The air crackled with energy as the battle raged on between Lord Varric and Lord Thane. The ground beneath them was scorched and shattered, filled with craters from the violent exchange of magic and steel.
Lord Thane, his eyes ablaze with a sinister light, launched spell after spell with a furious intensity, arcs of lightning exploding from his hands and raining down like a relentless storm upon Lord Varric.
Lord Varric was a blur of motion, his massive frame moving with surprising agility as he dodged the bolts of lightning. He was a powerhouse, relying on his raw strength, but his speed was something even the most seasoned of mages would find hard to match.
Each time Thane's lightning struck, Varric swung his axe, using the flat of the blade to redirect the energy back toward Thane. The mana thread, invisible to the naked eye, connected Varric to his weapon, allowing him to swing it like a flail, sending it crashing back toward Thane and deflecting his spells with each precise motion.
Thane's face twisted with frustration as he hurled bolt after bolt, trying to catch Varric in the storm. "Dodge all you want, Varric! It won't change anything!" Thane shouted, his voice carrying a manic edge.
Varric grinned through the sweat and strain, yanking his axe back with the mana thread, spinning it around his head, and releasing it once more in a sweeping arc. The axe cleaved through the air, forcing Thane to duck, a snarl escaping his lips as he narrowly avoided the weapon's deadly edge.
"Getting tired, Thane?" Varric taunted, his voice strained but defiant.
Thane answered with another volley of lightning bolts, and Varric again deflected them with his axe, swinging the weapon in tight arcs, redirecting the deadly magic into the ground. But the strain was beginning to show. Every time he swung the axe, it grew a little heavier in his hands, and his breath came a little shorter.
His muscles burned with fatigue, and his vision blurred slightly from the exertion.
Thane's wounds, however, only seemed to fuel his growing power. Each time a limb was severed or a gash appeared, dark tendrils of demonic energy coiled around the injuries, pulling flesh back together with a sickening sound. But with every regeneration, his form became more monstrous.
The sky darkened, and a barrage of lightning descended from the heavens, striking Varric with a force unlike any he had faced before. This time, the bolts did not dance around and empower him—they struck true, searing his flesh and tearing at his armor. His skin crackled, his body convulsed, and he cried out in pain as the energy coursed through him.
He felt the agonizing burn of the magic tearing at his very soul.
Varric fell to his knees, smoke rising from his scorched armor, his body trembling with pain. He looked up at Thane, his vision blurring, but his resolve still unbroken, though his strength was fading. The demonic lord loomed over him, triumphant, yet Varric could see the madness in Thane's eyes—the obsession that drove him beyond reason.
With what little strength he had left, Varric steadied himself. Lord Varric's body trembled as he tried to keep himself up, but his strength was all but gone. His muscles refused to obey, and he collapsed back to the ground, panting heavily. Lord Thane towered over him, a sneer on his distorted face.
"Surprised you're still breathing," Thane muttered, a mixture of admiration and disdain in his voice. "You're a tough bastard, Varric. But without that axe of yours, there's nothing left for you to do. I'll grant you mercy and let you live, considering we were once comrades."
Varric's mind swirled in a haze, barely registering Thane's words. He felt the sting of failure deep in his bones, the weight of regret heavy in his heart. He had fought with everything he had, but it wasn't enough. All he could hope for now was that his daughter, Sarah, would live a better life than he had—
His eyelids fluttered, and he felt himself slipping away. But just as he was about to lose consciousness, a sudden warmth washed over him, an indescribable sensation that flooded his body. Everything around him seemed to freeze as if time itself had stopped. The warmth was familiar, comforting—it felt like an embrace he hadn't felt in years.
"Guinevere," he whispered, a realization dawning on him.
He tried to turn his head, to see her face, but a soft, firm voice stopped him. "Don't you dare," she warned gently. "If you see my face, you will be counted among the dead. The afterlife isn't very welcoming to those who still belong to the living."
"Am I not dead already?" Varric asked, his voice breaking with confusion. "Why else would I be speaking to you now if I wasn't?"
Guinevere laughed softly, a sound that sent a shiver through his soul, filling him with both longing and comfort. "Oh, Varric," she said, "I miss you dearly, but it is not your time yet. Our daughter, Sarah, is not ready to face this world alone."