Sarea didn't sleep.
He sat on the edge of the wool mattress, the dark knife in one hand, the floor plan of Lord Merek Dain's house in the other. The hawk ring was cold. The room was quiet. Quiet was worse.
The muttering started at midnight.
"Three silver, seven copper," the Scarred's voice said, right behind his ear. Amused. "That's what you were worth when you killed me, pup. Now you're worth two hundred. Price went up. So did the cost."
Sarea closed his eyes. Pressed the knife tip to the table until wood splintered. Didn't help. The voice was inside.
Then another voice. Rougher. Wet. Like stone dragged over stone, but familiar.
"See you in the corners, pup…"
The Scarred. Not dead. Not gone. Waiting.
Sarea slammed the knife down. It stuck upright in the wood.
"Shut up," he whispered. His voice sounded like the Scarred's now.
The Scarred laughed. That cough that forgot how to stop. "You hear 'em yet? The voices? They start after your third. After you stop dreaming about home."
Sarea stood. Paced the room. Seven steps one way. Seven steps back. The new glass in the window let in moonlight. It made the bronze mirror glow. The man in it wasn't him. It was the Scarred. Whole again. Both hands. Eyes like chipped flint.
"You think you're different?" the Scarred said from the mirror. "I had a name once. Had three fingers once. Had a wife once. Then they gave me a knife and a job. Said it was for the Empire. Said it was for coin. Said it was just one man. Just one sick man who died in his sleep."
The Scarred pressed his stump to the glass. "Merrin was her name. She died in her sleep too. Heart failure. Happens all the time to people who love men like us."
Sarea turned away. The room smelled like vinegar and rot again. Like the mutant. Like blood under his nails.
1. The Argument
"Don't do it," the Scarred said, and for a second his voice was sane. Tired. Human. "Run, pup. They'll make you like me if you don't run. Talking to knives. Talking to rings. Talking to dead men."
Then the voice shifted. Went cruel. Went hungry.
"Or do it," it hissed. "Second one's the worst, pup. After that it gets quiet. The screaming stops. The whispering starts. You'll sleep better. I did. After the third, I slept like a baby. A baby with blood under its nails."
Sarea picked up the knife. Put it down. Picked it up again. His hand didn't shake. Slightly increased stats meant his hand was steady even when his mind wasn't.
He thought of the straw cell. No wool. No glass. No meat. Just bowls and waiting and the next mutant they'd dig up. He thought of the new room. The mirror. Forty silver turning to two hundred.
Varric's voice, flat and cold: "Inventory adapts."
2. The Giving In
Dawn came grey through the glass. The knife was still in his hand. The parchment was folded, creased where his thumb had pressed it a hundred times.
The Scarred's voice was quiet now. Not gone. Just waiting. Patient.
"You'll hear me when you slide it in," it whispered. "You'll hear me when the man stops breathing. And I'll be waiting in the corner when you come back. We'll talk. Like we used to. Like friends."
Sarea looked at his reflection one last time. Slightly more handsome. Slightly more muscle. Slightly more monster.
He slid the dark knife into his boot. Folded the floor plan and tucked it inside his tunic, over his heart.
The lock clicked. Not because Varric opened it. Because Sarea turned it. Click.
Control. Even fake control.
He wasn't choosing murder. He was choosing to live. Inventory chose to be used, or it got thrown away.
3. Ending Beat
Better room. Better food. A name. A ring. A system. An owner. A knife.
Sarea lay back on the mattress, hand on his bandage, the other resting on the hilt at his boot.
Tonight, Lord Merek Dain would die in his sleep. No blood in the street. Just heart failure.
And when it was done, the Scarred would be waiting in the corner. Like he always was.
"Welcome to the quiet cage, pup," the voice said, almost gentle. "First kill don't count 'cause you don't know it's murder yet."
Sarea closed his eyes.
He knew.
And he did it anyway.