Lord Varric stood, the two pieces of his broken axe clutched tightly in each hand, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. His aura blazed around him like a roaring fire, intense and untamed. The crimson light illuminated his sweat-streaked face, but his eyes were focused, burning with an inner resolve that was impossible to extinguish.
He looked down at the shattered remains of his weapon, the remnants of the bond he had shared with his wife. For a moment, there was a flicker of sorrow, a glint of the pain that coursed through him like a fresh wound. But that was quickly overtaken by something else—something far more primal.
He had failed Guinevere once; he would not fail her again. His grip tightened, his fingers digging into the cold steel, and as if responding to his thoughts, the fragments of his axe began to glow with a brilliant white light.
