Magnus
Tiberius' Private Quarters - Hours Later
The
halls of the Officer's Wing hum faintly with the night's low
resonance, the quiet, distant murmur of the Keep's systems
breathing. Magnus walks at a leisurely pace, for once without the
ironclad stride of command. His shoulders hang loose; his head
slightly dipped. The psychoactive liquor from dinner still courses
through his blood. His pulse is calm, his thoughts quieted, the world
softened into muted edges and warm haze.
It's
an alien feeling for him; carelessness.
And
yet he welcomes it.
He
moves like a man half-submerged in memory, boots echoing lightly on
the marble as his mind replays the earlier conversation with Spartan.
Their virtues are both their strengths and their weaknesses… Her
words stir something within him, a rare agreement, a recognition of
truth from someone whose instincts are as lethal as her hands. He
considers the Venators' faith: how ritual can be turned into rhythm,
how rhythm can become vulnerability. Psychological warfare,
attrition, and the inevitable collapse of conviction, that is how
she hunts. And perhaps, how they must.
He
smiles faintly to himself at the thought, though the motion feels
strange on his face.
Halfway
down the corridor, the silence breaks.
"Magnus?"
The
voice comes from behind, sharp, familiar. He turns, just slightly off
balance. Varric stands outside his quarters, leaning against the door
frame, and beside him, Lucian Dain, massive, silent, arms crossed.
The contrast is stark: Varric's half-dressed casualness beside Dain's
soldierly stillness.
Both
stare as Magnus turns fully toward them.
He
sways just enough for it to be noticed. His fatigues, simple black
and grey, make him look more like a field officer than the General
Supreme of Civitas. It's not how they usually see him.
Varric
is the first to speak, his tone a mixture of surprise and amusement.
"By
the stars, it's been years since I've seen that look on your face."
Lucian
narrows his eyes slightly. The faint scent hits him first, strong
alcohol, Vardengard incense, and something deeper beneath: that
sharp, earthy bite of the psychoactive drink. "Magnus… you are
drunk."
Magnus
blinks at him, then smiles again, faint, harmless. "Observant as
ever, Lucian."
Varric
laughs, low and genuine. "Drunk. You. Gods, Magnus, I think the
last time was," he squints, "your twenty-second birthday.
When Cassius nearly had you court-martialed for singing war hymns
naked on the officer's balcony."
Magnus'
expression doesn't change, though his eyes flick toward him with mild
irritation. "An exaggeration."
Lucian
glances to Varric, then back to Magnus. "What's the occasion
then?"
Magnus'
tone is composed, even. "Dinner."
Varric
raises a brow. "Dinner? You missed our
dinner."
"I
had one already," Magnus replies, the faintest smirk breaking
through. "With my Varden."
Varric
laughs again, shaking his head. "Of course you did. The great
General Supreme, dining with his dogs instead of his generals."
He looks him over, grinning. "And look where that got you.
Reeking of incense and regret."
Magnus'
gaze slides past them, toward the faint shimmer of the corridor's
end. "Regret?" he repeats, the word softened by the
alcohol's edge. "No. Reflection."
Lucian
studies him more closely now. Despite the drink, Magnus' eyes are
clear, steady, calculating, the way they always are. But there's a
looseness to him. A dangerous calm.
Varric
crosses his arms, still amused. "You planning to stumble into
bed, or should we call the Foundry to retemper you first?"
Magnus
gives him a faint, weary smirk. "If I needed tempering, Varric…
the Forger would have broken me long ago."
Varric
bursts out laughing again, while Lucian's stern expression wavers,
the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Lucian's
silence holds for a moment longer before his lips curve into
something sharp. "You are
starting to sound like Faustus," he says, voice low, biting.
"Fighting with your dogs. Eating with them. Now drinking with
them too. You even smell like them."
Magnus
doesn't answer. He turns toward his door, the panels sliding open
with a hiss.
"Lucian,"
Varric mutters, tone warning.
Lucian
only shrugs, following Magnus in. "Just an observation."
Inside,
the lights bloom to life automatically, warm and clean, casting along
polished steel and stone. The quarters are immaculate, arranged with
precision: shelves lined with medals and ancient blades, a wall of
holographic charts and star maps, a faint trace of smoke from the
evening's incense lingering in the air. At the center, an L-shaped
sectional couch faces the fireplace with a television over the
mantle.
Magnus
drops into the corner of the couch, elbows on knees, rubbing at his
face. "Sit," he mutters.
Varric
takes one end, Lucian the other, leaning back with his usual swagger.
Magnus
looks up at Varric first. "How did the battle go? The
Tatrasiel?"
Varric
exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "Standard engagement at
first. Absjorn's fleet was tight, formation disciplined. We caught
them in orbit, pinched them between our forward line and your fleet.
Should have been clean."
He
pauses, expression darkening.
"But
those Protectors…" He shakes his head. "Six of them. They
fly like bodyguards, separate from their own shielding nets.
Hardlight arrays layered over each other, mobile walls. You cannot
flank them, cannot
pin them, every time we tried to break through, they rotated,
protecting the Tatrasiel like a damn fortress in motion."
Lucian's
brow furrows slightly. "So how did
you breach?"
"We
did not,"
Varric answers flatly. "We just kept hammering. Kinetic, plasma,
even the rail cannons, eventually, we scorched one of their shields
enough to punch through and graze the Tatrasiel. That is
when it happened."
Magnus
leans forward slightly, his voice low. "What?"
"They
vanished."
Lucian
straightens. "Vanished how?"
Varric
gestures vaguely with a hand. "Like smoke. No warp signature, no
thermal trace, no debris. Just gone. One moment six ships and the
Tatrasiel are taking hits, the next, " he snaps his fingers,
"Nothing.
My engineers are still combing sensor data. Nothing matches a warp
pattern or a cloaking pulse. It is
like they blinked out of existence."
Magnus'
gaze sharpens even through the haze of alcohol. "Disappeared
without warp…" he murmurs, the strategist's mind already
turning over possibilities; experimental drive systems, occult
technology, or something far worse.
Lucian
huffs softly, crossing his arms. "Maybe your dogs on Rauvis
scared them into the void."
Varric
glances between them, tension flickering.
Magnus
only hums in quiet thought, gaze distant toward the balcony windows.
Varric
leans back into the couch, arms folded across his chest. "Ships
in orbit are one thing," he says. "But you," he tilts
his chin toward Magnus, "you went down there yourself. How was
it? Captain Absjorn; is he the type to sit safe behind the line, or
did he actually meet you face to face?"
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Magnus
exhales, slow, the breath heavy with the scent of iron and liquor.
"He led from the front," he says finally. "Always from
the front."
Varric
raises a brow. "That so?"
Magnus
nods once, his eyes unfocused, not from confusion, but recollection.
"Absjorn's a challenge," he admits. "Unafraid of
anything. The kind of man who looks at death and sees a promise
kept." He pauses, rolling the words like stones in his mouth.
"He believes he is
chosen by the Absolute, sent to raze and conquer in His name."
Lucian
and Varric trade a glance. The air shifts.
"Chosen?"
Lucian mutters. "That is a dangerous kind of madness."
"It
is the worst kind," Varric adds quietly. "The kind that
spreads."
Magnus
gives a slow nod. "Delusion, faith, they blur together when
they're strong enough. But belief like his…" He shakes his
head. "It makes him hard to kill."
For
a moment, the only sound is the faint hum of the Keep's environmental
systems.
Then
Magnus continues, his tone turning technical. "The armor he
wears, both him and the priest, Cassiel; it's something else. Akin to
Olympian make, but heavier. Denser. Like wearing a fortress.
Everything we threw at it, kinetic, even concentrated artillery, it
might as well have been pebbles against castle walls."
Lucian
leans forward. "You are saying they have matched our
engineering?"
Magnus
lifts a hand, wavering slightly, as if weighing the thought. "Not
matched. Rivaled. They've built something obscene. Rho Voss managed
to break through the outer layers, his blade's designed for ship
hulls. Even then, it took him three clean strikes. Rail cannon fire
managed to scar it, but nothing more."
Varric
whistles softly. "That is… terrifying."
Magnus
smirks faintly. "It's impressive." He sits back, eyes
half-lidded, the psychoactive's weight dragging on his voice. "The
design, the composition, whoever forged it understands war down to
the atom."
Varric
studies him carefully. "You sound almost admiring."
"I
admire good work," Magnus says simply. "Even when it's
wielded by zealots."
For
a fleeting moment, the words seem harmless, but then his expression
shifts. Something cold flickers behind his eyes. His gaze drops to
the floor, jaw tightening as if a thought cuts through the haze.
Lucian
notices. "What?"
Magnus
doesn't answer. He stares ahead at nothing, the muscles in his face
drawn taut, remembering, not speaking.
The
mention of Absjorn. The battle. The moment Spartan disappeared
beneath Venator hands.
His
fingers flex unconsciously, knuckles whitening.
Lucian
frowns, about to speak again, but Varric shakes his head once, silent
warning.
The
quiet stretches.
Then
Magnus exhales through his nose, the tension easing only slightly.
"Absjorn's faith gives him purpose," he says finally,
quieter now. "But that same faith blinds him. It makes him
predictable."
He
doesn't elaborate. Not yet.
The
room stays still; heavy, humming with things left unsaid.
Lucian
leans back into the couch, the leather creaking under his weight. "We
have fought Absolutists before," he says, his tone dark but
distant. "But lately…" He gestures vaguely, searching for
words. "The Order is losing what little sense it had. This new
religion of theirs; it's spreading like plague."
Varric
glances his way. "You mean the cult of the Absolute?"
Lucian
nods. "Ita. The old altars, those to their Pagan Gods, they are
being defaced. Statues smashed. Shrines burned. I have seen it
myself. Their own people turning on their own icons, saying they were
false idols all along." He exhales sharply through his nose. "It
is all the same faith in new robes. They fight no differently, only
shout louder while they kill."
His
words hang for a moment, the hum of the lights filling the quiet.
Varric
turns his gaze back to Magnus. The General Supreme sits half-slouched
on the couch, eyes shadowed, the psychoactive softening his edges but
not his unease. Varric knows that look, the silence that grips a man
after battle, when his armor no longer hides the weight of what he's
seen.
"Magnus,"
Varric says softly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "What
happened down there?"
Magnus
doesn't answer at first. His eyes remain on the floor, as if the
answer were written there in the grain of the steel tiles. He lifts
his head just enough to meet Varric's gaze, then looks away again.
Varric
doesn't press, not yet. But his silence is insistent. They have
known each other too long for Magnus to hide behind rank.
Finally,
Magnus exhales. "Naburiel and Spartan were captured," he
says, the words slow, heavy.
That
pulls both men upright.
Lucian's
eyes narrow. "Captured?"
Magnus
nods once. "Absjorn took them. Held them for three days before
we broke through his encampment." His voice grows quieter.
"Three days."
The
pause that follows is suffocating.
Lucian
sits back, frowning, while Varric watches Magnus closely. "And?"
he asks gently.
Magnus
hesitates, his jaw tightening. "Naburiel was lashed," he
says finally. "Castrated." His tone doesn't waver, but the
words drag across the room like grinding stone. "If Spartan
hadn't caught Absjorn's eye, I suspect he'd have done worse to the
boy."
Lucian
mutters a curse under his breath, but Magnus isn't done.
"As
for her…" He trails off, brow furrowing, the memory crawling
to the surface whether he wants it or not. "She wasn't tortured
in the same way. It was…" He struggles for the right word, and
that alone unsettles them. "It was ritual. He was trying to
convert her. To cleanse her, he called it. To make her 'pure.'"
The
word tastes wrong in his mouth.
Silence
bleeds out again. The hum of the lights seems louder now, almost
alive.
Varric's
voice cuts through it, soft, almost reverent. "And now? How are
they?"
Before
Magnus can answer, Lucian scoffs, breaking the stillness like a
hammer to glass. "Does it matter?"
Both
men turn toward him.
Lucian
waves a dismissive hand. "They are Vardengard. Tools. As long as
they are breathing and remember who commands them, that is all that
matters."
"Lucian,"
Varric warns.
But
Lucian doesn't stop. "You are both getting sentimental over
dogs. They are made to fight, to suffer, to die. That is what they
were built for. Do not start weeping like women over it."
Magnus
looks up slowly. His gaze meets Lucian's, steady, unreadable, but
there's a pressure behind his eyes, something buried and sharp that
makes the younger man falter just long enough to realize he's gone
too far.
The
air between them tightens like a wire drawn to breaking.
Varric
exhales through his nose, glancing between them. "Lucian, do
not."
But
Lucian's pride won't let him stop. "What? I am only saying what
we all know to be true. They are beasts forged for war. That is what
The Forger made them for, is it not?" His tone is mocking,
reverent and blasphemous in the same breath. "You keep them
leashed, you reward obedience, and when they bite, you put them down.
Nothing more."
Magnus
scratches his beard slow, his hand soon falling to his lap.
"You
misunderstand the Forger's work," he says, voice quiet but
heavy. "The Forger never shaped them to be slaves. He made them
to endure. To outlast men like us. To carry our wars when our bones
would shatter beneath the weight of them. They are His finest
creation, not His failed one."
Lucian
scoffs, his smirk widening. "You have been spending too much
time among them, brother. Starting to sound like one of your pets.
Next you will be growling and snapping at me."
"Careful,"
Magnus murmurs. The tone isn't angry, it's distant, almost
thoughtful. But there's something in it that sets Lucian's teeth on
edge, like a low rumble before thunder.
"I
am only saying," Lucian goes on, though more measured now, "that
empathy dulls the blade. You keep thinking of them as people, and one
day you will forget what they are for."
Magnus
tilts his head slightly, the faintest hint of amusement twisting
through his exhaustion. "And what are they
for, then, Lucian? To send them to die for wars we start and cannot
end? To call them beasts while we burn the stars for our own pride?"
Lucian's
smile fades. His fingers drum once against his knee, his jaw
tightening as if to speak, but the words never come.
Varric
steps in before it can break. "Enough." His voice cuts
through the tension like steel. "We are brothers, there is no
need to start a new war in here."
Silence
lingers. The three of them sit in it, the firelight shifting across
their faces.
Magnus
leans back slowly, eyes distant again. The psychoactive haze makes
him seem almost adrift, his thoughts wandering somewhere far beyond
the room. "Respect, Lucian," he mutters at last. "Even
the Forger demanded that. You can hate the beast, but never forget
who tempered its steel."
Lucian
watches him for a long moment, then looks away, swallowing the retort
that almost escapes.
Varric
leans back in his seat. His eyes flick between Magnus and Lucian,
gauging how far things have gone before he decides to intervene.
"Well," he drawls, the edge of a grin curling at his lip,
"if I ever need someone to kick a pack of wolves, I will be sure
to call you first, Lucian. You have got the temperament for it."
Lucian
turns his head sharply, the faintest flicker of irritation breaking
through his calm.
Varric
smirks wider. "Course, I would keep your hands clear of their
teeth. I have seen what happens to men who mistake discipline for
cruelty. They tend to bleed a lot more than the wolves do."
Lucian
stares at him for a beat, long enough to make the silence
uncomfortable, then scoffs, pushing away from the table. "You
two can drown in your sentiment," he says, turning toward the
door. "I will save my pity for the men who actually matter."
The
door seals behind him with a low hiss. The room exhales.
For
a while, only the low hum of the ventilation fills the silence.
Magnus stands, the motion slow and deliberate, and drifts toward the
television. The screen is black, glossy, reflecting the room behind
him, the glow of the fire, the empty glasses, the spot on the couch
Lucian vacated. His face looks ghosted in the reflection, distant and
older.
Varric
sighs and sets his glass down. "He is an ass," he says
softly. "I will apologize on his behalf. And for myself. I
should not have brought him into this."
Magnus
doesn't answer right away. He stares at the dark screen like it might
speak back to him.
When
he finally does, his voice is quieter than before. "I believe
I've grown tired of him."
Varric
raises a brow. "Lucian is
still one of the best generals Invicta has. You know that."
Magnus
turns his head slightly, just enough for the firelight to catch the
faint crease between his brows. "One of the best generals who
nearly wiped out half his own fleet in an obvious Tiamat trap."
Varric
spreads his hands in a small shrug. "Everyone makes mistakes.
Even you."
Magnus
lets out a faint, humorless chuckle. "Perhaps. But when I make
them, I bleed for them." He pauses, looking back at the dark
reflection again. "Lucian makes them and expects others to clean
up the ash."
Varric
doesn't answer. He knows better than to argue when Magnus' tone turns
like that, measured, detached, and cold as metal cooling in water.
Magnus
reaches for his drink, swirls it once, then sets it down untouched.
"I'll do nothing to him," he says at last. "But I'll
not be there to save him from his own folly again. The House of Dain
can burn for all I care."
The
fire crackles. The reflection in the black screen flickers.
Varric
studies him quietly, then murmurs, "You do not mean that."
Magnus
doesn't answer. He just keeps watching the ghost of himself on the
glass, as though waiting to see if it agrees.
