Another day in the Tower
Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all those life-like, strikingly endearing characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I hardly claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!
Another day in the Tower.
This was always Apprentice Nyx's first conscious thought when the bell rang. She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, an impossibly high, decadent affair covered in sculptures of dragons and fornicating imps. Not unexpectedly, her second conscious thought was how much she hated Tevinter architecture and sharing her personal space with nineteen cackling students of magic and potential mass murderers. It was winter time, which meant that there may or may not be snow in the outside world; more importantly it meant that the absurdly vast rooms of the Circle of Mages' Tower were only a few degrees above freezing point. She hated cold, too. Nyx reached for her robes and slipped into the woolen garments without leaving the warmth of her blankets, trying her best to delay her inevitable entry into a cold, boring day.
As she finally emerged from her nest, she almost banged her head into a heavy white cuirass, complete with Sword of Mercy insignia, long draping velvet robes and the glaring, square-jawed, crew-cut block of wood that passed for a head among Templar recruits. Nyx's morning bitterness was replaced by a flash of pure hatred as she ducked out of the holy yokel's way. She muttered an insult. Judging by the new recruit's rather obvious interest in the female apprentices' dressing process, this guy would not be around in the Tower for too long. The Templars' resident Knight-Commander, Greagoir, may be a murderous fanatic like all of them, but he did not stand for obvious boorish behavior.
Cold rooms, cackling teenaged human girls, holy farm boys, Nyx thought as she quickly brushed her shoulder-length, raven black hair. All the makings of a fine day at the thrice-damned High-security Facility for Born-sinners.
Sighing, she rose and let herself drift along the flow of her peers, down the shady stone halls and to the vast canteen with its rows of heavy oaken tables and its perpetual smell of oats and cabbage. Practically all of Ferelden's fledgling mages, those much reviled, sorely needed sub-category of humanity, were here slurping their morning porridge and discussing whatever news of the outside world the mighty hierarchy may allow to filter.
Nyx could never think of herself as one of them.
She was not even human, to start with. Even in the great stone halls of the Tower, this egalitarian place of great knowledge and brainwashing, everything in Nyx stood out as other: her petite, thin frame, was hardly bigger than a human child's; her delicate, triangular face, was too alien to be considered pretty; and those huge, slanted green eyes with the silvery reflects, always seemed to make people antsy when she looked at them. Her facial tattoos – Senior Enchanter Irving claimed they were not Dalish- did not help.
Not to mention, the long pointy ears that shifted very slightly in response to the clangs and bangs of pots as she took her bowl of porridge and motioned, unsuccessfully, for an extra boiled egg. Misers. Behind Nyx, chubby human apprentice Samantha flashed her cleavage - freakish udders almost level with Nyx's head- and got the extra ration from the balding cook. Nyx was tensing to throw her porridge at Mr. Cook's face when big, soothing hands latched down onto her shoulders and gently goaded her to a nearby table, working at her knotted neck muscles as they went.
"I got you two extra eggs" Jowan said as they sat side by side. "And a bit of honey, so maybe you can refrain from beating up my friend Mr. Cook?"
Nyx grinned and started peeling off an egg's shell. The sight of Jowan was the only thing that could make her smile a little these days; in fact, he was pretty much the only person in this small, stone-enclosed world that she could tolerate these days. And ever since First Enchanter Irving, the official head of the Tower of Magi (the real power being the Templars), had forbidden the Elf access the Higher Library, effectively signaling her fall from grace, Jowan was really the only person who bothered talking to her.
Jowan smiled back at her, pleased to see his little gifts were making his friend's day. Jowan was Nyx's polar opposite: a stout human lad with a handsome, cheeky countenance and bright blue eyes which always seemed to smile, he was well-liked by the staff and students alike. For most, a conversation with Nyx felt like a cold shower; but Jowan could talk his way into people's hearts effortlessly. Being a smart boy, Jowan used this easily-earned trust to improve his and his many friends' lives; at age eighteen, he was effectively running his own small-time smuggling ring, procuring the cooks and helping staff with minor charms and scrolls in exchange for food and baubles from the outside world. Even the mighty Templars were usually happy to turn a blind eye to his rather harmless activities.
They say that opposites attract; while Jowan and Nyx had never shared anything physical – to the best of Jowan's knowledge, sexual attraction was as foreign to the elf as Orlesian fashion- the connection between them ran deep. They were both serious practitioners of magic, gifted far beyond their peers' understanding. Both were deeply unsatisfied with the constraints of the Tower life and their teachers' even more constricted minds. Without ever speaking the words, they had formed a tacit covenant that they would help each other survive this place and, some day, maybe even break free.
A memory crossed Jowan's mind and he laughed quitely as Nyx dipped a tiny finger into the small crock of honey he has obtained from a nearby farmer who sometimes delivers vegetables to the kitchens. The catlike eyes zeroed in on him in a silent question.
"Reminds me of the honey cake." Jowan smiled as he spoke. "You remember that?"
"Hum-hum. I just know I beat up some kid for you, and then you kind of stuck to me. You know how I forget things". There was a trace of regret in the elf's voice.
Before she met Jowan, Nyx had been living at the tower for over six months, a sullen child who hardly ever spoke. She was never openly rebellious, always followed instructions, and generally did not cause any trouble at all. The other children hated her, but always stopped short of laying their hands on her. There was a certain cold aura about the alienage orphan that made their skin crawl.
The Templars felt it, too. There was open talk of a swift, merciful strike being preferable to the long wait for a retarded mageling to be possessed by a demon. The senior enchanters, a graying Irving foremost among them, had to petition old First Enchanter Desmond to personally intervene to save the life of a child whose only sin was to be too quiet. Irving himself took an interest in Nyx after he saw the child pick up a discarded book from a senior student's desks, and hide under a table to read, her lips silently forming the words. This was no retarded child, who came from an alienage and could read old Tevinter in the text. Still, all of Irving's attempts at communication were met with a cold, unblinking stare, dutiful obedience, and blatant mistrust. Then Jowan came along.
It had been a lovely spring day in the kids' playroom– meaning the temperature in the stone halls was not neither cold nor hot, and some ragged rays of sunlight had found their way to the apprentices' pale skin through the iron bars in the high, thin windows. Nyx was huddled under just such a sunray, sitting cross-legged on the floor, avidly deciphering a book Irving had "forgotten" at her attention the day before. The book dealt about the Fade's aberrant geometry, and the tiny wheels in the elf's mind were spinning at the speed of light as she visualized fragrant angles and colorful shapes. She was vaguely aware of a commotion as some of the human fledglings ran in, chasing one of the newest arrivals. They liked to scare the newcomers when adults were not watching, which was very seldom. From time to time they would take advantage of a ward's bathroom break to rob their own kinfolk of whatever food they may have carried from the outside. They always left her alone. The tiny pink tips of her ears hardly moved at the sounds of the escalating scuffle.
Something bright and sticky landed in her lap, smearing her book with glistening yellow. It was a small, round cake, dripping with honey. The droplets on the ruined pages shone bright gold. Nyx's surroundings suddenly faded as memories, long lost and devoured, stirred and struggled against powerful seals. The Tower melted away and Nyx stood outside under the forgotten bright blue sky, cradling a baby with dark hair and silvery green eyes like her own, his radiant, laughing face smeared in honey. She looked at her little brother and felt so good she almost choked.
A pink hand with stubby fingers reached out from inside the sky and snatched the baby away, crumpling him into a small, yellow form dripping with honey. The sky became a grey ceiling as the human fledgling grinned and devoured the little cadaver.
After the Templar separated Nyx from her screaming victim, after she was flogged and berated for very nearly gouging out the kid's eyes, and after she had forgotten everything about the vision, Jowan sought her out to share the remnants of his aunt's honey cakes. Try as she might, she could not manage to get rid of the young farm boy's clumsy gratitude, and in the ensuing months and years an improbable friendship developed between the two of them. Jowan always found ways to get her out of trouble when her anger got the better of her, and taught her to smile and pretend to like other people; Nyx showed him how to see, smell and taste the threads of magic they pulled from the Fade. Talk about merciful strikes subsided.
Jowan whistled softly as Nyx licked the last drop of honey from her finger. "Your admirer is here", he said, pointing his chin to the mess door. Nyx frowned as she followed his gaze. The steel-clad figure of a Templar stood on the threshold, the man trying very hard to look nonchalant as he peered into the crowded refectory. Templar Cullen's brown eyes, plain but energetic features and short, curly blond hair were all too familiar to the elven apprentice.
"Maker's balls!" she murmured. "He's back? I thought he was supposed to be transferred to Denerim?".
Jowan chuckled. "I hear he literally begged old K.C. Mercer to stay here in the tower. Said he felt his mission here was a send of the Maker, watching over all of us evildoers in disguise. But…" he pursed his lips in a salacious expression. "But some of his roommates say he keeps moaning a certain name in his sleep, and changes his bed sheet more often than an honest Templar ought to." Jowan burst into laughter at Nyx's expression of utter disgust.
"That is funny, Jowan. Funny and tasteful. I have half a mind to hex the little creep into stalking you. See how you laugh when you find a rose tastefully tucked in your unmentionables' drawer. Or how you like being watched while you're in your bath."
Jowan stopped laughing and put his hand over hers.
"Seriously… don't. Put a hex on him, I mean. Don't get yourself killed or worse because of a pubescent Templar's little love games."
Nyx smiled coldly. "I appreciate your concern, Jowan, but I'm not an idiot. I won't break down so easily – not now, anyway. Not with my Harrowing tonight." She could feel that Cullen had found her now, his gaze heavy with the hope that she would acknowledge him. I'll be dead before I do, Templar scum. When will you finally get it? Following an impulse, she reached for Jowan's hand and clumsily raised it to her lips, almost physically feeling Cullen's frustration rise in response to the gesture. Then the feeling was gone, the doorframe empty.
"You're impossible, you know that?" Jowan quipped. "This is not the way I like to be kissed".
"Then how does she kiss you, human?" Nyx's smile widened as Jowan's face and neck turned a pretty crimson. So he was engaged in some mating ritual after all.
"This… is none of your business, elf." The lad was trying his best to look angry, and was doing a bad job of it. "And besides, you wouldn't understand. You think human emotions are overrated and babies grow in cabbage patches."
"I know for a fact where babies come from. I have read books about animal reproduction, complete with detailed illustrations. I just cannot understand the whys." Nyx punctuated that last word with a little grimace. "Plus the Tower is not a good breeding environment, so your efforts are kind of fruitless, no?"
Jowan threw his hands in the air. He knew well where this conversation was going: nowhere. Some years ago he had made a timid attempt at taking their relationship towards a more… reproduction-oriented direction, and the Elf had cleanly nipped his budding feelings with the same mix of mild disgust and scholarly curiosity.
"For conversation's sake, Nyx… Even though I know this is going nowhere… Have you never felt anything, for anyone? Affection, raging lust, something?"
The Elf paused to think for a good three seconds before she gave her usual answer, counting on her fingers as she enumerated the different categories of people that made up her world.
"Well, I hate Templars. And most senior enchanters". Two fingers. "Other enchanters and apprentices just annoy me. " Three. "And Irving… he is an asshole but useful." Four. "And there is you, of course. You understand magic, you are reliable, and we help each other, so you are my friend." Five. That's it. Jowan stood up and signaled his defeat.
"Fine, so you really are the Ice Virgin of legends. Good for you, really." He sighed. "We can discuss this crap later, right? I have to go and do some chores at the chapel."
"Say hello to the Maker for me". In the last two years, Nyx's contempt of the Chantry's religion had grown to staggering, and dangerous, proportions. Something to do with her short internship with the priests. Jowan nervously checked for unwanted attention, shook his head, and took his leave.
Nyx carefully exited the mess hall, checking the stone corridors for the blond locks of the resident stalker. She had spoken with assurance before Jowan, but deep down she was unsure of what would happen if Cullen turned violent – just how well she would control herself and the dangerous energies that coiled around her body when she got angry. In the Tower, self-control was synonymous with survival. As she sped along the long, circular halls, she became aware of the soft sound of footsteps hurrying behind her. Anger flashed through her as she turned to meet the little creep; she had decided that her best defense here and now was to create a ruckus and expose Cullen for the dirty peasant that he was. That she would make even more enemies amongst the holy warriors did not trouble her too much.
The man behind her was not Cullen, her brains registered just in time to cut short the scream she had been about to issue. He was very tall, towering over her so that she was looking straight at the breastplate of his strangely ornate cuirass –Templar he was not. Dark-skinned hands shot up at the ends of wiry, muscular arms, in a palm-out gesture that was meant to reassure, but was also a guard. Nyx cranked her neck to get a look at the newcomer's face. He appeared to be a middle-aged human male, maybe in his forties, the deep lines on his darkly handsome face standing in sharp contrast to the effortless energy that seemed to radiate from him. The man's hair, long and knotted in the back, was a raven blue with flecks of gray at the temples. The nose was sharp, almost hawkish, and reminded Nyx of the statues of Tevinter generals in the upper halls. The eyes were black and deep-set, and returned her gaze with an intensity that was almost unsettling. I'm not staring this one down.
The man spoke in a pleasant, polite voice, with no recognizable accent.
"I'm sorry, Milady, I didn't mean to scare you. Would you know the whereabouts of Senior Enchanter Irving? I have business with him and I was told he would attend to the younger crowds on this level."
"Sure. I mean: Yes, Milord. He should be in the kid's auditorium, third doorway on your right." She hesitated for a second, but could not resist: "Follow the snores".
The man's smile widened just a little. "Thank you for your help, Miss…?"
"Nyx, Milord." A questioning look in the dark eyes, and the elf shrugged. "Just Nyx. I don't remember my family name".
"I see. And a fitting name it is: the primordial Tevinter goddess of night, unrivaled in wisdom even among the younger Dragon Gods."
Nyx smiled, pleasantly surprised at the warrior's erudition. Then a thought struck her.
"Are you the Grey Warden everyone keeps talking about?"
"Indeed. I am Duncan, of Ferelden's Grey Wardens. And may I ask what they say?"
"That a Grey Warden is coming to the Tower, and that he is twelve-foot high with fiery eyes." Nyx said absently. Her next question managed to surprise the Warden.
"Do you really believe the Darkspawn were created by the sin of mages?"
Duncan smiled and shook his head. "Nobody knows for sure, young lady. We Grey Wardens are more concerned with their destruction than their creation. And now, if you will excuse me, Lady Nyx of the Tower, I must follow the snores." Duncan bowed slightly and strode down the hall.
Nyx watched the older man disappear through the auditorium door and vaguely wondered what sort of folks the Grey Wardens were. The man's kind words and confident bearings had impressed her far more deeply than, say, the sight of a twelve-foot high fire-breathing freak could have. Nyx shook the feeling and hurried to her morning duty, Enchanter Niall's closing Spirit School practice and an absolute waste of her time on her Big Day. By the time she entered the practice room, she was slightly out of breath and feeling thoroughly nasty. Her mood did not improve when the young master chastised her for being late and bid her step forward and explain the assembled apprentices the intricate mind patterns, hand wriggling and words of command needed to cast the Mana Drain spell.
Nyx swore under her breath as she walked to the master's side, and tried to remember something, anything, of the human's lengthy speeches and obscure diagrams. As usual when she was under pressure, her brains went blank and she made a poor job of it.
"Well"… she painfully blurted; "This is… You need to wave your hands and say the words of command, just like Master Niall said. Then you have to focus on the other mage… " The words came faster and effortlessly now, a flame burning in the Elf's eyes. "… and follow his connection to the Fade, the threads of white or whatever his colors are…"
Master Enchanter Niall raised his eyes to the ceiling; the elf girl was at it again. Gibberish about seeing and touching magic; soon she would start raving about the taste of spells. He raised his voice to stop the nonsense.
"Apprentice Nyx…"
Said apprentice was too far out in what amounted to an attempt at describing sunlight to the blind. She ranted on in a low, raspy voice, her green eyes staring at something above the master's head.
"… Then you just kind of reach into the Fade with your spirit hands, and you pull the threads and… there."
Niall blinked in disbelief as he felt a part of himself being gently drawn away. He valiantly fought the incoming wave of nausea and reached for the young elf's shoulder, gently shaking her from her trance. Nyx snapped back to reality and instantly took conscience of his ashen face.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"
Niall cut short her apologies with a little smile and motioned for her to move back to the apprentices' ranks.
"And this, students, was a demonstration of how you cast Mana Drain when you are practiced enough to forget the spell and still make it work. Now back to the words of command…"
Niall sought her out after his class – Thanks to Nyx, it was a short one as he was not feeling too well. Nyx braced herself for the upcoming lecture about the importance of proper form in spell-casting, what with all the bad, bad demons waiting to prey on the bold and the creative. As it turned out, Niall congratulated her for her mastery of the Spirit school and informed her that she would be welcome to partake in some research work he was doing under Senior Uldred. Niall concluded the interview with warm wishes of success in her Harrowing. Nyx kept nodding and did her best to look happy at the prospect of many more years doing research in the Tower.
Nyx spent the rest of the day making preparations for her Harrowing, which in her case meant trying to shut off her senses as she sat cross-legged on her bed, her mind-eyes following the faint swirls in the Veil that marked the movements of mages. From time to time she reached out to one of the lesser swirls and delicately prodded their connection to the Veil, wondering at the colors and textures of humans and elves. The little cyclones of seniors she left alone.
She felt the approach of the Templar long before he crossed the door. The steel-shelled bastards' flesh was laced with Lyrium, that strange singing metal which was said to form through fissures of the Veil. While mages were moving swirls of Fade energy, Templars registered as dull blotches in Nyx's mindscape, weakening and spoiling everything that came near them. Sometimes during her mind-escapes, she had felt the blotches close in on an isolated, trembling swirl of energy, and smother it into nothingness. The sensation was beyond sickening.
Nyx opened her eyes as the living stain spoke her name, and rose to follow him through the stone halls and up interminable flights of stairs, into the elegant, arching dome of the Harrowing chamber. Nyx counted six Templars standing vigilant around the walls. The light from huge stained-glass windows, translucent but not transparent, painted their armors a reddish tinge. To her surprise, Knight-Commander Greagoir, the resident head of the Templars' garrison, had come up from his quarters to command today's butcher squad.
I won't give you the pleasure of killing me, old man.
First Enchanter Irving stepped forward to greet her, his countenance both dignified and paternal. Nyx made a conscious effort to show him the respect he had come to earn and lose from her. For ten years the stout, grey-bearded man had been her mentor and one of only two persons the Elf child with no memories had trusted, and even somewhat liked. The old man fed his protégé's voracious appetite for knowledge and encouraged her to develop her instinctive, wild talent. He also made quite a name for himself in scholarly circles with his comparative analysis of human and elven sensory perception of magic, based essentially on Nyx's experience.
He betrayed her in the end.
When one of the librarians ratted Nyx out to the Templars about her research into Elven pre-Dalish lore and magic, adding to the already floating rumors of unorthodox spell-casting and outright witchcraft, Irving caved in and let the Templars subject his star student to an Enlightenment retreat. For weeks she was held in a white-washed cell, fed only liquids and forced to spend her days reading aloud the thrice-damned Chant. When she got out of there, thin as paper, her head singing with holy verses, she found that Irving had revoked her access to the Senior's library and effectively stomped her back down the Tower food chain. It took her two years of hard work to regain enough credibility to be allowed to the Harrowing, and as of her research…
She smiled, sweet murder glinting in her eyes as Irving ranted on about the dangers of the Fade and his unwavering confidence in her abilities. She wondered if another book was in the works. Then she moved to the small pedestal in the center of the room with the bowl of liquid Lyrium on top.
Her Harrowing, as it turned out, was a cakewalk.
Nyx met fiery demons and snuffed them like candles. There had to be a use for these guys; maybe stuff them in a bottle and use them to light firewood?
Nyx met a spirit who wanted to teach her important lessons about life by sticking his sword into her gut; she knocked some sense into him.
Nyx met what had to be the thickest trickster in the Fade, who pretended to be a mouse, then a bear, then a man, and finally asked if he could maybe possess her a little, pretty please, with sugar on it? To her lasting regret, this one proved smart enough to leave before she hexed the living light out of it.
Nyx emerged into reality with a headache and the firm conviction that any mage weak enough to fall for this really, really deserved to be weeded out. Jowan needed to hear about that. She felt him as she woke, the swirl that was him glowing blue and familiar at her side. Jowan stood next to her bed and wrung his hands. The expression on his face was one of distress as he begged for help.
They wanted to make him Tranquil.
The dull, dirty stains that were the Templars wanted to smother Jowan's simple, warm light from the face of the Veil. Nyx's anger rose like a tide of red. They would turn her only friend into a caricature of a man, a utilitarian drone, devoid of emotion, that would simply go on to serve his masters for the rest of its wretched life. Nyx struggled to regain control of her anger before the ripples she caused in the Veil caught someone's attention. Jowan was saying something about blood magic, a lover, an escape plan…
"Did you say something about blood magic?" Nyx's voice rang too eager in her own ears.
"I swear, Nyx, I am not a blood mage…" Jowan sounded sincere.
"Oh. I see." Nyx tried not to sound too disappointed. Blood magic was a dark power forbidden by the Chantry, under penalty of death. Blood magic was the ultimate bogeyman of Circle mages. She wanted to learn Blood magic badly. She sighed.
"Ok, let's hear this escape plan." Jowan resumed talking, his plan less impractical than expected. All the while Nyx was drawing plans of her own. She knew that the Templars held a phylactery, a vial of her blood, with which they could track her down if she escaped. Unlike still-apprenticed Jowan, there was no chance of her getting hold of that vial, since it would be stored in the Templars' Fereldan headquarters in the royal city of Denerim. This left her with the delicate choice of abandoning Jowan to his fate, or risking everything in a frantic escape to find the Wild Elves, the Dalish. Whether or not the roaming elven clans would accept a Circle apostate amongst their ranks was unknown.
The choice was easy, the temptation of freedom too great to be ignored.
They set out so retrieve Jowan's phylactery from the Tower's basement. Once they destroyed it, Jowan's sweetheart, a human Chantry novice whose wide hips would probably make reproduction a breeze, would provide them with Chantry robes and cloaks, which may or may not allow them to fool the sentinels at the gates. After ferrying across Calenhad lake they would part ways. The lovers would try and disappear in human farmland. Nyx would have to stick to the wilds, her blood attracting Templars like hounds on a fox's trail. She had maybe a chance in a hundred to survive the hunt and find shelter with her estranged kin. She was happy to take it.
They say the Tower's very stone has eyes and ears, and that the stone will report any devious whisper to the ever-vigilant Templars. Nyx was not really surprised to find Irving, Greagoir and a hall full of holy warriors when her small group emerged from the underground vaults where Jowan's phylactery lay shattered. Greagoir looked like a cat before a jug of cream. Irving wore a rather convincing look of hurt on his weathered face.
Exhilaration filled Nyx's small frame as she gathered up unholy energies and prepared herself to die. She would not be made Tranquil and she would never again submit, period. It was time to test the Templar's infamous resilience to magic; time to burn some of those blotches off the Veil…
Suddenly Jowan drew a dagger across his own hand and all hell broke loose. Nyx felt a surge of power unlike anything she had felt before – certainly not what she had come to expect from him. Templars were flung across the walls and she fell to her knees, spillover energy form the spell making her legs buckle, her vision blur and her stomach heave.
Blood. Sodding. Magic. Thought we shared secrets? She thought as she fought the urge to vomit, failed, and spilled the contents of her stomach on the hall's polished stone slabs.
When she stopped retching, after a considerable while, she found that Jowan was gone and Irving, Greagoir and most of Templars had gotten to their feet – stinking puddles all over the place told of their own reaction to Jowan's little distraction- and formed a perfect circle around her person. So much for my escape plans, she thought. She wondered how many of them she could take down by herself in her nauseated state. Probably not too many. Nyx tried her best to stand tall and defiant amidst the towering humans.
It was then that Duncan stepped into the circle of judgment, dark eyes glowing in his weathered face as he demanded his rightful due. The Grey Wardens required the Tower's help, and Duncan had found a recruit who would not fear to break the rules when the right things were at stakes. By the right of conscription, Enchantress Nyx of the Tower was now the Grey Wardens' charge, due to undergo the Joining and fight along her peers. Greagoir snarled and warned of Thedas' impending doom at the hands of maleficars, and submitted. Irving seemed oddly pleased. Another book in perspective, perhaps.
Nyx packed her things without a word and without regret. There was nothing left for her in this place. She hesitated only a second before she stepped through the great bronze gates of the Tower. Finally outside, blinking like an owl in the sunlight, and the sight took her breath away. It was not the lake, nor the mountains on the horizon, the great white clouds roiling in the blue sky far above the Tower, the grey forests nor the wind on her face. It was the sheer scale of the world, that maddening realization that she was facing infinity, that it had been here all the time and she never knew…
Duncan's hand on her shoulder, his touch firm and soothing.
"Are you all right?"
Nyx looked up at him, feeling her own face stretch with a smile so big she thought her mouth must reach to her pointed ears.
"You have no idea."