Chapter Text
Wind swept off the Nocen Sea to ghost over Sethia’s skin, raising gooseflesh on her arms and brushing strands of hair across her face. The night was still dark, the faint glow of the southern moon as it dipped below the horizon barely more than a memory as the sun chased it into morning. The water of the bay rippled in small waves. The only sign that the world moved around her. The slaves making their way through her halls, readying the estate for her long journey south, made no noise.
They knew the consequences of interrupting her early morning vigil.
Her legs protested as she rose, sore after a frozen hour of silent contemplation, but she paid them no mind. She had long grown accustomed to ignoring the physical aches of her body. The bowl of fried bread and olives placed on the table seemed to mock her. Soon, she would no longer need to bother with such a grotesque act, sustaining herself on the energies of the raw Fade like a true being of power. But until her work was complete, she must eat like the rest of the crawling masses.
She gathered her long hair and twisted it into a knot behind her head, the fragrance of lingering oil from the previous night’s bath lingering in her nostrils. Her mouth twitched only once as she schooled herself into acceptance.
Soon this mortal cage would be broken open.
A steady mote of divine silence hovered in the back of her mind—a comfort, a reminder to be patient. Her god would see her transformed. Her god would lead her to her true place atop the new world order.
She turned to the doorway. A slave stood beside the polished onyx frame, his eyes downcast and firmly fixed on the floor in front of him.
Sethia flicked her fingers in permission. The slave moved forward quickly and silently, a piece of parchment held in his hand. She took it without a glance, as the slave dutifully turned and left. Another flick of her fingers and a candle burst to life on the table.
She swallowed a gulp of water. It slid down her throat and swirled in her empty stomach. The note was etched in small, elegant handwriting that made her fingers clench as soon as she recognized it.
My dear Conductor of the Choir of Silence,
I leave with my people at first light to oversee the final placement of the spell framework. I trust that you were thorough in your design, but I am a nervous man at heart. I could not let it rise without seeing for myself the extent of your prowess. I shall meet you in Emerius when you arrive at the end of the month. Hopefully, I will have everything ready for you and our lord.
Your gracious attendant, as always,
Architect of the Works of Beauty
Sethia’s teeth ground together as she stared at the scrawling signature. The arrogant fool would find nothing amiss. The idea that he had left without her, that he would be the first to reach the City of Chains and look upon her work made her blood boil. The paper dissolved in her hand, tendrils of whispering black smoke trailing into the air around her fingers.
She had no choice but to change her plans. She would leave today.
A shifting of sheets and a soft exhale of breath behind her intruded on her thoughts.
Sethia did not turn as she listened to the man rise, fine silk flowing over smooth skin and the quiet beating of his heart under it all. She ate slowly, still standing with her back to the room. Even from this distance, the steady thud of blood pumping through his flesh spoke of weakness. Feet padded across the marble floor. A hand pressed to her upper back.
“You seem tense,” the man said, threading his hands around her waist and kissing her neck.
“It is nothing,” she said, finishing a single piece of bread. “You should not have risen.”
The hands around her waist tensed. A small hitch of fear in his breath.
“My apologies,” he murmured, withdrawing his arms and stepping to a respectful distance he should have held from the start. “I did not mean to disturb you, mistress.”
Sethia stared out across the water, her eyes tracing the crescent line of the bay. She imagined the swaying willow trees along the bank and the quiet clicking of sand beetles in the early morning chill. Her world was fragile—a small thing balanced on the edge of a knife. The quaintness of her home, the soft whispers of long grass, the steady break of water upon bleached sand.
A facade, she thought, turning at last to face the man.
She knew he was beautiful—she would not have been sent anything less than the finest bedwarmer in the Northern Province. Her petty lords knew better than to tempt her anger. But there was a dullness to his features, a predictability in his rosy cheeks and curling golden hair. “Come here.”
He moved at once, eyes wide and attentive. On another day, Sethia might have smiled at the quick response, but her mind was already wrapped up in thoughts of the new world, so close now she could almost touch it.
“When your family gave you to me, you said you were eager to serve, that nothing would give you greater pleasure than ensuring my happiness.” She paused, watching the color rise up his neck and blot his cheeks as fear pulsed under his papery skin. “How do you think you have fared?”
His lips trembled. “I have always striven to serve you as best I could, mistress.”
Sethia tilted her head, catching one golden curl in her hand and twisting it behind his ear. “As best you could,” she mused, studying his fine blue veins. So fragile. So weak. “And yet you are, and can never be more than, human. Your best is lacking.”
His eyes were wide, frozen. She brought her hand back and slashed one finger through the air.
The skin of his neck parted like a flower opening its petals. Blood welled, waiting for her permission to fall. He was frozen by more than his own fear. Sethia turned up her palm, and the blood answered, trailing through the air in a lazy swirl, coalescing into an opaque mirror that revolved in front of her face. The man twitched once, a small, disgusting gurgle bubbling out from his lips. She frowned in distaste and pulled harder, the gash on his neck opening wide. Sethia listened to the stuttering beat of his heart, and heard when it finally, blissfully, stopped.
The body slumped to the floor, brushed aside until one of her slaves could dispose of it.
Sethia turned to the disk as certainty settled into the base of her spine. The divine silence in the back of her mind, always there, ever watchful, brightened, and the blood rippled. It spun faster as she poured her will into it, reaching through the Veil to call on her master, her lord.
The room faded to a dull shimmer as Sethia became aware of a vast, all-knowing presence. The blood disk slowed, rippling slightly at the edges until it was a calm surface.
A faceless voice echoed through her mind. “How soon you reach for me after our last lesson, Sethia. I thought you had developed more patience after these long years of my tutelage.”
She forced herself not to react, to keep her face respectfully downcast. Her master despised weakness and thought it the hallmark of a feeble mind to let one’s emotions show. “My apologies, my lord, but I thought you would wish to know that the Architect will arrive soon to the City of Chains. He taunts me with his insistence on overseeing the construct, thinking, no doubt, to take what glory is yours by right for his own master.”
Urthemiel had never struck Sethia as a particularly ambitious god, no matter his majesty. That his high priest was so interfering was not his fault. All the gods were worthy of her reverence, of course, but it was Dumat alone who claimed her allegiance.
A prick of amusement filtered through the mote of silence in the back of her mind. “The Architect is eager to see my brethren and I released from our prison. Why should he not strive to ensure our success?”
Sethia did not allow herself to indulge in the frustration of such meager praise for another god’s chosen.
“I think it wise we remind him of who it was that brought my mandate to him in the first place, don’t you?”
A small smile stretched across her lips. “Of course, my lord.”
“You are my scion, Sethia. I would see you command this endeavor in my name. For in the world after, your place is assured.”
Pride swelled through her and her cheeks flushed. She bowed her head. “My lord is generous. I am unworthy of such trust.”
“You are,” he mused, his echoing voice barely more than a whisper, “but that is no fault of yours. Humanity is a parasite. It must be elevated. Only then will you truly know the power locked behind my prison gates.”
Tears pricked at Sethia’s eyes. “I am, forever, your humble servant.”
“Then take my blessing.”
A tendril of blood snaked out of the disk, pressing against the tear in the Veil, and touched her forehead. Power flowed through the connection, raw and pulsing with the certainty of what she must do.
“I await further news,” her lord whispered, withdrawing back to his realm of shadow and darkness.
Sethia waited, letting the power of her blood sacrifice hum pleasantly in her limbs. It was the only time her mortal cage felt right, brimming with the life-essence of someone else, buoyed by the touch of her master’s vast power. Soon, she would lose this, but the sacrifice would be worth all this and more. It would be worth the world.
She shrugged off her thin shift and began dawning the armored robes of her station. Black iron threaded with runic markings, the legacy of her people when they landed on these shores so long ago, guided by the gods through the old ways of blood and sacrifice. Constellations of their divine presence ran down her ribs, circled her wrists, held her spine straight and firm. Thick velvet of richest black draped over her shoulders.
She placed the mantle of the Conductor of the Choir of Silence on her brow.
Power. That was the difference between her and the empty shell on the ground. The power to change her own fate. The power to change the world.
She took a deep breath and snapped her fingers.
A slave appeared in the doorway.
“I leave for Emerius. Send my retinue and house after me. I expect them to arrive within the month.”
“Yes, mistress,” the slave whispered, and disappeared.
Sethia strode to the corner of her rooms, the sun’s first light breaking over the calm seas and spearing across the black marble floor. With a wave of her hand, a heavy tapestry pulled back from the wall to reveal an ornately carved mirror. It glowed faintly, twelve feet tall and circled in an ancient language she had never been able to learn, for every time she gazed upon it, her eyes blurred and her mind strained as she tried understand the subtle curve of each letter.
Understanding was not necessary for power, but some small part of her still wanted it. The part of her she had long tried to strangle under the faithful tutelage of her master.
“Dumat be praised,” she whispered, and the mirror’s surface blossomed into a riot of color.
It faded fast, but the hum and tang of the magic within the enchanted glass held. The mirrors had been a gift from Dumat, another token of his favor. No other high priest had access to them, for she alone held his confidence. It made her smile, to think of the Architect’s shock when she met him at their construct a month early. She might even reach Emerius before him.
Readying herself for the hard trek through the world on the other side of the mirror, Sethia closed her eyes, and steadied herself with the thought that soon, this world would burn in the remaking of her paradise. Soon, her lord would walk free again and Thedas would know true enlightenment.
She stepped through the mirror’s surface, toward the dawn of a new world.