldry of the Ferelden royal family. The Grey Guardians' treaties of extensive assistance to the current Land Commander since the outbreak of the Mora... Perhaps they had once been held in the middle of this outpost.

Looking towards the southern horizon, the girl grimaced. The encounters with the creatures of darkness in the surrounding forests were indeed becoming more frequent. With every new sunrise. And there was probably a reason why, two months ago, the Hasinde tribes had moved either further south, to the swampy lowlands overlooking the cold waters of the sea, or further west, closer to the ridge of the Frost Mountains. Both winters were to become much harsher. Without seeing the whole picture, it is difficult to judge the threat of Mora, but coincidences rarely retain the innocent appearance of coincidence on closer inspection. The fort used by the Grey Guardians in ancient times, the treaties, the Mawr... And the smoke on the horizon.

Turning to the north, the girl narrowed her eyes. There, beyond the towering hills, was an ancient fortress covering the only passage through the gorge, through sheer cliffs that suddenly cut off the surrounding countryside to the east and west for a hundred miles into a flat plain. Even for a girl, such a barrier would be fatal.

With a sigh, she turned her gaze to the west, towards the sun that was rolling into the sunset. The sun was barely a finger and a half to the horizon. She'd been unconscious for three or four hours, barely five. It was the middle of the day. That explained why the girl's muscles had stiffened, but she hadn't lost her mobility completely. What had happened up to that point confused her with uncertainty, a sense of threat and a sense of loss mixed with a vague need. Without context, this mush only added to the confusion. A normal rest might have helped to sort out her thoughts. Or maybe not. But to sort herself out, she should have headed north. To put as many hills, rivers, settlements and maybe even armed men between herself, the spawn and the uncertain threat. She was about to turn away when the girl froze. At the foot of the hill, near the tree line, her sharp eyes caught movement.

One by one, four figures emerged from the forest, two warriors, an archer, the last looking like a mage. Each was tired, ragged, alert. And no doubt where they were going. Another "coincidence".

With one last glance to the west, the girl retreated from the wall to a ledge below, into the shadows. Crouching on the rocks, she let her legs dangle, building up her patience.

It took a dozen minutes for the sprawling party to climb the hill and enter the ruins. The four men dispersed smoothly under the archway that remained in the wall. The warriors moved forward — the mage in the middle, the archer behind. But not a single glance went upwards. Where, above the archway, a pair of watchful eyes gleamed from the ledge of the wall.

As the early twilight slowly enveloped the old fort, the men made sure of the relative safety of the ruins and began their search. The main focus was on the remains of the later structures. The original Imperial structures were deliberately ignored.

He was led by a blond man with a short haircut. His demeanour, his posture, his equipment, his gentle way of giving orders — he was an experienced warrior. The blond man never took off his unmarked shield or blade. He continued to pick at the wreckage with his point. As he half turned to face the watcher, his sharp eyes pulled the amulet from over his quilted jacket and chain mail. A heraldic griffin, the symbol of the Grey Guard. A conspicuous mark, dangling only from the chest of a blond man.

The second warrior boasted a massive double-bladed sword, a hill of muscle beneath his armour and a thick neck. A stiff shock of dark hair, shaved a week ago, also stood out. But there was a look of confusion mixed with consternation on the man's face. But there was a look of confusion on his face. An archer, more than that. Couldn't catch his breath for ten minutes after he had risen. Dirty, greasy hair of an indeterminate shade was in tatters, and a week's growth of stubble completed the man's unkempt, thieving look. There was a nervousness to the man's movements.

The last of the group was a mage, the diva an elf. No valassin, which suggested he'd been born outside the Daley clans. Clothing was a knee-length marching cloak of thick woollen cloth with a hood of soft leather against rain and wind. He carried a staff as big as the one behind the girl's back. Nature had given the man a head of hair just below his shoulders and a colour no lighter than the stranger's. He was the only one in the group who wasn't wandering aimlessly, patiently using the time for methodical, attentive inspection.

Suddenly, the mage pointed his staff into the middle of the stones, and a pleasant voice called out to his companions.

— I think I've found it. Commander?

The blond man turned and approached the spot, muttering under his breath. Nodding, the man plunged his blade into the soft earth, leaving his shield behind, and began to pull the heavy debris aside. The strong man watched for a moment. Then he sighed, drew his blade back and joined them. After a quarter of an hour, a stone cavity adjacent to the ruins of the building was uncovered. The grooves were traditionally reserved for massive wrought-iron chests. Now there was a pile of rusted, half-decayed metal strips and shriveled wood.

The commander's posture was tense. Digging his hand into the rotting remains, the blond finally let out a curse. The elf sighed tiredly, ignoring the emotional outburst and, picking at the ground with his staff, asked.

— Elsewhere?

The blond man stood up and showed a dark round thing in his hand.

— No. This is the seal of the Order. Enchanted metal, untouched by moisture and decay. According to the Commander, this is where the treaties were kept.

Muddy spat on the ground and grinned.

— Looks like they've been busy. It's been a long time coming.

— The treaties were of no use to an outsider. No one even knew about them.

— That's true, Commander. But there are no treaties. And as for usefulness, I would disagree. You don't even know what it is. But if you know who needs it, it's a different story.

The elf lifted her eyes to the sky...

— It's getting dark.

He met the stranger's eyes, gleaming in the gathering shadows, studying the scene as if it were some kind of curiosity, either of hidden use or of no use at all. Nothing gave the wizard away, except for the white fingers around the staff and the dilated pupils. Remaining calm, the elf turned his attention back to himself.

— Commander. No nerves. We're not alone.

The three men turned in unison at the voice, raising their heads and grabbing their weapons. The girl's gaze immediately shifted to the fluttering arrowhead between her eyes. Slowly pulling her legs up and straightening herself on the ledge, the stranger showed her empty hands. Then she folded them back. Leaning against the wall, she arched her body. Slowly she shifted her weight to her arms, demonstrating an excellent split. And completed the somersault on the wall with the staff.

Reactions to the performance were mixed. Only the elf remained focused, the others fell unwittingly victim to the plasticity of the female body. The mage was the first to take a step back, muttering a warning through his teeth.

— Sorceress!

The strongman spoke more emphatically, his voice trembling.

— A witch! Look, the eyes are the eyes of a wolf!

The squad leader grimaced, either at the reaction of the squad members or at his own momentary weakness. Perhaps for some other reason... But he brushed it aside and loudly, though not without excitement, announced a few questions.

— Who are you? How long have you been hiding here?

The girl crouched down, holding the staff in front of her on the rocks. For the first time, the girl's voice echoed around her, quiet, husky, haughty and powerful.

— Well, well... Are we asking questions of strangers? Why have we come to disturb the ancient stones? Beneath us, though, the wind-whitened bones of an ancient outpost... of the Grey Guardians? But it is now swallowed up by the immensity of Corkari.

The squad leader blinked in surprise and dropped an offhand remark.

— Well, you know...

But he immediately snapped and, frowning, launched into a verbal attack.

— Since you know about the past, you should know that we have more rights than the surrounding savages. This outpost was founded by the Order. Served the Guardians faithfully for decades.

The girl pointed her chin at the guarded mage and commented on the blonde's lunge.

— Strong words. They are mine. The one with the sharp ears has more rights. As a mage, he is heir to the empire whose foundations the Greys have exploited. As an elf, he is heir to the lands whose foundations the main steel has tampered with. So what of it? If you look closely, his ears are more victim than heir. If there's a rhetoric about who comes first, whose truth is stronger... I suppose no answers are expected. No manners, no politeness. Truly vultures.

The strongman was unable to withstand the barrage of accusations and became emotional.

— We're here, and rightly so! We have an important mission, to find...

A pair of yellow eyes focused on the swordsman and immediately leapt back to the blonde. The blonde's searing gaze shut the strongman's mouth before he could say anything more. But before the leader could get a word in, the unkempt archer spoke.

— Boss! The girl might be a Hasid. Savages don't go alone, they say. I don't want to be ambushed while we're making small talk.

The 'wench' grinned wickedly, showing a set of teeth not characteristic of the fullness or whiteness of southern tribesmen. And then she teased her companions.

— Are you afraid of the Ba-arbarians? Mighty wars. I don't know about that.

The mage, approaching the leader from behind, placed a hand on his shoulder and gently reminded him of the paramount importance of time.

— Commander. It'll be dark soon, poke your eye out. We'll have to camp in the ruins. On the one hand, that's not bad. On the other hand, remember that you complained about the visibility of this peak for hours. A night without fire or light. No warmth. Maybe, just maybe, it's time to use your strong side and try some diplomacy?

From the beginning to the end of the monologue, the elf spoke his thoughts without excessive emotion, with a steady intonation. He never took his eyes off the stranger. The blond man listened in silence. He nodded at the end, but cast an annoyed glance at the wizard's hand. And the archer, demonstrating his unfitness for his current role, looked away at the last words and stared at the elf in surprise. The girl appreciated the veiled sarcasm as well, arching an eyebrow and looking at the elf with interest for the first time.

Coughing, the leader of the odd foursome addressed the sorceress again.

— So... Let's start with... Ahem. My name is Alistair. I happen to lead a squad that belongs to the Order of the Grey Guard. Although there's only one full-fledged Grey Guard... But that's only temporary. Our mission is to reach the ancient outpost in Korkari and retrieve the treaties that were once left here. Important documents for the Order. A pestilence is ravaging the lands of the south, and there is a need to ensure that those who swore an oath of service in ancient times will honour their debt with due care and concern. Unfortunately, our time is limited, and there are no documents on the spot... which coincides with the omen. So — if by any chance... Ahem... you... Ahem... know anything. We'd appreciate it.

Standing to her full height, the girl shook her head in confusion and tapped the stones twice with the tip of her staff.

— The alliances of your order are fragile, Guardian. When hopes must be pinned on ancient papers that have lain in a forgotten corner of the world for at least a century. It is not for a southern barbarian to judge the ways of the civilised north. It is typical to show an ally a piece of paper that can easily become a deadly weapon in the hands of one's enemies. Just for the sake of bonding. But let us start with the important things. So, to achieve success, you must hurry back. But where to? And what's the hurry?

The archer spat, tossing it aside as if in passing, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

— Too few answers and too many hard questions. We're going to be in trouble with the witch.

The stranger ignored the least groomed archer in the group, focusing her attention only on Alistair. The others glanced around disapprovingly. As the blond man searched for words, the girl pursed her lips, barely perceptible in the fading light of day. Too many facts had been thrown into the air at once, and she had to catch a lot at random, taking much for granted. In the meantime, the blonde replied with a frown.

— Ostagar. There are the stakes of the armies of the northern and southern Banns, gathered under the banner and call of King Ferelden.

Hearing this, the girl even leaned forward, shifting some of her weight onto the staff.

— Much has been said and nothing done, but I'll try to catch the fox by the tail. I see the Grey Order has not recovered from the fall of Dryden, for on the eve of the Mawr and, I presume, a serious battle for the treaties, such a wretched troop is sent. And the army is not led by the Greys, is it? Thousands of warm pieces of flesh, gathered in one place as if being served dinner. The creatures of darkness will not be able to resist the temptation for days. And you expect to crush the vermin at once, to stem the tide that threatens your lands. To delay the plague for a year or two. An idea as dangerous as it is daring. What could go wrong...

Pointing north, the girl narrowed her eyes and considered her own options. It seemed that the only way out of Corcari would soon become a gambling den with unprecedented stakes. Wise would have preferred to wait for the outcome from a safe distance. But as a result of this venture, the forests of Corcari would begin to swarm with spawn in the coming nights. So it seemed that the only band of warriors capable of standing between the girl and her enemies was stationed below. The sorceress had also considered the girl's strange curiosity about the identity of the chieftain who had masterminded the daring plan. There was also the disturbing sense of menace that connected her to her mother, the puff of smoke on the horizon, and the dark breach in her memory. It smelled of a subtle fear that urged the girl not to hesitate, to run, until... Until...

Turning her attention back down, the stranger said.

— Today is your lucky day, Guardian.

Smirking at the four stern looks, the girl pulled the tube out of her pocket and threw it at the blonde. Deftly catching the object in mid-flight, Alistair immediately realised what had fallen into his hands. From the look on the leader's face, the point had been captured by the others. But it was the strongman who made the first comment, snatching the weighty blade from its sheath.

— Thief!

Fear and rage mixed in an uncontrollable combination, either trying to overwhelm each other or throwing the warrior's body into the fight to get rid of the thoughts crawling in his cramped head. But before he could do or say anything foolish, the man received a painful blow to the head from the elf's staff. Turning to face the crawling strongman, Alistair cut him off with a heavy dose of metal in his voice.

— Calm down, Jory. Whoever she is... the lady who never identified herself. Now it's obvious where the real files are. At least I'm glad they're safe. Aren't they?

The girl nodded affirmatively and continued to negotiate with a haughty tone.

— Now that we understand each other, here's the deal, Guardian. Thanks to the Northerners, it's dangerous to stay in these woods. I'll tell you this much. Winter in Korkari is not for the thin-skinned or the stubborn, and the Dark Ones will make this dish inedible. You will bring this humble witch safely to Ostagar. And at all costs, keep the savage secretly present in the middle of the military camp. Until the army retreats to the north. In return, your treaties.

— W... Witch! They're already ours!

— I said calm down!

Finding the treaties in the hands of a wild sorceress, unaffiliated with the Circles and literally at arm's length, unnerved the blonde. The man was not the least bit enthusiastic about the deal and made no secret of his attitude. But once again the elf intervened.

— I don't see why it's taking so long, Commander. A deal is a deal. As far as I know, we're not being asked to do anything unpleasant from the Order's point of view. If you've got a lump in your throat, fill it with ale when you get back to Duncan. In the meantime...

The swordsman, who had never put down his blade, suddenly entered the conversation.

— What are you saying? How can you bring a witch into a military camp? And... And even if... How do you even...

Alistair stopped the stream of questions by raising his hand. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, the man replied.

— You are right. Both of you. But, Jory, I'm afraid you overestimate the difficulty. You should have noticed it in the last few days. Because of the number of people who have trouble tolerating their neighbours in normal times, the main forces have been thrown into suppressing internal disturbances. The Sentinels are on the lookout for spawn, that's all. And it is not that they are negligent. The surrounding lands are empty, and spies in the Spawn are an unheard-of fiction. Getting into the camp is not difficult. More to be feared is the behaviour of... the lady.

At these words, the blond man cast a thoughtful glance at the elf. The girl smiled in response to the thrown hook.

— So much concern... for his own skin. I would have to assume that the savage was not lacking in intelligence and that she was not looking to make friends with the Templars on foreign soil.

The mage shook his head as if to emphasise, "There, you see," and returned his gaze to the squad leader.

— Yes, yes, you're right, Alim. We agree. I agree. You have my word. Now can we...

The girl tapped her staff on the stones, interrupting Alistair's words, and summarised.

— Let there be an agreement, between Morrigan, daughter of Flemet, and Alistair, the Grey Guardian.

Jory groaned softly, and the unshaven archer cursed in a dirty, tavernish manner, summing up the general feeling of the group.

— Take the abyss. With our luck, it won't be 'whatever' Flemette. The Witch of the Wilds of legend...

A large raindrop shatters on the grey stones. The first of many...

Before the sun had time to sink below the horizon, the source of daylight was finally obscured by a cloud. Approaching rapidly from the east, the cloud represented the impending nightfall of Korkari. The swirling cloud resembled a sea turned upside down and frozen in a storm. The high areas seemed to emanate an inner light, transitioning smoothly to leaden, almost black tones at the crests of the storm surges falling to the ground.

During the exchange of treaties, the wind seemed to die down completely and the group hurried down the hill, accompanied by the occasional drizzle. But as they crossed the clearing, a sound began to build behind them. It was as if something was rushing through the woods, hills and clearings. As Jorie looked around in surprise, Morrigan threw the hood of her sleeveless cap over her head and quickened her pace to catch up with Alistair.

— We must hurry, Guardian.

The blond man looked back at the girl irritably and cut her off.

— I know...

At that moment, the sound of the 'witch's' laughter echoed over the group, bringing a cold, torrential rain down on their shoulders, instantly soaking them to the bone. The archer, who introduced himself as Daveth, cursed again through clenched teeth and summarised.

— The end of the bowstring.

Without slowing down, the squad leader threw it over his shoulder.

— Where did you put the leather that came with the bow?

— Oh... Southern bowstring, the good kind. All-weather. It's a big seller among the soldiers. I bargained for corned beef, a pair of thick gloves and five coppers.

Shivering in the rain, Jory frowned.

— He hadn't noticed any corned beef at the halt.

— Of course he had. He would have taken it with him. Stashed it in Ostagar.

— Wax?

— A sensible thought comes after the fact.

Alistair concluded the dialogue with a sigh and a brief assessment of Daveth's savoir faire.

— Idiot...

For the next hour the men walked in silence through the inhospitable forest. There were no recognisable tracks, so they had to keep their eyes on their feet. The lack of sunlight, moonlight and starlight made this difficult. Heavy rain squeezed the bleak world down to five or six paces in each direction. The only lightness was in the girl who walked sideways, as if there were no water falling from the sky. She glided effortlessly through the motionless wilderness.

The strongman was the first to break down, sadly venting his personal worries on his comrades.

— It's cold and hungry. Will there be a break?

Without slowing down, Alistair ran a gloved hand over his face, brushing away the excess moisture and tucking back his wet hair.

— No. If there's a shelter for the night, I don't know about it.

Glancing in the direction of his companion, the Commander left the unspoken question hanging in the air. But the sorceress just shook her head negatively, without elaboration — no desire to answer, and no shelter. After a pause, the blond man continued.

— If we stop in the rain, we will freeze in our wet clothes without a fire. And there's no way of making a fire here, even with magic. Right, Alim?

The elf at the back of the column brushed drops from his eyelashes, adjusted his wet hood and snorted, denying the feasibility of such a feat without a word.

Four things happened in the next quarter of an hour. First. On another slope, Davet slipped and disappeared with a loud screech among the roots of the sprawling southern pines. The man was found a few dozen metres down the slope. Unharmed, uninjured, dirty, but extremely hurt by the shared smiles and Morrigan's contemptuous gaze. The girl was the only member of the party to have slid down without getting dirty up to her waist.

Second, the intensity of the rain slowly decreased. It was replaced by a drizzle, just as annoyingly cold, but not obscuring my vision. The temperature continued to drop, turning my breath into puffs of steam that seeped through my wet clothes into every nook and cranny of my body.

Thirdly, the group came across a track that was clearly visible in the wet ground of another clearing, and therefore fresh. It ran northeast at right angles to their current course. The footprints were strange and deep. Alistair blew his nose and spoke his thoughts.

— Genlocks. A dozen of them. Walking in formation, not a pack. They're coming out with the leader. No shoes, so no equipment.

Morrigan also turned her attention to the footprints, adding a few words of her own.

— Less than an hour ago. Whoever was captured last month had at least some semblance of clothing and weapons.

The blond man nodded and scratched his chin.

— They were in a hurry.

— A guess?

— I don't sense any spawn nearby. So we've moved a good distance away.

Finally, as the party climbed another hill, grunting wearily, a wolf's howl was heard behind them. It was echoed by replies to the left and right. Instinctively, the group rose and the men turned. Even though they could not see anything in the darkness of the night in the middle of the forest. With an exasperated groan, the witch articulated her own attitude in a straightforward manner.

— Children in the forest for the first time. The herd surrounds the prey. Stay alert and keep moving. At the right time, the predators will catch up.

Alistair slipped the half-extracted blade back into its sheath, scowled, but strode off in the original direction. The elf gave Morrigan a thoughtful look and followed. Only Daveth, unaccustomed to feeling victimised rather than hunted, and Jorie, who replied with a hint of anger in her voice, hesitated.

— Your friends, witch?

The girl, however, did not even turn to look at the words, but walked at the same level as the group leader.

The pack caught up with the travellers closer to the summit, keeping up the tension with a relentless roll call that made it impossible to forget — the beasts were everywhere. The massive wolfhound materialised silently from the tangle of darkness and undergrowth on the left flank, ready to take down the two-legged leader in one fell swoop. Alistair, however, was quick to react. Ripping the rounded shield from his belt, the blonde faced the beast with a left to right blow to the head. The screaming female collapsed to the ground before she could finish her jump.

The first blood belonged to the perpetually terrified Jory. In real combat, the strongman gathered himself, unleashed his blade in one fluid motion and, without slowing his swing, plunged it into the spine of the approaching wolf's neck. Daveth leapt nimbly away from the snapping jaws at his feet. The man caught the bow like a club and swung it away. The elf whispered something, covering the tip of his staff with his hand, and a firefly flickered dimly above their heads. Choosing her own target, the girl crept between the trees, speaking softly and curtly.

— Frius. Tenachi.

An outstretched hand clenched a fist. There was a low whimper, followed by the soft sound of a carcass falling into the grass, frozen to the bone. From start to finish, the result was hidden under a blanket of darkness.

Behind him, Alistair drew his blade and drove it swiftly and unceremoniously into the rising beast's throat. The female flinched with a final convulsive grasp, but the attack of the predators had only just begun. More wolves appeared, one after another taking shape in the surrounding darkness. One miraculously leapt under the whistling sweep of a flashing blade, catching Jory in a vulnerable position. The weighty sword continued to pull the man's arms and torso aside as the beastly jaw clamped down on his fleshy thigh, struggling to bite through the thick edge of his long gambeson and soft woollen trousers.

Seeing his partner's predicament, Davet threw his useless bow at the animal that had set its sights on him. And he jumped, dragging the beast with his own weight, trying to rip a piece out of the swordsman. The wolf seemed to have only to twist and lock its jaws around the hapless archer's neck. But the duo rolled over a few times in the grass, and Daveth leapt to his feet, a bloody dagger the width of a palm. And the wolf remained lying.

As Jory shifted his stance, shifting his weight from his injured leg to his healthy one, his eyes searching for a new target, the creature swooped down on the warrior's back, its jaws searching for the vulnerable throat. A quick flash from Alim's magic arrow left a smoking crater in the carnivore's body just below its right paw, and the body dropped dead at its partner's feet.

Morrigan wasted no time. She unscrewed her staff and, with a crunch, dropped the tip onto the skull of the beast as it ran towards her. The wolf's snout knocked it into the grass, and the carcass, moving in a straight line, tumbled past. At the same moment, the squad leader crouched down to meet another wolfhound's open mouth as it leapt for the shield. Straightening, the man threw it back into the bushes with a crunch.

And silence fell...

Davet turned sharply to one side, then the other, trying to see where the threat came from. Jory dropped the end of his blade to the ground and grabbed his wounded leg, trying to steady his breathing. Alim and Morrigan mirrored each other's frowns. Suspicion gripped both of them, but only the man turned to face the leader, watching Alistair's vaguely discernible facial expressions closely in the night.

As the former archer licked his lips and, with trembling hands, pulled rags and a vial of herbal medicine for Jory from behind his belt, the blond man shook his head and reluctantly spat into the grass.

— Spawn. Many. Coming.

The girl fixed the hair that was stuck to her forehead and added in a low voice.

— A surprisingly useful skill. Sensing the enemy without seeing him with your eyes. Does it work the other way round? Well... Enemies, I think the vocal call of the wolf pack has attracted them.

After casting a sombre glance in the direction of the proud and fearless sorceress, even in such a situation, the blond man looked around and pointed his blade in a certain direction.

— The trees are thinning on the other side. Twenty paces. We'll be crushed in the thicket. We'll climb out into the clearing. Run!

Alistair led the way, dashing through the bushes, shielding his face. With a pained gasp, Jori and Daveth followed, followed by Alim and Morrigan. The trees had cleared into a characteristic clearing, with a few overgrown trunks lying in the grass and a dozen stumps that looked like curved fangs sticking out of the ground in the darkness. They chose a more level spot away from the edge of the field, turned and waited.

A minute, then another. Time drained away as if frozen, threatening to bury its weight in the oppressive darkness. The sorceress arched an eyebrow and cast a thoughtful glance at the blonde, but he stared tense into the blackness of the thicket, not in the least doubting the prediction. Jory was naturally more nervous than the others. The strongman was sweating and breathing heavily. Even Daveth began to twitch visibly.

Finally, a sound came from the forest. The crunch of twigs and the strange, muffled rhythm of footsteps approached. Followed by heavy breathing. Then, as if by magic, the western edge of the sky cleared. Through the torn edges of the clouds, the clearing was flooded with pure starlight. Among the dozens of flickering lights was the bright constellation of Visus, the Watcher's Eye, which had watched the changing world from the eternal heavens since the beginning of time. And then the darkness gave birth to its own creatures beneath that light.

Alistair raised his weapon and shield and shouted.

— Genlocks!

The creatures that emerged from the forest were barely the chest height of an average man, and they moved on all fours. But the massive forearms, with their taut harnesses of muscle, easily embarrassed even Jory. Then he turned to the broad shoulders, the shoulder blades, the muddy brown skin, the deep-set eyes in an oversized skull, and a jaw so heavy it looked disproportionately hollow. Not a trace of clothing or weaponry.

A moment later, more quietly, the team leader added to the first sentence.

— Behind them is the leader.

The first five spawn froze for a heartbeat or two, sniffed, then sprinted towards the squad, maintaining a semblance of formation. The wall of flesh was awesome. But it wasn't the blades that met it, it was Alim.

Under Morrigan's gaze of surprise and envy, the elf weaved an intricate spell and exhaled the repulsion field. Immediately, a translucent pulse spread out from the mage's body like spring water.

Closing his eyes, Alim tensed, and a new translucent pulse rushed towards the Genloks. Five of the rammers were thrown back into the air and flung away. The rest smashed through the barrier with a vengeance, not even taking the time to regroup. With a muffled groan, the elf collapsed unconscious into the grass. And the firefly hovering above him blinked and disappeared.

Jory tried to counter, but the creature showed no lack of agility. It ducked to the right and almost caught the warrior's arm, who immediately took a step back. Alistair was unable to follow its swift approach either. The blow to the shield didn't slip, but went into the upper outer quarter, almost twisting the blonde's arm. Wrenching, he moved half a step closer to the monster. And instead of a stabbing attack, he executed a sharp outward-upward swing, splitting its cheek and eye.

The Morrigan was quick to aim. Spitting out the right words in quick succession, she chilled Henlock's advancing Jory to the core with a frost grip. A few moments of disorientation for the hissing foe, and the swordsman had enough time to turn and deliver a downward slash to the neck. The blade sliced through the scapula, plunged between the creature's ribs and lodged in the middle of the clenched flesh.

Closing his eyes, Alim tensed, and a new translucent pulse rushed toward the Genloks. Five of the ramming men were thrown back into the air and flung away. The remainder burst through the barrier with force, not even taking the time to regroup. With a muffled groan, the Elf collapsed unconscious into the grass. And the firefly hovering above him blinked and disappeared.

Jory tried to counter, but the creature showed no lack of agility. It ducked to the right and nearly caught the warrior's arm, causing him to take a step back. Alistair was unable to follow its swift approach either. The blow to the shield didn't slip, but went into the upper outer quarter, almost twisting the blonde's arm. Wrenching, he moved half a step closer to the monster. And instead of a stabbing attack, he executed a sharp outward-upward swing, splitting its cheek and eye.

The Morrigan was quick to aim. Spitting out the right words in quick succession, she chilled Henlock's advancing Jory to the core with a frost grip. A few moments of disorientation for the hissing foe, and the swordsman had enough time to turn and deliver a downward slash to the neck. The blade sliced through the scapula, plunged between the creature's ribs and lodged in the middle of the clenched flesh.

At the same time, Alistair flew back a few paces from the side with an awkward sound. He was thrown back by the one-eyed spawn with his shoulder. Ignoring the threatening blade, the blonde's opponent slammed into the shield with his full body weight. This eventually robbed the Commander of the ground beneath his feet. Fortunately, he managed to keep his balance without falling onto his back. The nimble Daveth was close enough to seize the opportunity to drive his dagger between Genlock's ribs. The swift lunge was successful, but it failed to sever the creature's life on the spot. The enraged monster demonstrated the power of his massive arms, sending the hapless man flying five metres with a single fist. The impact itself, and the jarring crunch of the fall, did not bode well, but there was no distraction for the wounded man at the moment.

The next thing she knew, Henlock's head jerked unnaturally as his jaw hit the end of the staff. Unfolding it over her head, Morrigan managed to distract the creature and, as she retreated, touched Jory's sword, cooling the metal with her ice weapon. The blade, now covered in frost, creaked out of the dead spawn's body, allowing Jory to whirl it around without interruption. With a whistle, it passed over the girl as she fell into the grass, the blade cleanly blowing off the head of another monster.

The well-earned respite lasted a heartbeat, after which the last five spawns burst into the wavering formation of those still conscious. Jory immediately took the hardest blow to the jaw. A mixture of blood from a shattered lip and teeth spurted sideways from his mouth. The snake charmer spun in the grass, avoiding the feet of the two Genlocks. Alistair, on the other hand, took a running start and slammed his shield into the last pair as they chose who would strike first. Crouching under the ensuing right blow, the blonde even managed to brush the tip of his blade against the torso of one of them.

As the creature that had attacked the strongman hissed familiarly and covered itself in a thin crust of frost, thanks to the 'witch', Jory grinned grimly with a mouth that resembled pulp. With the full force of his arms and the inertia of his twisting torso, the man brought the weight of his blade down on Genlock's massive skull, cracking it to the cervical vertebrae with a nasty, wet crunch. Breathing heavily, the man struggled to pull the blade back and, no longer holding it in front of him, dragged it across the grass by its end. Just in time to come face to face with the two 'Sorceress Hunters'.

A blow flashed, stabbing Jory in the shoulder and nearly knocking the warrior's blade out. The man slowed with each passing second. At the same time, Alistair, still flailing between the two massive opponents, was able to muzzle one with his shield and stab the other in the throat with a sharp lunge. Unfortunately, the creature, dying of convulsions, jerked backwards, snatching the weapon from the Commander's hands and leaving him face-to-face with the second Genlock with only a shield.

In one fluid motion, the Morrigan leapt to her feet and surveyed the battle scene with a wavering gaze. The threat was as clear as the palm of her hand. For the companions needed for Ostagar. A moment's hesitation and disorientation caused Genlock to blurt out a punch aimed at Jory's nose. The man walked away from the second monster's blow on his own, greeting the muzzle with his own fist. The first blow was followed more confidently by three, knocking the creature onto its side. A few metres to the side, the blond man, unarmed, did not hesitate, deflecting another blow with his shield and lunging forward. A shoulder blow. Shield from below. And, on pure adrenaline, a series of edged blows from top to bottom. Finally Genlock, shielding his eyes, became confused.

The girl rushed up behind him and thrust a staff between the legs of the flanking spawn at Jory, straining to knock the man off balance and give the swordsman precious seconds alone with his own monster. With a grunt, the man swung the blade down, slicing through the genlock's entrails and nailing the carcass to the ground. At the same moment, Alistair used the mass of his body against the defensively crouching spawn, knocking the creature to the ground as well. And immediately lunged for his sword.

Gripping the tangled Genlock with a "Frost Grip", the Morrigan wielded the staff like a club and began to methodically beat the rest of his brains out.

Moving at the limit of his strength, the squad leader pulled a blade from the fleeing corpse and, returning in an arc to the rising Genlock, drove the sword as deep as he could with a vicious growl, twisting the blade in the wound.

In a sudden pause, they all turned towards the empty heath. Jory was exhausted and bloodied, Morrigan angry, Alistair distant. While the swordsman looked around nervously, the sorceress immediately turned her attention to the blonde. He sucked in air, exhaled a cloud of steam and shook his head in denial.

— Not feeling it. Probably left in the middle of a fight, but there was no time for that. Clever creature, not like... this one. All the more dangerous than the normal ones put together.

Picking up a generous bundle of wet grass, the commander carefully wiped the black blood from the blade, wiped it on his gambon and sent it back into its sheath.

— I'm going to see Davet. Look after Alim... please.

Morrigan arched an eyebrow and grinned fiercely.

— Courtesy, how challenging and new. So be it.

While Jory was less adept at scrubbing his own weapon and frowned at his surroundings, the stars that had briefly peeked out began to disappear again behind the clouds, robbing the clearing of its already scarce light. Meanwhile, the girl bent over the elf and pressed two fingers to the man's neck. Checking for a faint pulse, the sorceress slipped behind his back.

— The mage is alive. Looks like exhaustion due to a temporary depletion of reserve mana. The body couldn't take the strain. Dangerous magic. Rare.

Without hearing an answer, Morrigan frowned and turned to meet the grim gaze of the blond squatting man. He shook his head slowly in the negative and raised his face to the clouds as he closed his eyes. The strongman, preoccupied with his own business, did not notice the silent conversation. And the girl, guessing at the background, decided to go up and see for herself what had happened.

Daveth's luck turned away from him in a prosaic and unpretentious way. The grass of the clearing hid the trunks of the once proud forest that had fallen for one reason or another. Some were already shriveled, others, though whitened by the weather, were still as hard as the bones of the dead. And it wasn't even a fragment of a branch, its sharp end sticking out half a palm to the right. It was just that he had fallen headlong into the rock-hard pine trunk, breaking his neck in the process.

The sorceress pursed her lips and said dryly.

— A smaller unit means less chance of reaching Ostagar in one piece.

— I don't know if I should be happy that a witch from the backwoods of Korkari is worried about our lives.

Morrigan snorted and put her hands at her sides.

— The witch only cares about the word given in exchange for the papers. Can the warrior keep his promise now?

Alistair squeaked squeamishly, but nodded and spoke in one syllable.

— Don't even think about it. I'd rather die than give you the benefit of the doubt.

— That's what worries me. A typical knight — honour, word, principles. A pinch of what's respectable and a heap of rubbish. Well, the opportunity should be taken. Think of it as a goodwill gesture, to make your arrival at the military camp easier.

The squad leader looked up at the sorceress, both annoyed and surprised by the phrase. Not quite understanding the meaning behind the words. The girl's subsequent actions, step by step, began to clarify the intent. Leaning her staff against the trunk of a fallen pine, Morrigan deftly unfastened and loosened the clasps of the dead man's body. Under the bewildered gaze of the blonde, and then of an outraged but silent Jorie, all but the underwear was controversially removed from the corpse.

Then, oblivious to the shocked faces, the girl began to undress. Soon she was in a shirt, showing the modest audience the length of her slender legs, used to long cross-country treks, and the enchantress proceeded to put on the men's clothes. Tying and tightening the laces and belt, Morrigan made the garment feel a little too large, but it fit. Rolling the rest into a pouch and securing it to her belt, she looked around at the men, oblivious to their wounds from exhaustion and embarrassed by the unexpected spectacle.

— I'm done. Wake the elf and let's go.

Fifteen days before. Amidst the vastness of shadow. In the midst of a swirling misty mass, split by flashes of silent discharges. A distorted echo...

— The gift is presented. Tarens, plucked from the torpor of their captivity. Full of pain. Full of thoughts. Of memory and peace. Dripping with despair. Punctured by thin veins of longing. The deal is done. Ma halani. Sulevin ghilana khanin. To the extraordinary. To that which is not yet there. To that which is beyond other treasures. To a glimpse of uniqueness in an ocean of monotony.

— Mm-hmm... I see it. Burning, gnawing from the inside of my being. An enemy, like the viddav bass, but implacable, relentless, urging me to chase after what's slipping away. Devouring caution and patience. Tearing attentiveness apart. To understand first. Exclusivity is not a place, not a thing, not even an essence. Just a state. Like a bright thread in a canvas of dicks. Fickle, shifting. Thousands of lives, one after the other, many at once, form the chance for a single moment to find the exceptional. For this kind of work, diligence is above all other virtues.

— Empty meanings? The price has been paid! A Sepheneran woven from words is useless. Melana... Times of life are thrown about freely by the weak, the helpless and those who willfully ignore the ways of the strong.

— True. The strong take what is there. The wise build their own. Now... There will be another way to the right one. Roundabout, narrow, not without traps and slippery places. The extraordinary can be stolen. Cunning and courage will serve as protection, and the strength gathered from the harvest as a weapon. Feel and remember the one moment beyond which the path to what you want begins. And the guardian of that path is worthy of reward. Na melana sahlin.

— Tricky and dangerous. The moment is close... Too close, Shapeless!

— A herach contains value when there is less than what is needed. It is a gift. The unnecessary mass is from now on a small treasure, grain by grain, growing in value...