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Chapter Text

Skyhold was unusually still, as if the fortress itself was holding its breath.

Everyone had returned from the Exalted Council, and the echoes of Dah’lia’s outburst resounded across all of Thedas, causing a tremor. The call to disband the Inquisition had left many stunned, and her final words as the Inquisitor burned in her mind.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a world to save. Again.”

At the time, she had felt strong, confident - adrenaline coursing through her veins. But now, standing alone in the war room, she felt powerless. Her stomach bubbled, doubt mixing with bile, making her feel nauseous.

Her fingers traced lines on the map of Thedas on the table in front of her, and the numerous lit candles nearby illuminated strands of her red hair. It now hung loose, framing her face - she’d not bothered keeping it in the usual elegant style she'd reluctantly adopted to suit her former title.

She took a slow, deep breath to gather herself, attempting to summon the strength she needed. From where, she did not know.

The past two weeks travelling back from the Winter Palace had been nothing short of a nightmare, draining her almost completely. The days all seemed to roll into a singular, never-ending one. She’d spent much of it in a daze, fighting an internal battle - both the sharp, searing discomfort of her newly missing left arm and the deeper, more insidious grief of Solas’ betrayal.

Even though so much had happened, no one had dared to speak about it on the open road - the risk had been too great. But it wasn’t just the threat of wandering spies that kept the conversation at bay. There was an unspoken agreement - an understanding that Dah’lia needed time.

Time to grieve the loss of her arm. Time to steady herself after the chaos of the Exalted Council. Time to begin piecing herself back together before facing the enormity of Solas’ plans.

His words. His truth.

But she would face it all now. She had no other choice.

Her gaze became unfocused as she turned inward. She had seen Solas’ conviction in every word he’d spoken during their brief reunion - his anguish carved into every movement. Yet all she could see when she closed her eyes was the man she had come to love.

The man who had stolen her heart with his quiet strength, his surprising tenderness, his sharp wit. The man who had stayed up with her into the dead of night, speaking of philosophy, his reverence for magic, and her love of music and dance.

They had also shared the mundane joys, laughing at the absurdity of Orlesian fashion and his particular fondness for frilly cakes - amongst other sillier things.

She could still see the way he’d looked at her - as though in a world of chaos, she was the only thing that made sense. She could still feel the way he’d held her, his hands lingering as though afraid to let go, whispering her name like a prayer.

But he had lied to her. About everything.

Her breath caught, and her hand clenched into a fist. No. He hadn’t lied about everything - not about what mattered.

She had always sensed the burden he carried - the storm that raged behind his beautifully crafted, polite mask. But she hadn’t understood its scale until that moment in the Crossroads, when he’d bared his truth like a blade. And it had cut her to the core.

She still loved him. That was the worst of it. Despite the destruction he planned, despite the countless lives that would be lost and despite his two-year absence...she loved him.

She understood his reasons.

The world was broken. It did need shaking. Her people still suffered under oppression despite everything she had done to change it. Even after placing Briala as the true power behind the Orlesian throne, alienages remained - cramped and crumbling. Dalish clans were still hunted and killed - like her own had been - their culture reduced to nothing but dying whimpers.

Magic and all things tied to the Fade were vilified - not with reason but with fear. They burned what they did not understand and chained those they could not control. The world was too often blind to its own beauty, too quick to destroy what it refused to comprehend.

And those she loved had suffered from it, including Lena. Her sweet, bright little sister. It still hurt to think of her.

But there had to be another way. Destruction was not the answer - it couldn’t be. She refused to believe the only solution was one paved with ashes.

The door creaked open, the sound piercing through her thoughts, and one by one, her companions entered the room.

They looked exhausted, their faces etched with the marks of battles fought and sacrifices made. But they came. They always came. These were not just Dah’lia’s allies or colleagues - they were her family, forged in flames, bound by an unbreakable will to fight for Thedas.

As the last of the group filed in, she turned to Varric, who had chosen to come to Skyhold rather than return to Kirkwall - for now. She gave him a brief nod, signalling for him to check the hallway. He peered out, then closed the door with a firm hand before leaning against the wall - arms crossed.

When the room quieted, Dah’lia straightened - her tall, muscular frame cast a shadow over the map table as her hazel eyes swept across the room. “You all know why we’re here,” she began, her voice steady. “I can only imagine how shaken you are after the recent revelations. But we have to act. What Solas is planning…well, we can’t allow it to happen.” Her words hung in the air as she looked into the tired eyes of people who had already given everything. And here she was, asking for more. “I know this is huge,” she continued, her voice softening. “I know it’s going to be hard. And ugly. I wouldn’t blame you if you walked away now - if you’ve had enough. But I cannot do this alone.”

Cassandra spoke first, her voice as firm as ever - though there was a slight tremor of disbelief. “It all just seems so…impossible. Your gods exist. Solas is one of them. I will fight by your side once more, but…how do we stand against such a threat?”

“They’re not gods, Cassandra,” Dah’lia replied, her words tinged with bitterness. She hadn’t fully come to terms with that fact and preferred to push it down. “They never were. Solas said as much himself.”

“Yeah, because after everything that’s happened, we should definitely trust what Solas tells us,” Varric interjected, his voice carrying his signature sarcasm.

“Why would he lie about that?” Dah’lia countered, meeting his eyes. “If anything, letting us believe they’re gods - letting us believe he’s a god - would make him seem untouchable. It would stop people from standing against him or at least give them pause. They’d be too afraid. He was telling the truth.”

Varric raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further.

Iron Bull shifted in his chair, his brow furrowed as he leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. “Solas said there were spies within the Inquisition - his and the Qunari’s. Shit. I can’t believe I didn’t see it.” He exhaled sharply, frustration flickering across his face. “I’ve gotten sloppy.”

“No one saw it, Bull,” Dah’lia said gently. “Not you, not me. None of us. The Inquisition was growing too big, too fast, without a clear purpose. Corruption spread without anyone noticing. That’s why I disbanded it.” Her voice softened, almost apologetic. “I know that decision shocked some of you, but we need to keep this operation tight-knit. Underground. Solas cannot know what we’re planning.”

“But what are we planning? Where do we even begin?” Cassandra frowned deeply, her eyes locking onto Dah’lia - searching for answers.

“First, we need to leave. We can’t stay at Skyhold. I suggest that, for now, we stay on the move as much as possible. Wherever we set up, we can’t stay long. And it will need to be concealed and well-defended. Protected…by wards, maybe? My Keeper used to do that to help keep our clan hidden.” She paused, her gaze falling on Dagna, who perked up as she realised her talents were being called upon. “Dagna, do you think you could help with that? If you’re willing, of course.”

The arcanist’s eyes lit up. “Oh, absolutely! I’ve never worked on wards exactly, but I’ve studied plenty of theories. The elven ones your Keeper would have used are fascinating - layers of protective barriers, some tied to the Fade, others to physical ru - oh, I’m rambling. Sorry.” She flushed slightly, wringing her hands.

“No, no, Dagna. Please, carry on,” Dah’lia said, grateful for her passion.

She didn’t need much encouragement. “Ok! If we’re moving around, I could rig up something portable, something that obscures us from view. We could also anchor them to specific points to trigger an effect when stepped on.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Imagine if they triggered illusions instead of explosions! They’d think they’ve found us, but nope - just a big ol’ projection of Bull breaking eggs with his biceps or something.”

Iron Bull snorted, leaning back. “Eggs!? More like rocks. But…I like it. Explosions are good too, though.”

“Mayhem!” Lace chimed in from the edge of the room, a big grin on her face even though her eyes looked tired.

Dah’lia allowed herself a small smile. “Thank you, Dagna. I knew I could count on you.”

Cullen finally spoke, his voice weary. “If we’re staying on the move, we’ll need mounts, supplies, camping equipment - but not so much that it slows us down. We may have to rely on what we can find or trade for along the way. I also suggest working in cells. Smaller groups won’t draw as much attention, and we can cover more ground.”

Dah’lia nodded. “Good idea. Second, we’ll need allies - people Solas doesn’t know, people we can trust. Think of any connections you have that might be useful…but make absolutely certain that they’re reliable. We can’t afford to make any more mistakes.”

Lace straightened, her arms crossed as she spoke. “I know a few good people who had nothing to do with Solas and were loyal to the Inquisition. Charter’s still around, and Sutherland and his crew? They’d follow you into the Void itself.”

“That’s great. Fill them in when you get the chance,” Dah’lia said, offering Lace a grateful nod.

Leliana’s voice cut through the room - she had come to Skyhold to help with the Inquisition’s closure before returning to her divine duties. “I will help where I can. I can have the Chantry’s forces pursue Solas directly, keeping the heat on him while you work in the shadows. If nothing else, it may divide his focus.”

“That would be helpful,” Dah’lia replied, though the idea left a bitter taste in her mouth. She despised the Chantry and everything it represented, even with Leliana as the Divine. “If he feels the pressure, it could make him reckless - force him to act before he’s ready. But we need to be careful. If he grows desperate, he could become even more dangerous. Apply just enough to keep his attention divided.” She turned to Cullen. “Redirect any soldiers who returned with us from the Winter Palace. If they’re willing to join Leliana’s efforts, send them to bolster her forces. If not…thank them for their service. Make sure they receive enough severance pay to return home with dignity.”

Cullen bowed his head. “Of course. I’ll see it done.”

Finally, Dah’lia addressed them all. “Thank you - each of you. Your loyalty and strength mean more to me than I can say. I know I am asking a lot from you, so take tonight to prepare. Think carefully about the path ahead and whether you wish to walk it. If you decide to part ways, there will be no judgment. You’ve already given so much. I’ll be in my chambers if any of you would prefer to speak with me in private.”

The room began to empty - her companions filing out. Some exchanged quiet words, while others merely nodded before slipping away.

Only Varric remained, resting casually against the map table. “I’m never going to get that nice retirement, am I, Wildfire?” he asked, his voice tinged with wry humour.

She smiled slightly, but it didn't reach her eyes. “I’m sorry, Varric. But what else can I do? I can’t just stand by and let him destroy the world. I love him and…I believe I can reach him. I have to reach him. And if I can’t…” She choked on those last words and inhaled sharply, her gaze dropping to the floor. Everyone knew what Solas meant to her, how much she loved him. But she didn't want anyone to think loving him would sway her from what needed to be done. She didn't say it out loud to anyone and could barely even say it to herself in her own mind, but…she would kill him if it came down to it - if there was no other option. Even if it killed her to do so. “You don’t have to follow me on this path. I’ll understand…” 

Varric studied her for a moment, his expression softening. “Nah. You know me, kid. Even I can’t walk away and just leave that to sort itself out.” He straightened, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “Count me in. Bianca and I? We’re ready…for whatever happens.”

He left the room, leaving Dah’lia alone with her thoughts. She looked down at all that remained of her left arm and caressed the still-aching stump - a constant reminder of all she had endured and the battles still yet to come.

Chapter Text

Moonlight broke through fractured clouds, painting the surroundings in shades of silver and shadow.

The silence was absolute - no rustle of leaves, no hum of insects, and the air hung heavy, cold, and still.

Darkness pooled all around, coiling and writhing like a living fog.

Dah’lia stretched out her hand, trying to feel her way through the thick gloom, each step cautious. Her fingers reached toward the black swirls that danced all around her, and then…

As soon as her fingertips brushed against the tenebrosity, her hand began to crumble, turning to dust before her eyes. Panic seized her as the decay spread fragment by fragment.

It was quick, brutal. And it was horrifying.

She could feel herself starting to disintegrate, scattering like ash in the wind. She let out a choked cry as she fell to her knees, clawing at the pieces of herself, desperate to gather them back.

Keep it together. Don’t fall apart. Not now.

She gritted her teeth and fought against the collapse, but the effort was excruciating, like dragging her soul back from the Void.

After what felt like an eternity, something suddenly gave, and - bit by bit - she managed to reassemble herself through sheer will alone. As she took on solid form once more, she gasped as though surfacing from drowning, and when she looked up, the darkness began to recede, revealing a ruined temple.

She took in her surroundings, her eyes wide.

Where was she? How did she get here? She didn't recognise this place.

Dread flooded her.

She tried to gather herself, but before she could, the silence suddenly shattered as whispers rose. They were soft at first, but quickly swelled into an overwhelming roar - a demonic choir of raw emotion. Rage and despair mixed with a sorrow that could have pierced even the hardest of hearts.

The torrent of voices - the same deep voice but coming from all directions - clawed at her mind, torment sharp as a thousand blades.

Only one phrase emerged from the chaos, cutting through the noise - a pained whisper directly into her ear. It was so close - the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

“I linger.”

She spun around but found no one. Without warning, the voices rose again - even louder this time, a wave of grief and fury.

She clutched her head, pain blooming behind her eyes, and screamed, “STOP! Please! Make it stop!” She continued to scream the same words, over and over again, until her voice was hoarse, and then all she could do was whimper.

The agony continued to assault her as she lay down - cradling herself in the fetal position. She thought she would die from the onslaught of suffering as it began to creep up to the edge of unbearable. But as it teetered there for what seemed like an eternity, and just before it could reach its torturous peak…it vanished altogether.

Silence - once again - ensued.

The anguish lifted, replaced by a haunting stillness and a strange sense of peace. Trembling, she opened her eyes and tentatively lifted herself up.

The ruined temple stretched out before her, yet her gaze caught on a figure perched atop a crumbling wall.

Solas.

His face was a mask of profound sorrow that stole the air from her lungs.

Desperation and longing flooded her, spurring her into action. Without thought, she scrambled to her feet and ran toward him, her heart breaking with each step, but just as she was about to reach him…his form dissolved into mist.

“VHENAN! Please…don’t go!” Her plea echoed into the emptiness as her surroundings began to spin out of control like the threads of a tapestry unravelling. Perceived reality crumbled before her until there was nothing left but her silhouette and a broken heart.

Dah’lia woke, bolting upright, gasping for air as early morning sunlight poured through the frosted windows of her chambers. 

Her heart thundered in her chest, and sweat clung to her skin, her hair damp as she sat in bed. Nausea coiled in her stomach as the dream reverberated in her mind.

Was it him?

She’d seen him. Felt him. It couldn’t have been just a phantom conjured by her yearning heart. No. She was certain. Somehow, he had been there soothing her suffering even from afar.

But why?

Their conversation in the Crossroads had felt so final, as they’d stood on opposing sides, yet he’d reached for her in a dream.

Regardless of her uncertainty, she was grateful for his presence. He’d seemingly shielded her from the anguished spectre that had latched itself onto her back, from the pure agony that had assaulted all her senses.

She thought back to the pain she’d endured, and it made her flinch. It had been all-consuming - like happiness and hope had been sucked out of the air. Almost as if such emotions had never existed to begin with…like she couldn’t remember having ever felt them.

What could it all possibly mean?

She breathed deeply and tried to steady herself. As much as the dream had rattled her, she didn’t have much time to dwell on it. The day ahead loomed large, brimming with tasks demanding her full attention. There was too much to do.

Shaking her head free of thoughts, she rubbed her hand down her face before slowly moving her legs over the edge of the bed. Pressing her feet into the cool stone floor, she tried to focus on the chill instead of her lingering anxiety.

She pushed herself to focus on the present and crossed her chambers to her wardrobe, quickly pulling out a set of armour. Its sleekness contrasted the heavy plate and chainmail that had once marked her as the Inquisitor. That armour, with its intricate engravings and the weight of its reputation, had become too burdensome - both in its physical heft and the meaning it carried.

The new set was lighter, more practical, though not entirely to her liking. Crafted in a more “human” style, it fitted poorly to her tall, muscular frame. The leather, interwoven with reinforced fabric, was dyed dark brown, and decorative patterns hinted at Orlesian influence.

She hated it.

Carefully, she adjusted the straps, though the absence of her left arm made it challenging, and without proper adjustments, the left sleeve hung awkwardly. She tied the excess fabric in a crude knot, gritting her teeth in frustration. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do - for now.

She walked over to her desk and peered into the bag that lay open upon it, half-packed from the night before - simple clothes, a brush, hair ties, a pack of herbal cleansing sticks, a waterskin.

Sighing, she looked around at the rest of her belongings that dotted her chambers. Most of them were useless trinkets she’d accumulated over the years - gifts from nobility trying to garner favour with the Inquisition. She didn't mind leaving those behind, but…not her instruments.

She approached her lyre - her most beloved - and gently strummed the strings. It was a sad sound, as if it knew the internal battle she was fighting. The rest would have to stay, they were too big, but not her lyre - it was impossible to leave. It would come with her even if she couldn’t play it properly anymore.

She lovingly picked it up and carried it back over to her desk, reaching to secure it to her bag. Her tied, yet still slightly hanging, left sleeve dragged across the desk’s surface and caught on a stack of forgotten reports, pulling them over the edge.

They scattered to the floor, and Dah’lia cursed, but before she could reach down to pick them up, her eyes caught on what their absence revealed. Sketches - dozens of them.

Solas’ sketches.

Portraits and nudes, each more beautiful than the last, were drawn with a reverence that took her breath away. He had captured every curve, the definition of her muscles, the sheer, undeniable strength of her form.

The memories of those times pressed down on her. He had been such a guiding light throughout her many trials as the Inquisitor. The things they’d shared were sacred, and many a drawing session had ended in pure, unadulterated passion, his lips and hands greedily exploring the body he'd just sketched.

He’d made her feel so beautiful.

She started gathering them up, and her chest tightened, a lump forming in her throat. They hurt to look at, but she couldn’t leave them. She wouldn’t. Carefully and with love, she tucked them into her bag.

She carried on securing her lyre and forced herself to think of the road ahead and the plan she had yet to devise. Her mind had raced with questions throughout the previous evening as she’d paced up and down her chambers.

How could they hope to catch up to Solas? Disrupt his plans?

He had a significant advantage. No matter how quickly she and her companions moved, they would be outpaced. Solas’ eluvians allowed him and his agents to travel across Thedas instantly.

The mysterious mirrors were a legacy of her people, yet they remained a puzzle to her. If she could understand them and harness their secrets, it might level the playing field, but the knowledge felt impossibly far out of reach, like grasping at smoke.

Two names rose to mind - Briala and Morrigan.

If anyone could help her understand the labyrinthine network Solas had mastered - it was them. Contact could be established with Briala, but Morrigan had vanished two years ago, retreating into the shadows with her son. She had left no trace, no clue to follow.

Either way, they needed an expert.

She continued to mull it over while placing a few more things in her bag and then made her way over to her bookshelf, absentmindedly browsing its contents, trying to decide which books to take - if any.

A flicker of movement caught her eye, pulling her away from her task, and a quiet, unexpected feeling of comfort settled over her. Turning, she saw Cole standing by the window, his wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over his face.

She broke into a grin despite herself - his unannounced visits no longer startled her the way they once had. “Cole!” she exclaimed. “You came back. I was worried when we left the Winter Palace - I couldn’t find you!”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice a delicate melody of emotion. “I was pulled - drawn by a hurt. I followed, twisting through mirrors. Too much pain, face buried in hands, a flash of violet eyes, and…gone. I couldn’t remember why I was there. I felt another pull. Now…I am here.”

She approached him quickly and wrapped him in a tight embrace. He felt like a little brother to her - a fragile, precious presence she would protect with every ounce of her being. She would not fail him, not like she had failed Lena. “I’m so glad you came,” she whispered, her voice breaking as her eyes welled up.

“I wanted to,” he murmured. “You’re leaving, and it hurts. It’s deep, wrapped around your heart, pulling whenever you think of them. Of him. You feel like you should have said goodbye already. It’s harder than you thought.”

She pulled back, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. “Are you going to tell me I shouldn’t leave?”

“No,” he replied, his head tilting slightly. “You’ve already gone. Your spirit isn’t here anymore - not really. Once bright, counting birds against the sun, now muted, a blade dulled by too many battles. I miss your glow. I want it to come back.”

Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard. “What do I do?” she choked out.

“You keep going,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “It hurts because it matters. You will find him.”

A faint smile touched her lips, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Can you remember him now, Cole?”

His form blurred in the sunlight. “I don’t know. It’s hard to hear, but I can hear him through you. Regret and wisdom. Sad and bright. He is important.”

“He is,” she agreed quietly. “You were both very close once.” She hesitated before adding, “Will you be joining me?”

“Yes,” he said simply. And then he was gone, leaving only a faint shift in the air. The room felt colder in his absence, but knowing he would be by her side made her burden feel a little lighter.

She resumed her task - deciding against taking any books - and before long, part of her life was neatly contained within her bag. Each item within felt like a tether to the past as she prepared to leave the rest behind.

Pausing at the top of the stairs, she gazed over the room. It felt so final, as if the walls themselves whispered farewell. With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and descended the stairs, leaving her chambers for the last time.

Dah’lia walked purposefully through the great hall, her footsteps echoing hauntingly in the now-empty space. It felt strange without the usual bustle of agents and visitors.

She slowed down as she so often did when passing the rotunda, her eyes flicking over to the left.

She didn't go in there anymore.

When Solas had left, she’d spent an unhealthy amount of time in that room - sitting in front of his unfinished frescoe, trying to find answers within the lack of pigment. 

She wouldn't be surprised if the tears she'd cried had soaked into the wall itself, her sorrow burrowing into cement - to hide there for all eternity.

She quickened her steps, not wanting to linger on it for too long, when a voice rang out behind her.

“Inquisitor!”

She turned to see the arcanist bounding toward her - energy radiating with every step. “Dagna,” she replied with a warm smile. “Please, I’m not the Inquisitor anymore. No more formalities - just call me Dah’lia.”

“Oh, right! Sorry - Dah’lia,” she corrected, grinning. “I’ve got something incredible to show you! Follow me to the undercroft. I can’t wait for you to see!”

“Is this about the portable wards?” Dah’lia asked, falling into step behind her.

“Nah, they’re super easy! This is something else. Come on!” Dagna practically skipped toward the undercroft doors, her excitement infectious.

Once downstairs, she scurried to her workshop, a chaotic yet strangely organised mess of scrolls, runes, and modified weapons. But what caught Dah’lia’s eye was the centrepiece of the room - four hand-sized cylindrical objects.

“So!” Dagna began - practically vibrating with excitement. “I’ve been working on these incredible devices - a passion project of mine for a while. I didn’t mention it before because I couldn’t quite get past the last hurdle, but then - oh, I’m rambling. Let me just show you!” She handed one of the cylinders to Dah’lia and picked up another identical one herself. Scribbling something quickly on a scrap of parchment, she rushed to the opposite side of the room. “You might want to put it on the floor,” she called over her shoulder. “Just in case.”

“Dagna, what are - ”

“You’ll see!” The arcanist opened her cylinder, placed the parchment inside, and twisted the top, aligning the etched runes along the rim. The device hummed to life, vibrating slightly as a faint blue glow emanated from the cracks in its hinges.

Dah’lia watched, intrigued, as her own cylinder began to hum in response. She quickly placed it on the floor as a strange, shimmering mist curled from its top - a soft thrumming sound coming from inside.

“Open it! Open it!” Dagna squealed, barely able to contain herself.

Dah’lia picked up the device gingerly. It was warm to the touch as she opened the hatch, and inside lay a piece of parchment, its edges faintly charred. On the paper were two words in Dagna’s chaotic handwriting.

Hi, Dah’lia!

Her eyes widened. “I don’t understand. What is this, Dagna?”

“I call it…the Scribblesend!” she announced, beaming. “That parchment you’re holding? I sent it to you with this!” She gestured to the device in her hand.

“Seriously?” Dah’lia turned the cylinder over, examining it in amazement.

“Yes! It took years to figure out the right amount of lyrium to charge the runes without turning the parchment to ash, but - ta-da! I finally cracked it!”

“Dagna, this is…” She shook her head in awe. “This is revolutionary. How does it even work?”

“Isn’t it amazing? They're a bit like Dorian’s fancy crystal, the one you showed me. Oh, to have known about that thing years ago - can you imagine the study I could’ve done? These work differently, of course. Instead of sending voices through the Fade, these send actual objects. Mostly letters, but theoretically, they could handle other small things too. Coins, tiny trinkets - oh, maybe snacks! But I haven’t tested that.” She opened the Scribblesend, gesturing to its interior. “Inside are paired runes, which are the key to everything. Each cylinder is linked to another identical one - like how twins are connected, but, you know, magic-y. The runes activate when you put a letter inside, close the hatch, and twist the top. They pull energy from lyrium threads woven into the casing and punch a tiny hole in the Veil. Not like a bad hole. It’s stable. Mostly stable. The letter gets yanked through the Fade and pops out in the matching cylinder. Boom - instant delivery!”

Dah’lia stood there, her mind blown by the sheer scope of Dagna’s genius. Half the words made no sense to her, but it all sounded ever so impressive. She nodded along anyway, hoping her expression was one of admiration instead of bafflement. “It’s…incredible,” she said honestly, then added with a wry smile, “Even if I don’t have a clue what half of what you said meant.”

Dagna beamed. “Ah, you don’t need to know how it works, just that it does! I’ll pack these up, grab a few more things, and then we can get moving,” she said, carefully placing the cylinders into a nearby bag.

As Dagna turned to gather her tools and books, something caught Dah’lia’s eye - a delicate sketch pinned beneath a pile of blueprints on the arcanist’s workbench. She reached for it, pulling it free, and her breath caught in her throat.

It was a design for a prosthetic arm.

The drawing was intricate. It was a masterpiece - its structure both functional and beautiful. Faint notations in Dagna’s scrawl hinted at adjustable mechanisms and hidden compartments. A tremendous amount of time and effort had gone into it.

“Dagna…” Her voice was barely above a whisper as she held up the sketch. “What’s this?”

Dagna turned, her expression shifting from excitement to a sheepish grin. “Oh, that! Well, I wasn’t quite ready to show you. I’m still working on the details, but…surprise, I guess!”

Without a word, Dah’lia stepped forward and hugged the arcanist tightly. “Thank you,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “This…this means more than I could ever put into words.”

Dagna returned the hug, her smaller frame warm and sturdy. “You’ve done so much for me. This is my way of saying thank you.”

Pulling back, Dah’lia looked into her earnest eyes. “The last couple of weeks…trying to adapt. I lost a part of myself. I’ve been feeling so powerless.” She glanced back at the sketch, her heart swelling with hope. “But with this, I could fight again.”

The arcanist nodded, her grin widening. “And you will. I promise! I still need time to finalise the design, but once it’s ready, it’ll be yours. We’ll make sure it’s perfect!”

Dah’lia let out a shaky laugh. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

“Stop, you’ll make me blush!” Dagna teased. “Now, let’s get going. We’ve got lots of work to do!”

As the arcanist rushed about the workshop, gathering the remainder of her belongings, Dah’lia held the sketch to her chest. She felt a small surge of hope rise within her.

It wasn't much, but it was enough.

With the prosthetic arm, she could reclaim a part of herself she’d thought she'd lost forever. But now - she would be forged anew, and she would find Solas and either save him…or stop him.

Chapter Text

The air outside was crisper than usual, carrying the bite of a fast-approaching winter. A slight frost coated the ground, which crunched beneath Dah’lia’s and Dagna’s boots as they made their way through the upper courtyard.

“I’ll catch up with you in a bit,” Dagna said, her usual laid-back tone now tinged with unease. “I’m gonna head to the tavern and speak to Sera. She’s…not happy. But it’ll be fine! She’ll come around! Maybe...”

Dah’lia wasn’t so sure. Sera had barely hidden her disdain for the Exalted Council, muttering every chance she could about stuffy nobles and pointless talk. She had been counting the days until she could return to her “normal” life. And then Solas’ plans had threatened it. Threatened everything. Dah’lia knew that the sudden return to Skyhold with its towering walls and darker memories wasn’t what Sera had wanted. But surprisingly, she had still come.

“Alright,” Dah’lia said, returning her thoughts to the present. “I’d like to talk to her. Bull, too. I imagine I’ll find him in the tavern as well - along with his Chargers.” A familiar rumbling laugh rang out from the Herald’s Rest as if on cue, confirming her assumption. “Told you!” she said with a soft chuckle. “But I need to check in with the others first and go over the plan. I won’t be long.” She gave Dagna a slight nod, a gesture of both reassurance and thanks.

“Sounds good!” The arcanist’s step seemed to lighten, and the jingling of tools inside her bag added a cheerful tune to her walk as she continued on her way.

Descending to the lower courtyard, Dah’lia found Cullen meticulously counting supplies, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Varric stood nearby, testing the weight of his crossbow, Bianca, while Lace, Charter, and Donal busied themselves loading mounts. 

Josephine and Leliana stood to the side, watching quietly.

“How are we all doing?” Dah’lia asked as she approached.

Varric was the first to respond, propping Bianca against his shoulder. “All set here. Curly’s on his fifth sweep of the supplies - can’t have a misplaced waterskin, you know. Harding, Charter, and Sutherland,” he gestured toward the trio, “are taking care of the horses.”

She nodded, acknowledging his report before turning to the ambassador, who looked lost in thought. “And you, Josephine? How are you holding up?”

She startled slightly. “Oh, forgive me. I was miles away.” She hesitated, struggling to find the words. “I am…managing. The Inquisition has been my purpose - my life - for three years. And now…” Her voice trembled as she glanced away. “Now it is no more.” She took a steadying breath, looking back at Dah’lia with both resolve and sorrow. “I have given much thought to what comes next, and I…I have decided to return to Antiva. My skills wouldn’t be of much use in the wilderness, I’m afraid.”

“I understand,” Dah’lia responded, her voice soft as she stepped closer. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. Your friendship and support have given me more strength than you could ever know.”

Josephine smiled, but her composure slipped briefly before she closed the gap and wrapped Dah’lia in a tight embrace. “Please be careful,” she whispered. “I don’t know what the future holds, but…I’m terrified. For you. For all of us.”

“I know. But we’ve got this. I promise.”

Josephine nodded, her grip loosening as Leliana spoke. “My agents have checked everywhere,” the former spymaster said briskly. “No sensitive documents remain. Skyhold will likely be a haven for wanderers soon enough.” She placed a gentle hand on the ambassador’s shoulder. “Do you have everything you need, Josie?”

“Yes, I’ve gathered my belongings. I’ll take one last walk around before we leave. Despite everything, I will miss this place.”

“I’ll join you,” Leliana offered. She turned to Dah’lia, her gaze sharp. “Remember what I said. The Chantry will direct its efforts toward Solas. That should give you and the others the space to act without interference.”

“Thank you,” she responded with a grateful nod, though bitterness stirred within her once more. She paused, choosing her following words carefully. “You know my feelings on the Chantry, Leliana, and I am grateful for your aid. But…if this turns into an Exalted March…” Her voice tightened, a flicker of pain crossing her face. “I’m so afraid for my people. If they get caught in the crossfire…”

Leliana’s expression softened. “I understand your fears, but this is not an Exalted March, and I will not allow it to become one. The Chantry stands against Solas’ plans, not against elves. There are those who would twist this into another excuse for war, but I will not let them. I promise you that.”

Dah’lia listened, her expression thoughtful. She appreciated her words and knew the former spymaster meant every one of them. But she also knew the truth. Some people within the Chantry had loud voices, and when those voices reached a crescendo, even someone like Leliana might struggle to maintain control.

“It’s been an honour to work with you both,” Dah’lia said, and with a final smile, they walked away.

Turning to Cullen, she watched him straighten from his task, brushing the frost from his gloves. “The supplies are gathered, and the mounts are almost ready,” he said. “We’ll need to finalise the groups and assign tasks before we move out.”

She nodded. “I’ll go with Varric, Harding, and Dagna. Cole is back and will be joining us, though I imagine he’ll show up and disappear as and when he pleases. You go with Cassandra, Charter, Sutherland and his crew. I’ll ask Bull what he wants to do with the Chargers. I also need to speak to Sera - see what her plans are.”

“Understood,” he replied, his tone firm. “And your orders for each group?”

“Our priority, for now, should be uncovering the eluvian network Solas is using,” she said. “It gives him a huge advantage, and we can’t afford to ignore it. To untangle it, we need an expert. Briala came to mind, and also Morrigan, but I have no idea where she might be.”

His brow furrowed in thought. “Shall my group attempt to meet with Briala? We could also search for Morrigan at the same time. She had ties within the Orlesian court, didn’t she? Perhaps someone there might know something. And…” He hesitated. “We could also ask around villages along the way - or possibly any Dalish cla - ”

“No.” Her response came sharper than she’d intended. She softened, exhaling slowly. “I’m sorry. Tensions will be high, especially if word of Solas has reached them and…I don’t want my people getting hurt.” She silently recalled the mass exodus of elven servants from the Winter Palace - swift and quiet yet impossible to miss. Sera had also noticed it. Something was afoot, and it made her uneasy.

“I know someone,” Varric said suddenly, catching them both off guard. “Who knows about those freaky mirrors, I mean. She’s even got one. We go way back. I haven’t visited her in a while, but she loved that thing - doubt she would have parted with it. She’s in Kirkwall, though, so it’ll be a trek - she lives in the alienage. That said, I could use a trip back. Gotta find someone to take over this whole viscount business. Something tells me it’s gonna be a long while before I enjoy that quiet life again, eh, Wildfire?” He winked at Dah’lia, his tone teasing but warm.

Kirkwall. The Free Marches. Her heart clenched at the thought of returning to the land where ghosts lingered. “Are you sure she can be trusted, Varric?” she asked.

“She’s harmless. Well…mostly harmless,” he said with a shrug. “She’s called Merrill - I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned her before. Bit of an odd one, but she’s solid. Fought hard to protect the mages when things went to shit in Kirkwall. So yeah, you can trust her.”

“Alright, that’s settled,” she said firmly, trying to hide her discomfort, and turned back to Cullen. “My group will head to Kirkwall. I still want you and your team to try to establish contact with Briala and Morrigan. They’d be a huge help if willing to work with us.”

“Of course. I’ll inform the others,” he said. There was a subtle flicker of relief in his expression as if he were quietly thankful that he wasn't the one going to Kirkwall. He had spoken of his time there before, his voice heavy with memories he preferred not to revisit. The City of Chains seemingly cradled a lot of people’s suffering.

Before Dah’lia could thank him, the sound of hooves echoed off the stone walls, drawing her attention to the main gate.

A large horse trotted through, its rider cutting an imposing figure against the morning light. Blackwall - though he now preferred to be called Thom - raised a hand in greeting as he guided his mount forward. He slowed to a stop and dismounted in one fluid motion.

“Thom! You made it back!” Dah’lia smiled warmly, glad to see her friend safe and sound.

“Yeah, sorry for the delay,” he replied lightheartedly. “Had a few loose ends to tie up. I’ve got to say, Dah’lia - bloody good job putting those pompous bastards in their place. You brought a tear to my eye!” He grinned, a spark of humour in his eyes.

She laughed. “You know me, Thom. Politics isn’t my strong suit. I’m just thankful Josephine was there to smooth things over with Bann Teagan. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone turn that shade of red before!”

“You do have a way of rattling people, don’t you? Though, to be fair, it’s usually the ones who deserve it.” He let out a low laugh before his expression softened, the teasing giving way to sincerity. “There’s a lot to catch up on, I’m sure, but I’ll let Cullen fill me in on the details. From the looks of things, you’re all about to head out?”

She nodded. “We’re splitting into groups, each with their own priorities. If you’d like to join me, I’d be honoured. But I’d understand if you’d prefer to part ways.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Dah’lia. My sword is yours. Always.” He brought a clenched fist to his heart, his pledge iron-bound.

“Thank you, Thom. Truly.” She placed her hand gently over his.

Their friendship had had its ups and downs over the years, much of which was owed to Thom’s history. But when she looked at him now, she saw a man willing to do whatever necessary to atone. He had worked relentlessly over the past two years, serving as a symbol of hope to the downtrodden and destitute. He had done much good, and that was enough for her. She understood there was more to a person than the creeping shadows of their past failures.

Cullen stepped forward. “I’ll get Thom up to speed and relay the orders to my group. Shall we meet at the stables in an hour?”

“That works,” she replied with a nod. “I’ll see you all soon.”

With that, she dropped her bag next to the pile of supplies and turned, heading toward the Herald’s Rest to speak to Iron Bull and Sera.

Iron Bull was no problem - their friendship was strong as bedrock, but Sera…they’d barely been friends over the years, and whatever fragile civility they’d once managed to uphold had long since crumbled due to time and distance. The situation with Solas had likely driven an even bigger wedge between them…

She flinched inwardly at the thought of the upcoming conversation as she reached for the tavern door.

Inside, the atmosphere felt as warm and familiar as ever. There was no sign of Sera, but Iron Bull was sitting in his usual spot - his Chargers gathered around him. “Hey, Boss!” he called, his grin broad.

“Bull,” Dah’lia greeted with a smile. “We’re gathering at the stables in an hour. Is that good for you?”

“We’re set.” He leaned forward in his chair, his expression serious - a shift from his usual laid-back demeanour. “I’ve been thinking. What happened with the Qunari…it’s bad. They’re not gonna let this go.” He paused, drumming his fingers on the table. “I’ve been through everything the Ben-Hassrath left behind. Don’t know what they’re teaching them these days, but…” He shook his head with a wry smirk. “They left a lot. Sloppy. Real sloppy. That kind of carelessness? It’s not like them. Either they’re stretched thin, or there’s something else going on. I’ve got a few leads - places, names, things that don’t add up. I’m sending the Chargers to check them out. If we’re lucky, they’ll lead us to answers before the Qunari make their next move.”

“Good idea, Bull. They’re also strongly opposed to Solas, so they’ll probably be tracking his movements. That could work to our advantage. Will you be leading the charge or…?”

“They can handle themselves, Boss,” he said confidently, leaning back. “If anyone can deal with Qunari leftovers, it’s Krem and the Chargers. They’ve got this. I’m coming with you.”

“You can count on us, Chief!” Krem chimed in, his tone carrying easy confidence. He flashed a quick grin, standing casually with one leg on his chair and an arm resting on his thigh. “The Chargers’ll get it done.”

Dah’lia smiled, her expression softening at Krem’s conviction, but a sudden burst of commotion from upstairs drew her attention. A familiar raised voice and something clattering to the floor echoed through the tavern.

“Sera,” she muttered under her breath. Her shoulders tensed as she glanced up. “I’ll handle it. See you at the stables.” She quickly nodded at Iron Bull and Krem before walking away and climbing the stairs.

With each step, she braced herself for the inevitable clash. She’d been dreading this, and the venom Sera would no doubt spit at her. They’d barely spoken during the journey back to Skyhold, although Sera made sure to sneak in a few subtle digs.

When she emerged onto the landing, Dagna was the first to spot her and rushed over with an apologetic smile. “She’s…not handling it well,” the arcanist said, her voice brimming with concern. “But she’ll be fine! She just needs to get it out of her system.”

Sera’s sharp voice sliced through the air. “I heard that! And yeah, I do need to get it out of my system because IT is SHITE! And - oh look.” She stepped out of her former room and came into view, her glare locking onto Dah’lia. “The Elfy Wonder herself. Here to defend your ugly Fade-fart boyfriend?” She raised her hands, gesturing dramatically as if conducting an invisible symphony. “ELVEN GLORY!” she exclaimed, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Sera!” Dagna waved her arms in front of her like she was trying to grab the words from the air.

“What? I’m right!” she snapped back. “It’s her boyfriend friggin’ everything up! Stupid Fade, stupid Veil, stupid demons, and stupid ancient arse-biscuits! Everything was back to normal! Normal is good. Why does everybody hate NORMAL!?”

Dah’lia drew a slow, deliberate breath, forcing herself to stay calm. “I know you’re upset, Sera. Believe me.” Her tone was even, though her fingers curled into a fist at her side. “But I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t choose any of this madness. None of us did…look - I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing.”

Sera slumped, her sharp edges softening. “Well…I’m doing shite,” she muttered, her voice quieter now.

Dah’lia’s frustration ebbed away at the sight of her defeated expression. “I know…me too.” She hesitated. “I have to ask…why did you come back with us? Why join us?”

Sera shrugged, looking off to the side. “Same reason I joined when the skies arse fell out. I want everything to go back to normal. And…my Dagna wants to go with you. Nothing bad is allowed to happen to her.”

Realisation dawned on Dah’lia, pieces clicking into place. She’d noticed how close they’d seemed at the Winter Palace, but now it all made sense. “Well, if it’s worth anything, I’m glad to have you with us.”

“Pfft. Don’t lie, Elfy.” Sera smirked, though there was less bite in her tone now.

Dah’lia opened her mouth to respond, but Dagna tugged on her arm, grinning triumphantly. “See? Told you she’d come around!”

Dah’lia glanced between them, sighed heavily and decided to drop it. “Right. We’re meeting by the stables in an hour. I’ve already divided everyone into groups. You two will accompany me, Varric, Lace, Bull, and Thom. Cole is back, too, so he’ll pop up whenever he feels like it, as usual.”

Sera’s eyes lit up. “Beardy’s back!? Well, that’s some good news, innit. Shame about Creepy, but whatever. And yeah, we’ll be there.”

Dah’lia made her way back downstairs and out of the tavern, her thoughts heavy as she glanced toward the armoury. She needed a weapon - something she could manage with one arm. It wasn’t ideal, but it was necessary.

She stepped into the quiet space, the absence of blacksmiths and the usual clanging of tools making it feel hollow.

Her gaze swept over the rows of weapons lining the walls, pausing on a rack of shortswords. The blades were functional but utterly uninspiring. She reached out toward one of the hilts, her hand hovering before pulling back. Slowly, she turned, and her gaze drifted to the table behind her.

There it was - her true blade.

Suledin’dir’vhen’an. Enduring Promise.

She had placed it there the day before, wanting to keep it hidden. Since losing her arm, she had found it hard to look at, let alone touch. The thought of being unable to wield it - of it becoming just another relic of what she’d lost filled her with grief. But now, after seeing Dagna’s sketch, she allowed herself to feel the faintest flicker of hope.

The blade was a masterpiece. But it wasn’t just a weapon. Forged from gleaming steel, with an almost iridescent sheen, it was a symbol of promise. A vow etched into metal. A reminder of her duty as her clan’s Shalasha’revas - Protector of Freedom.

A duty she’d failed.

Her thoughts drifted to memories of her clan…and her sister. It was a vast sea of regret and despair that she dared not swim in for too long.

She’d joined Clan Lavellan alongside Lena when they were eight and four, respectively, after they’d run away from Kirkwall’s alienage. 

They’d escaped at Dah’lia’s behest the night after Lena had accidentally set fire to the drapes in their cramped kitchen with nothing but the touch of her little hand.

Dah’lia had overheard their parents’ frightened whispers the day after - their voices edged with anguish - and when they’d mentioned the possibility of informing the Templars, Dah’lia’s young heart had clenched.

Even at such a tender age, she would have killed to protect Lena. Purpose had stirred within her the day she’d been born, and a guardian had emerged from the darkness of her lonely life. The thought of Lena being ripped away from her had filled her with a despair so immense that it had threatened to overwhelm her tiny body.

Without thinking, Dah’lia had packed up their belongings, and that night, they’d slipped out through a crack in the alienage wall, disappearing into the forest.

After a few arduous days, they’d stumbled - dirty, freezing and near starving - upon a group of elven hunters who took them to their clan’s keeper.

She could still clearly remember walking through Clan Lavellan for the first time - the smell of campfire, the atmosphere, the sounds.

There had been laughter as people went about their tasks while a couple of women sang and danced, telling tales of elven legends through music to an audience of curious children around Lena’s age.

But nothing compared to when Dah’lia first met Keeper Deshanna. She had been utterly mesmerised.

A proud elven woman - one who’d stood tall with a commanding presence.

She’d thought back to her mother, who had spent most of her life trying to make herself small so as not to bring attention to herself or her family. There had been no pride, no confidence - just a lowered head and downcast eyes.

Dah’lia had spent most of her formative years believing that being an elf was something to be ashamed of. But Deshanna had challenged that belief, and it changed her life.

After a couple of days of good food and rest, members of the clan tried to gently coax out information regarding the sister’s former home. Lena had been too young to tell them much, and Dah’lia had tightly locked that knowledge deep inside her chest. She’d refused to tell anyone where they'd come from, terrified at the prospect of being forced back and of the fate she’d thought would have awaited Lena on their return.

The attempts lessened as they were both welcomed into the clan, and as Lena grew, she proved herself to be a talented mage while Dah’lia’s prowess with an array of weapons was unmatched.

Life was good. And although it stung her to think of now, she couldn't remember ever missing her parents.

It wasn't easy growing up in a clan, however. The work was backbreaking at times, and they were always at the mercy of either the weather or humans looking to cause trouble. Before she was even out of her teens, she had been in countless scuffles, fiercely protecting her people.

Her dedication to the clan’s safety didn't go unnoticed, and not long after her twenty-fourth birthday, Dah’lia was bestowed the honourable title of Shalasha’revas alongside her blade. She went on to lead the hunts and the patrols throughout the forest - a provider and protector.

That was fourteen years ago now. She had felt invincible back then, standing with her people’s faith and love wrapped around her like a cloak. She hadn’t known how much she would lose, how the promise engraved in the blade would become a tether binding her to memories of a sister she could never embrace again and a home she could never return to.

Sadness clung to her heart like ichor.

She forced her thoughts back to the present, and after taking a deep breath, she reached for her scabbard hanging from a nearby rack. She looped the leather strap across her chest and guided it into place. It was much more challenging with only one arm, but she managed. The straps creaked softly as they settled against her armour, a familiar pressure.

Next came the sword. She bent slightly, her hand gripping the hilt with care as she lifted it in a smooth arc. She slid the blade home in one fluid motion, the steel whispering against the scabbard’s leather lining. The weight settled across her back, pulling down slightly, but it was grounding. Right. She rolled her shoulders, testing the fit, and a faint smile ghosted across her lips as she stood tall.

She still needed a weapon she could wield, so she picked up a belt with a sheath for a shortsword and fastened it around her hips, with the sheath on her left side. Then, she placed a shortsword into the sheath.

Dah’lia left the armoury with a sense of renewed strength and made her way back toward the lower courtyard.

When she reached the stables, the atmosphere buzzed with energy.

Everyone had gathered. In the centre stood Dagna, her excitement palpable as she gestured animatedly to the four Scribblesends arranged neatly on the ground before her. Her voice was filled with a bubbling energy, words tumbling out a little too quickly as she explained how her invention worked.

Dah’lia couldn’t stop herself from smiling. Dagna’s passion was a joy to behold. But as she looked at the gathered group, she noted the varying degrees of scepticism on everyone's faces.

When Dagna finally finished, there was a brief pause as everyone processed her demonstration.

The silence stretched for just a moment too long before Varric broke it with a smirk, leaning lazily on Bianca. “So…magic tin cans? You’ve really outdone yourself.”

She blinked, her excitement dimming slightly, but before she could respond, Dah’lia stepped in. “As you already know, Dagna - I think they’re brilliant,” she said, shooting Varric a subtle warning glance.

The arcanist’s smile returned in full force, her posture straightening.

Varric held up a hand in mock surrender, grinning. “Alright, alright. No need to glare daggers at me, Wildfire. They’re clever, I’ll admit.”

Iron Bull let out a snort. “I like it. Instant letters, no waiting around. As long as there’s no instant demons.” He shuddered visibly.

Cassandra crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at one of the devices as if it might explode. “And they work reliably? No risk of…tampering?” Her doubt was written clearly across her face.

“It’s not tampering I’m worried about,” Cullen muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “What if they malfunction? Or if the lyrium overheats?” He gestured at the devices with a slight frown. “These seem…unsafe.”

Ignoring everyone's concerns, Sera nudged one of the Scribblesends with her foot. “What happens if you stick a cheese wedge in it?” she asked with a mischievous grin.

Lace chimed in. “If these things can send cheese, we might be onto something better than letters! Instant snacks!”

“I thought that too! But I haven’t tried it yet,” Dagna said enthusiastically, grinning from ear to ear.

Dah’lia closed her eyes briefly and let out a slow breath. “We’ll be using them for letters, not snacks. If I find out any of you have been stuffing food into them…” Her gaze swept over the group, although a faint smirk tugged at her lips. “And Cullen - Dagna has been working on these for years. They’re safe.”

“Mostly!” Dagna added cheerfully, only to shrink slightly when Dah’lia turned to give her a withering look. “Oh…sorry.”

“As I was saying,” Dah’lia continued, “they’re safe.”

Cassandra let out a sigh and stepped closer, her arms still crossed. “Whatever their…quirks, they could give us an advantage. If they work as you say, I am willing to trust Dagna’s…Scribblesends.”

“Cassandra trusts my lovely Widdle!” Sera exclaimed, throwing an arm around the arcanist with a grin.

Dagna beamed at the praise while Cassandra simply rolled her eyes.

“So we’re all caught up,” Dah’lia said firmly, raising her hand to silence any lingering commentary before it could start. “This will make us more efficient.” She picked up two Scribblesends, handing one to Cullen and the other to Krem. “You take these, and I’ll keep their twins. If either of you needs to get word to the other, I’ll act as the go-between.”

“Loud and clear,” Krem replied, his grin sharp and confident. He turned toward his crew, signalling them to mount up. Swinging quickly onto his horse, he shouted, “HORNS UP!” The Chargers echoed his call, their energy palpable as they prepared to move. Krem turned to look at Iron Bull. “We know our mission, Chief. We’ll be in touch.” With that, the Chargers broke into a gallop, disappearing beyond the gates.

Cullen stepped forward next. “We’ll set off as well,” he said. “When we learn something, you’ll know…immediately.” He turned the Scribblesend over in his hand, examining it thoughtfully. “I…I suppose these devices will be useful.”

“Stay safe, Cullen,” Dah’lia said, her voice steady. She turned to Cassandra, Charter, and Donal, giving them a nod. “You as well.”

The significance of the moment settled over the group, but there was also a sense of determination. A sense that every step forward mattered.

Cullen and his team mounted their horses, their focused expressions highlighting the importance of their mission. With a signal from the commander, they set off, fading into the distance.

Dah’lia watched them leave and then approached her own mount, pausing beside him.

Her bag had already been loaded onto the saddle, so she opened it carefully and placed the two remaining Scribblesends inside.

She moved to face the horse, gently brushing her fingers along the bridge of his nose. “Hi, Rowan,” she whispered.

His coat shimmered in the sunlight, the brown hue offset by his flaxen mane. His intelligent eyes watched her with affection as he leaned eagerly into her touch and exhaled softly, his breath warm against her palm.

Rowan had been a constant throughout countless journeys. He was always dependable and seemed to know her exact mood. He would often wander over to her of his own accord and nudge her ever so slightly as if to say, “I’m here for you. No matter what.”

Their bond was strong, and she was eternally grateful to him. Many nights after Solas had left, she’d snuggle up to him in the stables, his warm body and steady breathing like a balm for her poor, fractured heart.

She hauled herself onto his back with difficulty, her movements not as confident as they once were, but Rowan shifted beneath her - he could sense her struggle. With a gentle whinny, he lowered himself, his robust frame dipping to make it easier for her. She settled into the saddle and leaned forward to give him an appreciative hug around his neck.

Turning to her group, she let her gaze sweep over them, waiting patiently for each rider to settle on their own mount. Their determined expressions sent a wave of gratitude through her.

She took a deep breath and steadied herself before speaking. “I want to thank you all,” she began. “For coming with me. I know the past couple of weeks haven’t been easy - the past few years haven’t been easy. And yet here you are, fighting beside me once more and ready to face whatever comes next.” She paused, and her gaze shifted to the towering walls of Skyhold. “This place…it gave us purpose. A home when we needed it most. But now it’s time to move forward.” Her lips curved into the faintest smile. “It seems we have a world to save. Again.”

Rowan whinnied excitedly as if understanding her words, stomping at the ground with his hooves. She guided him forward with a shout and a gentle squeeze of her legs, and he moved into a smooth, purposeful stride - the others following.

With the past behind them and the unknown ahead, they rode toward a future bursting with promises and plans. A future Dah’lia could never have imagined - in her wildest dreams or darkest nightmares.

Chapter Text

A familiar scene unfolded…

Moonlight gleamed as tendrils of darkness swirled, reaching and suffocating. The feeling of losing control again consumed Dah’lia as her form flickered, crumbling at the edges.

She pulled herself together - the same as before - and the black mist receded, revealing the exact ruined temple she’d seen during her last visit to this strange, desolate place.

The experience was no less horrifying.

Then, the incessant whispers returned as if on cue, shattering the silence - a lost, anguished voice crying out.

It assaulted her furthermore like a hurricane of wrath and sorrow that felt as though it might tear her apart and sweep her away. 

She screamed, “Who are you!? What do you want from me!?”

The whispers shifted, combining into a jagged mixture of words that struck her like shards of broken glass.

“I linger…made…hollow.”

The voice was close again - as if stood behind her, breathing down her neck.

She spun around but was met with empty air. “I don’t know what that means!” she shouted - her voice raw with desperation.

The whisper’s agonised wails clawed at her mind - louder and more relentless. The pain in her head spiked and became almost unbearable as she fell to her knees, bracing against the attack. And then…

Solas’ presence again.

The torment vanished, swept away like a tide retreating from the shore. The whispers quieted to a murmur and then dissolved into silence as she looked up through her tear-blurred eyes.

He stood before her once more, perched on the same crumbling wall. His expression mirrored the last time - sorrowful, bereft.

Her breath hitched, and she rose slowly to her feet. She willed herself to stay in control, but it felt like balancing on a taut thread stretched between worlds - the effort brutal without the tether Solas had once provided.

She ran toward him, climbing the jagged wall as it seemed to dissolve beneath her. 

His form flickered, beginning to fade into the shadows. “NO!” she screamed, tears now spilling over. “Don’t go! Talk to me, Solas, please!”

She reached him.

Her hand shot out, and for the briefest heartbeat - a fragile, trembling moment - her fingers closed around his arm.

The dream shifted - the soft edges becoming sharp. It felt more real, more tangible - no longer the hazy, fleeting sensation of a shadow drifting through fragmented memories or imagined scenarios.

His form steadied beneath her touch, solidifying, and their eyes locked - wide with shared surprise. 

She shouldn't have been able to do that.

“Solas.” She pressed on - she wouldn’t squander this opportunity.“You reach for me, but then pull away. It’s not fair. Just…talk to me.”

Sadness was etched into every line of his face. His brow furrowed deeply, but then it softened as his gaze fell away. “You have left Skyhold,” he said quietly.

Her breath caught. “How do you…?”

“Vhenan…” His voice broke on the word, raw and trembling - a thousand emotions trapped within those two syllables. “You are walking a dangerous path.”

Her chest tightened, anger and grief warring within her. “What am I supposed to do!? Just wait patiently for the end!?”

“It would not be the end.” His voice was gentle, almost pleading. “Once you see the world in its natural state - how it should be…you will come to understand why I must do this.”

Her tone sharpened. “Assuming I survive. You said it yourself - the world will burn in the raw chaos. Everything will be destroyed.”

“Yes,” he said softly, sorrow in his voice. “But it will recover.”

She stared at him, her anguish giving way to fury. “And what of the people of Thedas? Will they recover?”

He looked away, his jaw tightening. “You already know the answer to that question.”

Her disbelief erupted into a storm. “That’s not acceptable, Solas! Your hands will be covered with the blood of thousands - no millions - of people. Innocent people!”

His shoulders sagged slightly, but his voice remained steady - like stone worn smooth by regret. “My hands are already soaked with blood, vhenan. The world is broken. I was the one who broke it. And I am the one who must fix it.” His words tumbled through the dream, carrying an echo that shattered the moment.

Her surroundings quaked violently, spiralling out of her control, and the edges blurred the once-vivid landscape. The Fade finally rebelled against her will, and Solas’ form began to disintegrate, fragmenting into shards of light and shadow.

“NO!” she cried, reaching for him. “There has to be another way!”

Dah’lia woke with a gasp, her chest heaving as she bolted upright. The oppressive weight of the dream lingered, now mixed with confusion and frustration. Clenching her fist, she pressed her nails into her palm until pain bloomed - a physical distraction from the despair threatening to consume her.

With more space to think, she tried to piece it all together. She couldn’t ignore it this time or push it down. It had been the same dream - same place, same voice…and Solas. Her mind jolted with sudden realisation.

Solas had known they’d left Skyhold.

The thought coiled around her. Could her dreams betray their plans? Had the Fade - his domain - laid her bare?

And the whispers…

A cry carried on the winds of the Veil. It haunted her still - ragged and pained, a tormented soul, adrift in the endless expanse of the Fade.

Why me? she wondered, her pulse quickening. Why reach for me?

The faint chirping of birds broke her thoughts - the cheerful morning song a cruel contrast to the storm within.

Dressing quietly, she slipped outside, squinting as sunlight poured into the tent. The air was bitterly cold, filled with the scent of nature and smoke from the campfire.

Gathering a few logs, she crouched by the dying embers, stoking them until they flickered back to life. She emptied a waterskin into a small pan, added coffee, and set it over the flames.

Her gaze swept over the camp. It was arranged in a loose semicircle. She and Lace shared one tent while Sera and Dagna occupied another. Varric and Thom shared a third, and Iron Bull had his own - a massive canvas structure that seemed comically small for his size.

The journey here through the Frostback Mountains had been arduous. Deep snow and blizzards had slowed their progress to a crawl, though the trails eventually gave way to dirt paths as they descended into the lowlands.

When they’d reached the western edge of Lake Calenhad, they’d set up camp near the shore, hidden from the main path by a line of trees. Dagna’s wards obscured their presence further.

Dah’lia wandered to the water’s edge, her boots crunching over broken shale. The lake stretched out before her - the rising sun painting ripples of gold and crimson across its surface. It was breathtaking - a reminder of how beautiful the world could be even as it cradled so much pain.

The silence settled around her, and her thoughts turned to her brief conversation with Solas. His certainty loomed in her mind like a shadow. He was so convinced of his path, so sure destruction was the only way forward.

How could she even begin to convince him otherwise?

Doubt pressed down on her chest, heavy and suffocating. Had she dragged herself - and her friends - into a fool’s errand? A dangerous one at that? Everything felt so impossible.

Out of pure habit, she uttered a whispered prayer to Mythal, asking for guidance. But the grief that struck her afterwards was absolute, and it hit without warning. The levee broke, and the following flood drowned her in its merciless tide. Tears came freely, and she sobbed, trying to stifle the sound so as to avoid disturbing the others.

She had pushed this particular revelation down, unwilling to face it, terrified of the emptiness her shattered faith might invite into her already fractured soul. But now it hit her with full force.

And it broke her.

Reaching for her face, her fingers brushed against her vallaslin. She remembered the day she had chosen Mythal’s mark - the pride that had burned in her chest as she stood before Keeper Deshanna. She had felt connected to Mythal’s role as protector - to the stories of the mother who watched over her people. And when Solas had told her in Crestwood that the vallaslin were actually slave markings, she’d been so sure he was mistaken. She had clung to the belief that the memory he claimed to have witnessed was a trick of the Fade, a fabrication borne of ancient chaos.

She’d refused to let him remove it. But now…now she knew the truth.

The Creators weren’t gods. They were tyrants - merely powerful mages who had enslaved, destroyed and called it divinity.

This wasn’t a crisis of faith. This wasn’t a trial she could wrestle with and emerge stronger from. This was the complete and utter destruction of faith.

Her tears fell faster as she mourned the loss. So much of her culture had centred around them - their lessons, ceremonies, and songs.

How would her people respond to such a revelation?

Some might reject it, clinging to the stories. Others might join Solas, their anger stoked by the betrayal of their false gods.

Why not let the world burn when it had burned them first?

The thought terrified her.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” a voice called softly from behind.

She turned to see Lace dressed with her bow slung across her shoulder and a quiver full of arrows. “No, not at all,” Dah’lia responded quickly, brushing her cheeks. “Are you going hunting?”

“Yeah, thought I’d see if I can catch something before the others wake up and start making noise.” Lace studied her, taking in her expression. “Are you alright?”

Dah’lia hesitated. “Yes. Well, no. But I will be. I have to be.”

“Do you wanna talk? I know Varric’s usually your go-to, but…” Lace trailed off, leaving the offer open.

Dah’lia thought for a moment. “You’re Andrastian, aren’t you? Have you ever…lost your faith?”

“I wouldn't say ‘lost’…but I’ve struggled with it over the years,” she said softly.

“And what helped you overcome it?”

Lace’s expression grew reflective. After a little while, she said, “I chose to keep believing.”

Dah’lia exhaled slowly. “I…I don’t have that option. What Solas told me about the Creators, my so-called gods…there’s nothing left to hold on to, nothing worth believing in.” Her voice faltered. “Most of my life, my prayers have been nothing more than empty whispers to cruel tyrants that didn't even deserve them.”

Lace’s voice softened. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now.” She approached and gently touched Dah’lia’s arm. “But…I think faith isn’t just about gods. Not really.”

Dah’lia looked at her with red-rimmed eyes. “Then what is it about?”

“Hope?” Lace replied after a moment. “Believing there’s something bigger than all this - even if we don’t understand it. For me, that’s the Maker. For you…” She faltered, searching for the right words. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be Mythal, Elgar’nan or any of the others. Maybe it’s your people. Your friends. Or yourself.”

Dah’lia shook her head, bitterness lacing her voice. “Faith in myself? That feels just as empty. I’ve failed so many times…”

“You’re still here, though,” Lace answered firmly. “And people have faith in you. I have faith in you. That’s not nothing.”

“Thank you,” Dah’lia whispered in response, her voice barely audible. She couldn’t manage more. Her lips trembled, and her eyes burned with the threat of fresh tears. Turning her face away, she drew in a deep, shaky breath.

“No need to thank me,” Lace replied gently, her voice soft but steady - the comfort of someone grounded. “Now, I’ll go and get us that breakfast. Some decent food will do you good. I’ve noticed you haven’t been eating much.”

Dah’lia nodded in response, silent but grateful, and Lace’s hand squeezed her arm - a slight touch that said everything words couldn’t.

As Lace walked away and her footsteps faded, Dah’lia fixed her gaze on the lake, its surface calm and endless. Kneeling, she dipped her fingers into the cool water - the ripples broke the golden light, scattering it into fragments.

Her faith might have shattered, but her duty remained. She had made a promise when she’d taken up her sword -  Suledin’dir’vhen’an. An enduring promise. Her clan was gone, but her people were not, and neither were her friends.

She would focus on them.

Returning to the campfire, Dah’lia felt only a little lighter. The burden she carried wasn’t one a single conversation could lift. It would take time, patience, and perhaps more strength than she believed she had. Some wounds didn’t heal quickly, if at all, and this was one of them.

The coffee water had boiled in her absence, steam curling lazily into the cool morning air. She strained it into a battered mug, ignoring the dark remnants clinging stubbornly to the sides. She didn’t care. Raising the mug to her nose, she breathed in the rich, earthy aroma. It was warm and grounding - a small comfort.

The clinking of metal drew her attention. Following the sound, she found Dagna behind a crumbling wall, her portable workshop spread out around her. The arcanist worked intently, hammering something into shape.

“Morning, Dagna,” Dah’lia said, offering the mug. “Here, take this. I didn’t know you were up, or I’d have made you one…”

The arcanist laughed, shaking her head. “Aww, thank you! But I stay away from coffee. It makes my thoughts race and…well, it’s not like I need that.”

Dah’lia chuckled in response. “What are you working on?”

“Oh! So I spent the last few nights doing some finishing touches on that sketch of your prosthetic arm,” Dagna began, her words tumbling out in an excited rush. “And now I’ve got something solid to work with! I’m just hammering these pieces into shape to form a sort of frame that I can build around. Actually…” She paused, her eyes lighting up. “It’s good you’re here! I need to take some measurements. Could you take your arm out of your sleeve? I’ll be quick, promise!”

Dah’lia’s brows lifted in surprise, a flicker of excitement breaking through the heaviness. “I can’t believe you’re already starting on it…I thought it would take months!” She set her coffee down, unbuckled her leather armour just enough to free her stump, and presented it to Dagna.

The arcanist grinned, her eyes sparkling with determination as she reached for a thin strip of measuring fabric. “When inspiration strikes, there’s no stopping me! Besides…” Her voice softened, though her hands moved briskly. “You’ve been through so much already. If I can give you back even a little piece of yourself, I’ll move mountains - or at least hammer a whole lot of metal!”

Dah’lia beamed, warmth blooming within her. “I know I keep saying it, but…there really are no words to express how grateful I am,” she said softly.

Dagna gave her a quick, bright smile as she finished taking notes. “Don’t mention it. Just wait ‘til you see it! It’s going to be amazing!”

Sliding her arm back into her armour and adjusting the straps, she nodded. “I’m sure it will be! Thank you. Truly.” She lingered for a moment, her expression fond. “I’ll leave you to it. Lace is out hunting, so make sure you come and have breakfast soon, alright?”

The arcanist waved her off, already reaching for another piece of metal. “Sure thing!” She started humming to herself.

Dah’lia picked up her coffee and made her way back to the camp.

The others were up. Varric sat near the fire, looking far too awake for someone who had just risen, and Iron Bull peered groggily out of his tent, his massive form slouched like he’d fought his bedroll - and lost. A short distance away, Thom and Sera were already talking and laughing about something ridiculous, no doubt - their voices light and carefree. It was nice to hear.

“Morning, everyone,” Dah’lia said as she approached.

“Hey, Wildfire,” Varric replied with a wry smile.

“Morning, Boss,” grunted Iron Bull, his gravelly voice tinged with weariness. For all his complaining about others' snoring, he had practically rattled the tents all night.

Lowering herself onto a log next to Varric, she felt the comforting warmth of the fire against the morning chill. They sat in companionable silence - the kind that felt easy, a gift earned through shared triumphs and hardships.

After finishing her coffee, she placed the mug in the bucket assigned for dirty dishes.

She sat for a little while, lost in thought, and her fingers moved absentmindedly to a strand of red hair, twisting it between her thumb and forefinger. It was dry and coarse, more tangled than it should have been. Losing her arm had made caring for it properly challenging.

Letting her hand drift to the back and sides of her head, she felt the shorter, uneven growth stark against the longer strands.

Before becoming the Inquisitor, she’d always kept the back and sides shaved, the rest braided thick and adorned with various beads and cuffs - a warrior’s practicality intertwined with her Dalish pride. But in the years that followed, her hair had grown out, fashioned into an elegant style at Josephine’s suggestion. The look had been deliberate - a leader who could stand among the elite without flinching.

But she wasn’t the Inquisitor anymore.

With a slow exhale, she let the strand fall from her fingers, her gaze fixed on the flames. “Varric…do you have a shaving blade?”

The question caught him off guard, and he gave her a sidelong look. “Yeah…why?”

She hesitated, brushing the loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you remember how I used to look? When we first met?”

“Sure do, kid. Truth be told…you scared the shit out of me.”

She laughed, the sound brief but genuine. “I want to look like that again. Like me. Could you help?” She raised her stump, a small hopeful smile tugging at her lips.

His expression softened, though his brow arched sceptically. “I mean…sure. But if anyone asks, you begged me to do this.”

“Thank you so much!” Her face lit up as she stood. “I’ll grab my brush and a hair tie.”

They both rose and headed for their tents. She moved with renewed purpose, retrieving her things quickly. When she returned, Varric was already back at the fire with his shaving blade and a small tin tucked under his arm.

He stood behind her as she sat, brushing her hair, wincing slightly at the coarse tangles.

“You’ll need to put it up in a high bun,” she instructed. “Everything I want shaved isn’t long enough to be caught in it, so it should be easy to tell.”

“Alright…but let’s be clear…this is not my speciality,” he muttered, gathering her hair in his large hands with an awkward, careful effort. The bun he secured was clumsy, but it held, and he stepped back with a satisfied grunt.

She smirked but said nothing as he reached for the small tin and cracked it open. The scent hit her immediately - tallow, thick with the faint bitterness of herbs, though they barely masked the pungent aroma of rendered animal fat.

Varric scooped up a dollop and worked it into the back and sides of her head. The blade scraped softly against her scalp, steady and precise, and strands of hair began to fall, drifting down like red leaves.

The sensation - cool and freeing - sent a shiver across her skin.

“What’re you doing?” Sera’s voice cut in. She trotted over, Thom trailing behind with a wide grin and watched Varric work with an expression of sheer delight.

“Her hair,” Varric replied flatly, not even looking up. “What’s it look like I’m doing?”

Sera giggled wickedly. “It‘d be hilarious if I nudged your hand, right?”

“Try it, Sera, and I’ll ‘nudge’ your face,” Dah’lia shot back, her tone biting but laced with playful challenge.

Their exchanges on the road had been tentative at first, filled with jabs and wary glances, but they’d managed to somewhat clear the air - thanks in no small part to Dagna’s cheerful mediation, and a fragile truce had formed. Perhaps away from official duty and rigid expectations, a friendship might yet take root between the two very different elves.

Sera squinted, her exaggerated pout twisting into a smirk. “Ooo, she’s snarky today. I think I like it.”

After a few more minutes, Varric finally stepped back, inspecting his work. “Right…I think that’ll do it.”

Dah’lia reached up cautiously, running her fingers along the now-smooth back and sides of her head. The sensation was strange but right - it felt like she’d shed something heavy that no longer fit.

“Looking good, Boss,” Iron Bull called, lumbering over from his tent with a grin.

“Thanks, Bull.” She beamed. “And thank you, Varric. This feels…so much better.”

“Don’t mention it.” He packed up the blade, shaking his head with mock resignation. “You’re lucky I don’t charge for this kind of service.”

“Now…” She glanced around the campfire, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “Can anyone do braids?”

To everyone’s surprise, Iron Bull raised a massive hand. “I can.”

The group fell silent, staring at him like he’d just declared himself a scholar of Orlesian poetry.

“What?” he said, feigning offence. “I can!”

Dah’lia blinked before laughter bubbled out of her. “Sorry, Bull, it’s just unexpected!” She flashed him a wide grin. “You’ll need to start from my hairline and work back - a bit like an Orlesian braid.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know what you mean,” he interrupted, already holding out a hand for the brush. He loosened the bun with surprising gentleness and began brushing through her hair. His hands - so large they seemed better suited for crushing skulls - moved with unexpected care. When he finished smoothing it, he swiped his thumb lightly across the top of her head near her hairline, gathering a layer. His fingers worked deftly, and the camp had gone quiet, everyone watching as he worked. Within moments, he tied off the braid and stepped back, satisfaction clear on his face. “How’s that?”

She reached up, running her hand over it. It was tight, secure, and perfect, resting comfortably down the middle of her back like a banner reclaimed. “This is wonderful,” she whispered, her voice soft but brimming with gratitude.

He grinned and shrugged as if it were nothing. “No problem, Boss.”

Rising to her feet, Dah’lia moved to hug Varric and Iron Bull just as Lace reappeared, three plump pheasants slung over her shoulder.

“Breakfast is served!” she exclaimed, dropping her catch near the fire.

“Nice one, Harding!” Iron Bull called, his voice full of approval.

The group settled around the campfire as Lace plucked and prepared the birds. The smell of roasting meat filled the air as the fire crackled, the meal cooked to perfection. When Dagna finally joined them, everyone was gathered close, enjoying the warmth of the flames and the food.

Stories flowed easily between bites - memories of Inquisition adventures, laughter over missteps and victories, and reserved musings about the road ahead. Dah’lia looked around at them all, and her chest swelled with emotion. Even now, even after everything, they were still here.

Once the meal was done, the camp buzzed with activity. Bedrolls were shaken out, packs tightened, and the fire’s last embers smothered.

Dah’lia carefully secured her scabbard to Rowan’s saddle, her blade resting snugly inside. She climbed on, her fingers brushing through his flaxen mane, and turned to watch the others finish loading their mounts.

The group pressed on, and the road north passed without incident. The steady rhythm of hoofbeats and the strong scent of nature were a soothing backdrop.

By midday, they reached the start of Gherlen’s Pass - a craggy, windswept trail winding toward the dwarven city of Orzammar. Northeast of it, the Imperial Highway loomed - its pale arches rising starkly against the Ferelden countryside. The weathered Tevinter stone was a relic of another age - grand, foreign, and strangely out of place in the rugged land it cut through. Still, the cobbled road was a welcome relief after days of rocky trails and thick mud. The horses moved with an ease they hadn’t shown in days.

An orange glow crept across the sky as the sun started to dip behind the distant mountains. The group’s energy slumped by the time the daylight vanished, and the first stars shimmered in the darkening heavens. They began searching for a place to camp, but the highway offered little to no cover - just an open stretch of stone and the odd crumbling wall.

“This will have to do,” Dah’lia said as they stopped near a half-fallen wall. It wasn’t much, but it offered enough shelter to set up camp.

The group worked quickly, keeping the setup small and compact. Bedrolls were laid out close together, and the fire was built low, its flickering flames carefully controlled to avoid drawing unwanted attention.

“Well…this is cosy,” Varric said playfully. He was sitting by the campfire, lazily stirring a bubbling pot in front of him - its contents a mixture of meat and vegetables.

“We had to stop,” Dah’lia replied. She caressed Rowan’s flank before joining Varric by the fire. The others were chatting quietly amongst themselves and sat on their bedrolls. “We would’ve been stumbling around in the dark if we’d continued. Besides, we all need to rest, including the horses.” She looked around warily, her gaze lingering on the distant dark. “We won’t use the wards tonight, they won’t be much use. We’ll have to take turns keeping watch.”

“I don’t mind taking the first watch,” Varric volunteered.

“I’ll join you,” she replied, her tone decisive.

Once everyone had eaten and settled in their bedrolls, Dah’lia and Varric sat by the fire. His bag yielded a set of cards, and the two of them played a few rounds.

“So…how’re you doing, Wildfire? And I mean really doing. Aside from the new look,” he asked, his eyes sincere.

She hesitated. “As well as you’d expect,” she said finally. “I don’t think I’ve processed everything yet, and…” Her voice faltered. “Varric…I haven’t said anything because…well, it makes me sound insane, but…he’s…Solas is visiting me. In my dreams.”

His eyes widened, his brows shooting up. “Well, shit.” He scratched his chin. “And what does Chuckles have to say for himself?”

“Not much,” she admitted, lowering her gaze. “I only managed to speak to him for the first time last night. He knows we’ve left Skyhold, so…that’s a problem.” She took a breath. “And…there’s something else. Some other presence is reaching out to me…I can’t make sense of it.”

Varric let out a low whistle, leaning back slightly. “You know me, kid. I don’t know anything about all that weird Fade crap. But you should’ve said something sooner. Solas does all kinds of crazy shit in dreams. What if…” His voice tightened. “What if he tries to hurt you, you know, to stop you going after - ”

“He won’t hurt me,” she interrupted, her tone firm and final.

He studied her briefly, then nodded, though his jaw remained clenched. “Alright. But still, maybe mention it to the others as well…we’re here to help you. Don’t forget that.”

“Thanks, Varric.” She smiled faintly, though the weight didn’t lift. “Anyway,” she said, steering the conversation away, “have we heard anything from Cullen or the Chargers? I haven’t checked the Scribblesends today - it slipped my mind.”

“Not surprising, considering how full it is, kid. But no, nothing yet,” he replied. “Maybe we should reach out ourselves, keep them in the loop.”

She nodded in agreement. “You're right. We’ll write to them once we reach West Hill tomorrow.”

They played and talked for a couple more hours. The conversation shifted to lighter topics until silence naturally settled between them - the only sound being the crackle of fire and the occasional rustle of the horses.

As the shift neared its end, she glanced at Varric, whose eyes had started to close. Rising quietly, she stretched her legs and wandered toward the edge of the camp.

She looked over a low wall. The fields and hills stretched endlessly beneath the vast sky - stars scattered above. Her gaze lingered on the horizon, drawn into the expanse. The faint crumble of loose rock reached her ears, but she dismissed it. She let herself be still, mesmerised by the sight - her thoughts quiet for once. She took a slow breath, savouring the moment until quick footsteps broke the calm behind her.

A rough hand clamped over her mouth.

“Look here, lads. I’ve caught myself a rabbit!” The man’s stench was foul, and his voice oozed mockery. “You make a sound…and I’ll round off those lovely ears of yours. Now…what goodies do you and your friends have, eh?” He dragged her backwards, and she glimpsed two more figures creeping along the wall toward her.

“Pretty one, isn’t she?” one of them sneered, grabbing her stump with a cruel laugh. “Shame she’s a cripple.” He shoved her arm away roughly.

Her heart pounded as she fought to stay calm. She needed to think fast.

She bit down hard on the man’s hand, her teeth sinking into flesh. He cried out, his grip loosening, and she slammed her head backwards with all her strength. The sickening crunch of bone met her ears, and she spun to face him, her own vision swimming slightly from the blow. His nose was a bloody mess, and he swiped at her in a panic, but she dodged easily, grabbing his dagger from its sheath. Before the other two could get to her, she reached around his neck and pressed the blade to his throat.

“Varric!” she shouted, her voice echoing into the night.

He was already on his way, drawn by the commotion - Bianca aimed and ready.

“Think long and hard about whether you want this fight,” Dah’lia said in a low, almost feral growl. “Because it will not end well for any of you. I guarantee it.” 

The other two men froze, their gaze darting between her and Varric. The tension in the air was tangible, crackling like static.

“Fuck this!” one of them blurted out. He spun on his heels and broke out into a sprint. His companion stood completely still momentarily before muttering a curse and hurrying after him.

Dah’lia’s eyes narrowed as she watched them run like the cowards they were. With a sneer, she shifted her focus to the man she had at her mercy. “Your friends have abandoned you,” she said threateningly through gritted teeth. “Now…” She released the dagger from his neck, leaving behind a small cut, and pressed her foot to his back, shoving him forward with just enough force to send him stumbling awkwardly. “Run. Before I change my mind.”

The man whimpered, scrambling to his feet before fleeing in the same direction as the others - his steps panicked.

“Fools,” she muttered under her breath. She glanced at Varric, who smiled at her approvingly. 

“You handled that well,” he said sincerely.

“Maybe…but I can’t believe they managed to sneak up on me!” She groaned, her frustration simmering beneath her words. “I’m usually sharper than that.”

He gave her a steady look, resting Bianca against his shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, kid. You’ve had a lot on your plate.”

Before she could respond, footsteps and murmurs broke the quiet. The others had stirred from their bedrolls, drawn by the noise, and approached to see what had happened.

“Are you both ok?” Lace asked. She walked over to a low wall, looking over it and off into the distance, her scouting abilities kicking in.

Dah’lia took a deep breath and stood tall, not wanting to show her companions how rattled she was. “We’re fine. Just some idiots trying to rob us.” She released the dagger she had clung to, her palm and fingers aching from the tight grip. She pinched the bridge of her nose, then rubbed her hand down her face.“We move at first light. I don’t want to stay here longer than we must.”

“I’ll stay up with Bull,” Thom said decisively, already putting on his armour. “If those bastards come back, we’ll give ‘em what for. You two get some rest.”

Dah’lia didn’t argue. It was the last thing she’d needed on top of everything else. Weariness pulled at her as she approached her bedroll, adrenaline fading into exhaustion.

Thankfully, her dreams kept their distance that night.

Dah’lia woke to a gentle nudge from Thom. Blinking groggily, she squinted at the first light of dawn creeping across the horizon.

“It’s time,” Thom said softly, stepping back to give her space. “Someone had a good sleep. You were snoring your head off!” He laughed teasingly.

“I don't snore,” she countered with a smirk as she sat up.

She stretched and surveyed the camp. Most of the equipment had already been packed away, and the horses were fed and watered. They’d let her sleep in, but it meant she’d have to skip a proper breakfast.

The group mounted up, and a subtle tension settled over them as they set out. The days on the road were wearing thin on everyone.

She hoped they would find some measure of safety and perhaps a chance to truly rest when they reached West Hill.

A tower came into view in the distance after a couple of hours on the road. On the far eastern edge of Lake Calenhad stood the Ferelden Circle Tower.

Dah’lia shivered. She had heard stories from Cullen - of the horrible things that happened there during the Fifth Blight. The tower stood empty now like an eerie gravestone - one of many - marking the Mage Rebellion. She hoped it would eventually crumble, never to imprison again.

Her thoughts drifted to Lena as they so often did when she passed places like this.

After her abduction by Templars six years ago, Dah’lia had searched relentlessly for her, even returning to Kirkwall during the height of war. But there was no clue to be found. Not even at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, where she had gone in a final desperate attempt to find answers.

Instead of finding her sister there as she’d hoped, it had irreversibly altered her life's trajectory.

The not knowing was brutal. A dark part of her almost wished Lena no longer walked this world - not out of despair but so that no one could hurt her.

No chains, no suffering, no cruelty.

She shook her head sharply, trying to banish the spiral of painful thoughts. Her gaze snapped forward, fixing on the road ahead.

As late afternoon approached, the Imperial Highway gave way to open fields, the cobblestones fading into a smaller eastward road.

As they neared West Hill, Dah’lia broke off from the group, urging Rowan up a nearby ridge for a better vantage point.

The landscape unfolded below her. The fortress of the bann stood out in the distance, its walls encompassing the inner town. Beyond those sturdy walls lay a scatter of farmsteads and rickety wooden houses. But that wasn’t what caught her attention, and stopped her breath.

It was the wagons.

Her mind raced as she counted them, her stomach knotting tighter with each tally. Ten…no, fifteen aravels.

The Dalish were there.

And not just a single clan - there were far too many wagons for that. This was a gathering, a large one. She had only ever seen this many during Arlathvhen, but that wasn’t due for several more years, and even then, they’d stayed well away from human settlements.

Usually, the sight of her people and their wagons would have comforted her - a welcome connection to the life she’d left behind. But now, as her eyes swept over the gathering, a faint curl of smoke and distant raised voices reached her ears.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Chapter Text

Smoke curled up toward the sky, twisting like a demon born from the schism below. The scent of charred wood and ash hung in the air, clawing at Dah’lia’s senses. Small figures flitted between the aravels, their movements frantic, and a crowd had gathered a short distance from the closed gates to West Hill’s inner town. Voices carried - a jumbled hum of anger and fear.

She squinted, trying to make out what was happening, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. Rowan let out a frantic whinny, stomping his hooves into the ground. She reached down to stroke his mane to calm him, but her nerves betrayed her and trembled as she patted him.

What would drive her people to seek such conflict?

Although…she feared she already knew the answer.

Tugging the reins, she guided Rowan to turn back down the hill. But before she could move, a familiar voice stopped her.

“I’ve been trying to help them. Soothing to stop the blood…but they are too angry, too sad to forget.” Cole’s voice was soft and thoughtful.

She turned to see him perched on a rock, gazing at the scene below. “Cole!” Relief filled her voice. “Do you know what’s happening down there?”

“They gather to break the chains. His keys clatter - fear, power, pretending to be strength. Small and weak, but…his shadow wants to be bigger. He doesn’t listen to savages. They will make him.” His head tilted, his sorrowful gaze shifting to her.

She frowned, trying to make sense of his cryptic words. His riddles often held truths, but there was no time to unravel this one. She motioned behind her. “Will you come with me?”

He nodded, his form flickering. Within the blink of an eye, she felt the subtle shift of his presence as he settled behind her on Rowan. She squeezed the horse’s sides, urging him back down the hill toward her companions. The descent was quiet but tense, her thoughts spinning with possibilities - none good.

Dah’lia made it back to the group and slowed Rowen down to a trot, pulling on the rein to position herself in front of everyone. The others came to a halt before her, with Varric being the first to catch her troubled expression and Cole’s silent figure. His gaze flicked between them, his brow furrowing slightly. “Let me guess…shit’s going down in West Hill,” he said with a sigh, raking a hand through his hair. “And…hi kid.”

“Hello,” Cole replied simply.

“My people are here,” Dah’lia began. “A large gathering. And there seems to be trouble.” She looked at her companions, searching for their reactions.

“Ugh. When isn’t there with that lot?” Sera said, her voice dripping with exasperation.

Dah’lia gave her a sharp look. “Not helping.”

“What do you wanna do, Boss?” Iron Bull asked, his deep voice grounding.

She squared her shoulders, drawing strength from him. “I’ll go ahead with Cole,” she said firmly. “If we all approach together, it might raise tensions. Wait a bit after I leave, then approach slowly and separately. Stay out of sight if possible.”

The group nodded their silent agreement, their faith in her judgment clear. They understood the stakes.

With another pull on the reins, she urged Rowan forward again. The gallop felt like flying, the wind slicing through her hair as the world blurred into streaks of green and brown - fields and farmsteads rushing past.

The closer she got, the more intense the smell of smoke became. The shouting grew louder, anguished cries mingling with angry roars. Her heart clenched. She needed to reach them before it got any worse. Digging her heels into Rowan’s sides, she pushed him faster, his powerful strides devouring the distance.

When she reached the outskirts of the gathering, she slowed Rowan to a trot, scanning the crowd. Her people looked frightened and lost, others brimming with fury - their anger like a storm ready to break. 

She slid off Rowan’s back, her boots crunching against the ground. “Stay here, boy,” she said, stroking his neck.

She unfastened the scabbard from the back of the saddle - the weight of the blade within familiar yet cumbersome. Securing it to her back with a little effort and a brief struggle, she felt its comforting presence. She knew she couldn’t wield it properly just yet, but its presence alone might deter the people of West Hill should she face them. Whatever the situation, she hoped it wouldn’t come to that…but she would protect her people if pushed.

Cole followed silently, his gaze drifting through the crowd like a spectre, seeing what others could not. “There,” he said simply, pointing at a young woman crouched by an aravel. She was frantically trying to shield a group of children from the chaos.

Dah’lia approached her. “Andaran atish’an lethallan,” she said softly, kneeling beside her. Her voice was calm, though her heart ached for the woman’s fear. “Tell me - what is happening? Why have you all gathered here?”

The woman looked up, tears in her eyes. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Her voice cracked. “We came peacefully! The shemlen just…attacked!” She took a deep breath, distress shifting to determination. “You should speak to Keeper Myther’an. He is over there tending to the wounded.” She pointed toward a nearby tent.

“Ma serannas.” Dah’lia reached out to gently squeeze the woman’s arm. She stood and turned to Cole. “Have a wander around - see who you can help.”

He nodded. “There’s hurt here and…confusion,” he said, tilting his head as he scanned the crowd. “Most want to fight…but some just want to go home. Chains and roots, false freedom found in forests. Wild animals are nicer than humans.” Fixing on a pair of warriors locked in a heated argument, he drifted toward them, his presence unnoticed.

Dah’lia made her way toward a canvas tent - the one pointed out to her earlier. The stench of burned flesh thickened as she approached, mingling with the low moans of the injured. She hesitated at the entrance, her heart sinking at the sounds of suffering from within. Before she could step inside, a man emerged. His long grey hair framed a face weathered by time and hardship, but his eyes, though tired, held warmth.

“Da’len,” he greeted with a nod. “If you’ve come to assist me, I’m afraid there is nothing more we can do for these poor souls. My magic has done all it can, and we are low on healing supplies. It is up to them now.”

“Keeper Myther’an?” she asked, her voice carefully measured as she stepped closer. “What happened to them? What is going on?”

He studied her for a moment. “You are not from the clans gathered here?” he asked, his brow arching slightly.

“No, hahren. I’ve only just arrived. Please tell me what is happening.”

“Be calm,” he said, his tone soothing yet heavy. “What is happening here is something that should have happened long ago. Have you not heard? The news has travelled from clan to clan.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and squeezed enthusiastically. “Fen’Harel has risen, child! His return has given us the courage to stand against the atrocities forced upon our people for millennia.”

“Solas…” she quietly uttered to herself. She already knew deep down. Of course, she did. She had felt this coming like a whisper calling out through her people’s shared blood. A rebellion was on the horizon.

A sharp voice broke through their exchange. “It is madness!” She turned to see a young man seated nearby, his expression a mask of displeasure. He rose swiftly, his movements deliberate. “I grew up on stories of his treachery - as we all did. Taught how he betrayed our people, our gods! And now everyone says he has come back to help us? And they want to join him - no questions asked?” He stepped closer, his voice rising. “Have you forgotten yourself, hahren!?”

Myther’an’s face remained composed, but his voice carried an unmistakable note of sorrow. “You do not understand Lathrin. What his follower revealed to me…” He paused, his gaze distant as though caught in the echoes of a memory too profound to grasp fully. “Fen’Harel is more than we ever knew,” he continued, his tone soft. “He is not the traitor we believed him to be but the protector we failed to understand.” He turned to Dah’lia, and for a moment, it was as if he could see into her very soul. “Our gods are false, da’len.”

The calmness with which he spoke those words shocked her. It was so at odds with the tempest that still raged within her - the grief, the anger, the loss that writhed and gave her no rest. To hear him state such a shattering truth so simply, almost serenely, only deepened the ache in her heart.

“What his follower revealed to you has twisted your mind!” Lathrin’s voice was harsh - his anger evident. Dah’lia suspected that this wasn't the first heated conversation between them. “We have lived by the teachings for ages beyond counting - are we to just cast them aside because someone says differently now? I am a Dreamer. I know what they’re capable of. These so-called agents of his could have made it all up!” His attention shifted to Dah’lia, and his eyes - one almost translucent, and the other mixed with swirls of brown - locked onto her. “You would do well to question - as I have.”

“Please,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. “Both of you. Just tell me what is happening here - in West Hill.” There would be time later to learn precisely what Solas’ agents had told the Dalish and to unravel the truth behind their revelations. For now, she needed to focus on the crisis before her - to resolve the brewing tension before things got worse.

One battle at a time.

Myther’an sighed. “We have come to free our people from the alienage here as we have been called to do throughout Ferelden,” he said. “I imagine the same is happening across all of Thedas. Fen’Harel’s followers speak of a reckoning - a gathering of power. Some clans believe he marches to war while others say he gathers allies for something far greater.” He paused, his gaze distant as though he could already see the storm brewing on the horizon. “But make no mistake,” he continued, “the Dread Wolf is awake…and the world will feel his wrath.”

“Or his tricks,” Lathrin muttered under his breath. He shook his head, and his dark brown hair shifted with the motion. A few striking white strands fell loose from the rest, tied back in a haphazard knot.

“Not tricks, Lathrin. The truth,” Myther’an replied calmly but firmly. “Though I believe the truth is larger than we can fully grasp. And even then, each person must decide for themselves what it means - what they are willing to do with it.” He looked at them both, his weathered features softening as he searched their faces for understanding. “As you’d expect,” he continued, “the clans are dividing. Some flock to his banner like those gathered here, while others turn away in fear or denial. When his follower came to me…it was made clear that those joining him were to do so willingly.”

“What am I doing here then?” Lathrin muttered, rubbing his temple in frustration.

“Hush, child,” Myther’an said a little more forcefully. “You are here because you are my First. And because your clan needs you.”

Dah’lia’s eyes swept over the gathering. People moved frantically, their raised voices tinged with fear, anger, and confusion. Yet, despite the chaos, there were no immediate signs of battle.

“What is the situation now?” she asked with a sense of urgency.

“A small group of us approached West Hill’s inner town,” Myther’an began, “and requested - or perhaps demanded - that the guards allow some of our people through to the alienage. Their guard captain refused, closed the gate and ordered his people to fire arrows tipped with flame into the crowd from the ramparts. Several of our warriors were struck, and one of the aravels caught fire.” His voice faltered slightly - the memory evidently unpleasant. “Now…they simply watch us - their weapons drawn and ready,” he continued. “Our fighters have pulled back to a safer distance, but they are restless - planning their next move, no doubt.” He gestured toward the tent behind him, where the moans of the injured rang out like a haunting choir of suffering. “There are no more wounded…for now,” he said softly. “But as you can see, tensions are high. The longer this drags on, the more dangerous it becomes.”

“Then do something, hahren!” Lathrin’s voice rose sharply, and his face flushed as he stepped closer.

Myther’an spread his hands in a gesture of defeat. “I am an old man, da’len. They would not listen to me. I shall comfort the wounded and let younger heads and hearts prevail.”

“Younger heads and hearts are part of the problem!” Lathrin snapped. “You are a Keeper - ugh!” He threw up his hands, his words faltering under his frustration. “If you won’t do anything, then I will.” With that, he turned abruptly and began to stride away, his steps purposeful though tension stiffened his movements.

“It was good to meet you, Keeper Myther’an,” Dah’lia said quickly, her voice clipped but polite before darting after Lathrin. He nodded in farewell, disappearing back into the tent, his expression weary but understanding.

“Wait! Lathrin, is it?” she called, quickening her pace to catch up with him.

He stopped and turned, his expression intense. “What!?” His tone softened immediately as though regretting his initial sharpness. “I’m sorry…yes. It is. Lathrin, I mean.”

“I can help,” she said. “If I could just get to the gate and speak to whoever’s in charge of West Hill…”

He frowned, scepticism etched plainly across his face as he studied her. “And why would the shemlen listen to you? Their guard captain - Gribben, I think his name is - stupid name…he made it very clear that if we approached the gate again, they’d open fire.” He leaned closer, gesturing wildly. “He even threatened us with the ballista! I mean…really!?” He shook his head.

“I have…a way with words,” she replied, her gaze briefly dropping to the ground.

He folded his arms, tilting his head slightly as he scrutinised her. “You’ve not told me your name…or which clan you hail from…”

She hesitated for a moment before answering. “Dah’lia of Clan…of Clan Lavellan.” Regret washed over her the instant the words left her mouth, but it was too late to take them back.

The reaction was immediate - his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Clan Lavellan!? I thought they were long gone…as far as I’m aware, the only survivor is that shemlen pupp - ” He stopped abruptly, the dark look that flashed across Dah’lia’s face freezing the words in his throat.

“I am no one’s puppet,” she said, her voice dangerously low.

He paled, his confidence crumbling. “Creators preserve me…you’re her.” His voice faltered, and he stumbled over his words, clearly mortified. “I…I am so sorry. I didn’t mean - ” He trailed off, shaking his head as though trying to rid himself of his own foolishness.

“Yes, well…” She tried to conceal the sting of his comment. “I’d appreciate it if you kept my presence here to yourself. I haven’t been among our people in…a long time. And it seems I don’t truly know what they think of me anymore. Given your reaction…I can only assume it isn’t much.”

Her words hit harder than she’d intended, and Lathrin visibly flinched, his expression shifting to genuine remorse. “Oh, no! Please ignore me. Honestly, most of the clans give you a lot of praise. I’m just a fool who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. It’s gotten me into trouble more times than I can count.” He gestured to his slightly crooked nose, his lips twitching into a sheepish smile. His ears burned red, betraying his embarrassment.

She studied him, searching for any sign of dishonesty. Instead, she saw only sincerity and self-consciousness. Her irritation softened, though a grain of hurt lingered beneath the surface. She sighed, letting the tension ease. “It’s fine. You can stop kicking yourself.” She offered him a small smile. “Now. Get me to the gate.”

He nodded quickly, his relief almost palpable. “Yes, of course. We’d best circle to the right of the gate first - stick close to the wall rather than approach directly. Most guards are on the ramparts focused on our fighters, so it should be easy to slip into their blind spot. Although…” He hesitated. “As soon as you show yourself…”

“It’ll be fine,” she interrupted, sounding more confident than she felt. She gestured for him to lead the way, swallowing hard.

He turned and began to guide her, his steps purposeful as if trying to make amends with every stride. She followed, already turning to the task at hand.

The two wove through the crowd, slipping past groups of frightened families huddled together and restless fighters pacing back and forth. The atmosphere was thick with the tension of Solas’ revelations - a yoke of truth pressing down on everyone present. It was a burden she recognised all too well.

Her steps faltered slightly as she spotted a woman seated amidst a pile of supplies, her head slightly bowed. The look on her face was a mask of pure grief - the same expression Dah’lia had worn the previous morning when she’d first faced the abyss of her shattered beliefs.

Lathrin slowed down, glancing at Dah’lia with a hint of sorrow. She gave him a feeble smile and caught up to him after a final bleak glance at the woman.

They pressed on, passing a cluster of fighters stationed at the outskirts of the gathering. Their weapons hung at the ready, but they simply held their ground for now. Their eyes were locked on the guards of West Hill above and beyond the gate, hawk-like in their precision.

“Lathrin! Where’re you going? And who’s that?” one of the fighters called out, her voice cutting through the low murmur of the crowd.

He stopped and raised a finger to his lips, signalling for quiet. He leaned closer to speak, keeping his voice low. “She’s…a new friend. We’re just checking something out.”

The fighter frowned as she looked at Dah’lia before turning back to Lathrin. “Well…keep your guard up, lethallin. The shemlen are twitchy,” she warned, exchanging a wary glance with her companions.

Dah’lia and Lathrin continued toward the wall, their steps light, careful not to draw attention. The guards remained oblivious to their movements - their focus elsewhere. As they neared the gate, Lathrin slowed -  his unease evident. He hesitated, glancing toward her. 

“Stay here,” she instructed, forcing herself to sound confident. “I can handle this.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes flickering with doubt. “Just…be careful,” he said, his voice quieter now. He managed a nervous smile, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his worry.

She nodded and leaned forward, peering carefully past the edge of the gate. Just beyond it, three guards stood - two men and a woman. She gave herself a silent pep talk and then stepped deliberately into their line of sight, her movements calm. She raised her hand - palm open to show peaceful intentions.

The trio startled at her sudden appearance, their heads snapping toward her. One of the men yelped, fumbling awkwardly to grab his bow, while the other stumbled back, nearly dropping his weapon in his haste. The woman, however, didn’t even reach for hers. Her wide, startled eyes locked onto Dah’lia, watching her intently.

“I come only to talk!” Dah’lia said quickly. “Please - let me speak to the one in charge!”

Heavy footsteps echoed on a nearby ladder, each thud deliberate and unhurried. An older guard came into view, his armour clinking faintly with every step. He came to stand in front of the three guards, his lip curling in a sneer as he looked Dah’lia up and down. “And why,” he drawled, contempt radiating off him, “would the guard captain waste his time speaking to a filthy savage like you?”

Her jaw tightened, but she forced herself to remain composed. “Because,” she said evenly, “if he doesn’t, I’m sure my friend, Divine Victoria, would be most unhappy when she hears of what has transpired here.” Her words hung in the air.

She despised invoking the Chantry and hated using its influence as a weapon, but she knew it was the only thing these people would respond to. She clenched her fist tightly at her side, willing herself to exude confidence despite her uncertainty.

The older guard barked a harsh laugh, the sound bouncing off the stone walls. The two men followed his lead, their jeers loud and brash. The woman, however, remained silent. Her wide eyes had not left Dah’lia, and her hand twitched nervously at her side before she raised it to tap the older guard on the shoulder, her movements frantic and insistent.

“Your friend, Divine Victoria?” the older guard mocked, dismissing his comrade’s agitation. “And what does she call you, then? Servant number one or servant num - ” He turned abruptly, snapping at the woman behind him, no longer able to ignore the constant tapping. “Andraste’s tits, lass, what!? Stop your prodding at once!”

She stilled, but her gaze remained fixed on Dah’lia. Slowly, her trembling finger pointed at her. “Sir…it’s…she’s…” Her voice faltered.

Dah’lia realised the woman had recognised her. Finally, an advantage. Her expression remained composed, betraying nothing.

“No. Divine Victoria had no such name for me. However, she did call me one thing in particular.”

Her voice dropped.

“Inquisitor.”

The two men stopped laughing, uncertainty creeping into the air. The older guard’s sneer wavered though his scepticism still clung stubbornly to his expression. “Oh, really?” he scoffed. “Don’t talk such nonsense. You’re as much the Inquisitor as I am the Maker returned!” He glanced around at the two men, expecting laughter or at least a chuckle at his weak jest. Instead, they remained silent, their expressions uneasy. The uncertainty etched on their faces deepened the crack in the older guard’s confidence.

The woman finally stepped forward, her voice trembling. “I’ve been trying to tell you, sir! It’s her! I…I recognise her. I was stationed at Skyhold under Commander Cullen before coming to West Hill.”

The older guard hesitated, the bravado in his stance crumbling. “Well…you must be mistaken…she can’t possibly be…” His words faltered, trailing off into an awkward silence. With a frustrated curse under his breath, he abruptly turned on his heel and hurried away, the two men scrambling to follow, their confusion and unease evident in their hurried steps. The woman lingered for a moment, her gaze meeting Dah’lia’s. There was no malice in her expression, only a quiet sorrow. She opened her mouth as if to speak but thought better of it. Instead, with a slight, almost apologetic nod, she turned and followed the others.

Dah’lia let out a slow, deep breath as she glanced to her right. Lathrin stood frozen in his hiding spot, staring at her with curiosity and disbelief. “Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered.

“I’m not looking at you in any particular way,” he replied defensively, though his expression betrayed him. “Or…at least I didn’t think I was. But…threatening them with the Chantry? Really!?”

She gave him a pointed look. “What was I supposed to say? That the Dread Wolf would smite them if they didn’t open the gate? They’d have shot me!”

“True. But…still.”

“Be quiet. I said what I said.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Ok, ok. I’ll say no more about it.”

Before she could respond, the older guard returned, now accompanied by a short, plump man whose armour jingled with every step. The discordant clinking of the keys on his belt announced his presence before he spoke. This must be Gribben, the guard captain Lathrin had mentioned.

The rest of the guards began descending from the ramparts, their boots thudding heavily against the stone as they moved to stand alongside Gribben.

Dah’lia’s throat tightened, and she swallowed hard, willing herself to appear calm.

His small eyes squinted at her, and a layer of sweat gleamed on his oily forehead. “My men tell me you claim to be the Inquisitor,” he said with barely concealed distaste. “But even if that’s true, the Inquisition was disbanded. You hold no power here.”

She squared her shoulders. There was no turning back now - she had to double down. She had been the Inquisitor for three years and knew how to wear the mask well.

“I’m aware of that,” she replied coolly. “Just as I’m sure you’re aware, I still have very powerful friends. If anything happens to me - or the people gathered here - this gate you’re so precious about will be turned to scrap. I imagine the walls would be levelled as well…” She deliberately made her tone almost bored, as if such destruction were trivial. “It depends on what kind of mood Divine Victoria is in. I mean…I suppose she could just send her agents to slit your throats in your sleep.” She tilted her head nonchalantly. “Who knows?”

She heard Lathrin scoff from his hiding place.

Gribben’s face flushed red, his composure slipping rapidly to make room for rising anger. “Why, you insolent little - ”

“I suggest you listen to what she says,” a deep rumbling voice interrupted.

Iron Bull stepped out from a nearby alleyway, his massive frame casting a shadow on the guards. His single eye gleamed with amusement as he crossed his arms, making his muscles ripple under his armour.

Dah’lia had never been so happy to see him.

“Where did you - ” Gribben started, his voice faltering as he turned to see the Qunari towering over him.

Before he could finish, Dah’lia’s other companions emerged from the shadows, their expressions ranging from smug satisfaction to quiet amusement. Even Cole had joined them. Sera and Dagna were missing, however.

“Your wall has a hole in it. On the northwestern side,” Iron Bull said with a grin. “You should probably fix that.”

Gribben’s mouth opened and closed uselessly before he straightened, his voice rising in a feeble attempt at authority. “When the bann hears of this, he’ll - ”

“The bann won’t be doing anything,” Thom interjected sharply. “Because you’re going to open the gate and let the lady through.”

Gribben was about to protest, but before he could speak, the gate creaked loudly. Its groaning mechanism cut through the tense air, startling everyone as it began to rise.

Everyone looked upward in surprise.

Sera and Dagna were perched above, having pulled on the lever, grinning like mischievous children caught in the act.

“Blah blah blah. You all talk too much, innit!” Sera called down, her voice loud and mocking. “Sometimes you’ve just gotta, I dunno, do stuff instead. Should try it, yeah?”

Beside her, Dagna beamed, her glee palpable as she bounced slightly on her toes. She looked as if this was the most exciting day of her life.

“Get down from there! This is - ” Gribben stammered, but his words were cut short as Dah’lia ducked under the rising gate.

She strode directly up to him, her steps purposeful, and grabbed him by the throat. The presence of her companions had given her much-needed confidence, and she was done with this entire situation.

Her grip was iron-tight, making him choke and wince. The guards instinctively drew their weapons only to be met by the sound of her companions unsheathing their own.

Sera aimed her bow squarely at Gribben’s head, a crooked grin spreading across her face. “Just say ‘what’, and I’ll get ’im right between the eyes. Bet he’s a squishy one!” she added with a wicked giggle.

Dah’lia‘s intense gaze locked onto Gribben, who shrank visibly. “That won’t be necessary, will it, Guard Captain? Tell your people to stand down.”

There she was. The Inquisitor seemed to still be around after all - surfacing only when needed.

He hesitated, his eyes darting to Sera’s smirking face, Iron Bull’s massive form, and the others who were poised and ready. He was weighing up his options, but it was evident he knew resistance would be pointless. Even though there were more guards, Dah'lia and her companions were not to be trifled with.

“St…stand down, men,” he choked out finally.

The guards looked at each other uneasily but sheathed their weapons.

“Well done.” Dah’lia’s tone was patronising as she released him. “Now. Where is the alienage?”

“It’s…It’s…down there and to the right,” Gribben stammered, rubbing his neck - his face red with embarrassment. He gestured vaguely in the direction with a trembling hand.

Dah’lia scanned the area briefly before turning to look behind her. Lathrin had stepped out from behind the wall. He was hesitant, his expression one of disbelief at what he had just witnessed. Behind him, she could see flickers of movement as her people reacted to the gate opening.

“Go to them,” she said firmly, meeting his eyes. “Tell them I’m handling it and to stay back.”

Lathrin nodded. Casting one last curious glance at Dah’lia’s peculiar friends, he strode back toward the gathering.

She watched him walk away and then turned to set off toward the alienage but had only gone a few strides when Gribben called out behind her, his voice shaky. “You’ll…you’ll need the key,” he stammered, fumbling clumsily with the ring of keys on his belt.

She froze, turning back slowly. Her eyes bore into him.

“You keep them locked up!?” Varric called out, his voice dripping with disgust.

“It’s…it’s to keep them safe! And Denerim do the same, I’ll have you know!” Gribben protested weakly, his voice rising in desperation as he tried to justify himself.

“Shut. Up.” Dah’lia’s voice was icy as she extended her hand - palm up.

Gribben hesitated. He looked as if he was about to argue, but her expression silenced him. He unhooked the key with shaking fingers and placed it in her palm.

She didn’t speak, nor did she spare him another glance. She turned on her heel and walked purposefully toward the alienage - the key gripped tightly in her hand. Behind her, her companions followed silently.

Following Gribben’s instructions, they navigated the winding streets of West Hill. It was quiet, yet Dah’lia knew they were being watched behind the cracks in shuttered windows.

Finally, they came upon a locked gate. It was a simple iron structure separating the alienage from the rest of the town. She paused, staring at it for a moment, and closed her eyes, taking a few deep breaths to brace herself for what was to come.

She glanced briefly at her companions, exhaled sharply, and stepped forward. She slid the key into the lock, her hand trembling as she turned it.

The mechanism clicked. 

The gate creaked as it swung open, and a strange chill passed through her as she stepped inside. Her companions trailed slightly behind their faces, a mask of concern.

The air felt heavy with despair, like the place had gorged itself on years of suffering.

There were no cobblestones beneath her boots anymore, only a dirt path lined with worn-down, rotting wooden structures that the residents called home. She could see the attempts at repairs, but without materials provided for them, there was only so much they could do.

She looked around.

She could only remember fragments of her childhood within Kirkwall's alienage. It had been an arduous and lonesome life, especially before Lena had been born, but they hadn't been locked up like prisoners as these people were.

And even though poverty had been its own cage, she remembered clearly the faint sense of community. How her people would regularly gather around the vhenadahl, setting up chairs and tables dragged from their own homes and served the most delicious food made from basic ingredients - the only ones they could afford. 

Here, there was none of that. There was only fear.

Her chest tightened as she walked further in.

Faces peered out from behind torn curtains, their expressions guarded. They were frightened of her, and the thought twisted her gut.

The alienage’s vhenadahl finally came into view, and Dah’lia’s heart sank. It was a withered husk of what it should have been - its skeletal branches stretching toward the sky like the hands of a dying man. She stopped beneath its canopy, staring up at it with a lump in her throat.

The vhenadahl symbolised elven pride, a reminder of their connection to their people and shared heritage. Here, it was a sad reflection of their reality.

Neglected, dying, forgotten.

Her heart ached at the sight of the small groups that had slowly started to gather - thin, hollow-eyed elves. Children clung to their mothers’ skirts, their faces smudged with dirt, and their eyes radiating fear.

“I’m…I’m here to help,” Dah’lia said softly, addressing them all. Her voice felt fragile and uncertain. Yet she clung to the hope that they might be enough to bridge the chasm of trepidation and misery that surrounded her.

Chapter Text

The alienage’s residents gathered in small groups, some of which were emaciated to the point of frailty. Among them, two children - a boy and a girl - clung to their mother, their wide eyes darting between Dah’lia and the cluster of strangers behind her. The girl whispered something to her brother, and he tugged on their mother’s arm.

The children approached cautiously. Dah’lia crouched to meet them at their level, her expression softening. “Hello, little ones”, she said gently. “It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Dah’lia.”

The boy who was older tilted his head, studying her face. “I’m Kaelan,” he said quietly. “My sister is Nira.”

She smiled warmly. “What beautiful names you both have.”

Tentatively, Kaelan reached out his tiny hand, and traced the patterns of Dah’lia’s vallaslin - curiosity overtaking his initial fear. Nira, however, suddenly launched herself forward, pushing Kaelan out of the way, and wrapped her thin arms around Dah’lia’s neck. The impact nearly knocked her backwards, but she quickly steadied herself, hugging the girl tightly and stroking her hair.

“Everything will be alright,” Dah’lia murmured, her throat tightening. Tears stung her eyes as she gently pulled back, cupping Nira’s face. “I need to speak to the grown-ups now. Would you two like to help me?”

They beamed at her, thrilled with the important job they’d been given, and nodded eagerly. Nira held onto Dah’lia’s hand as she stood. Together, the children led her to the once-trembling group, who now stood a bit taller, their interest mingling with apprehension.

“What’s happening?” asked a frail man who looked older than his years. “We heard the chaos…we thought…” He trailed off, unable to finish. Dah’lia didn’t need him to. She knew all too well what he was thinking - that death had finally come for them.

“Our people are gathered outside.” Her gaze swept over the crowd. “They came to free you from this place.”

A murmur rippled through the group. Confusion, disbelief, and hope flickered across their faces.

“But…why?” a woman spat, her voice brittle with suspicion. “The Dalish have never had time for us flat-ears.” She said the insult as if it burned her tongue.

Dah’lia flinched inwardly but held her glare. She wanted to protest - to say not all Dalish - but she knew such words would only diminish the truth of the woman’s pain. “I know,” she admitted softly. “And I am sorry for it, lethallan. But something has changed. Everything will be explained soon, I promise.”

The mother of the two children hesitated before speaking. “But…this is all I’ve ever known, all my children have ever known,” she said, her voice trembling as she looked at her little ones.

Dah’lia’s gaze lingered on the crumbling walls of the alienage - the squalor, the despair. “I understand that you are frightened. But you deserve better than this.” She looked at Kaelan and Nira. “And so do they.”

A heavy silence followed. Then, all at once, the crowd shifted their attention fixed on something behind Dah’lia. Turning, she saw Lathrin approaching, flanked by Myther’an and several other elders, their robes marking them as keepers from the other clans.

“Mythal’enaste…” Lathrin murmured, his expression one of horror as he took in the alienage. “I…I had no idea. I’d heard stories, but this…”

Words failed him.

Myther’an rested a hand on Dah’lia’s shoulder, a warm smile on his face. “Well done, da’len. Lathrin won’t tell me how you managed it, but you’ve saved many lives today.”

She shook her head, gesturing to her companions. “I had help.”

Lathrin blinked, surprised to be included. “I didn’t do much,” he muttered sheepishly.

“You got me to the gate and had my back. That’s more than enough,” she said with a small smile. Turning back to Myther’an, she added, “Now that you’re here, can I leave you and the others to look after these people? There’s…something I need to take care of.”

He nodded. “Of course. They will be safe with us.”

She addressed the crowd one last time. “This is Keeper Myther’an. He and the others can guide you to safety. However…” She hesitated, her voice softening. “This is your choice. No one will force you to leave. But know this - you won’t be alone anymore. Your brethren are waiting for you beyond these walls.” She nodded at Myther’an before walking away.

Dah’lia quickly left the alienage, her companions following her. Cole remained behind to assist the keepers quietly, making their task easier.

“You alright, Boss?” Iron Bull asked, his tone uncharacteristically gentle.

“I’m fine,” she replied, though the sharpness in her tone betrayed the truth. Away from the frightened faces of her people, her anger surfaced. Her face thundered, and her voice tightened with barely restrained rage. “I just need to have a word with the guard captain.”

“Just a word?” Varric chimed in. “Be careful, kid. We won this fight no bloodshed. Let’s try to keep it that way.”

“I’m aware of that, Varric.”

Sera snorted. “I bet you five gold she’ll deck him anyway,” she muttered to Dagna.

As they approached the gate where the guards lingered stiffly, Dah’lia’s steps quickened. She spotted Gribben, and her heart pounded in sync with the rising fury inside her. She had promised herself that she would only speak to him, delivering harsh words to ensure he understood the depths of his cruelty. But all she could see in her mind's eye were the sunken cheeks of hungry children and the hopeless expressions of their parents.

Her anger swelled beyond control.

But it wasn’t just Gribben. It was Solas, her false gods, herself. It was the unjust burden of a world that always seemed to crush her people under its heel. She had been powerless to change it, even at her most powerful.

An elf had stood for Thedas, and nobody cared.

By the time she reached him, she was a hurricane given form filled with rage, grief, and righteous fury.

Gribben’s head snapped up as she approached - his mouth opening as if to speak. Whatever words he'd intended never came.

Her fist collided with his jaw with a force that sent him sprawling to the ground. He groaned, dazed, but she gave him no time to recover. She dropped to her knees, one pressing sharply into his groin, her weight behind it. He let out a choked cry, his hands scrambling weakly at her arm as she seized his bloodied face in a bruising grip, yanking him up to look her in the eyes.

“You fucking piece of shit,” she hissed, her voice trembling in fury. “You have abused those people! They are starving! And you knew! You fucking knew! That's why you wouldn't let us through!” Her voice rose with every word, her rage spilling over in ragged, breathless bursts. Spittle flew from her lips as she screamed, her face inches from his.

He stared back at her in terrified disbelief.

The other guards stirred behind her, but the woman from earlier, her face grim, lifted an arm to halt them. They froze, watching the scene, an undercurrent of shame rippling across each expression. Even if they'd not been directly responsible, they had been complicit. And they knew it.

“I…I’m sorry,” Gribben whimpered, his voice barely audible. “Please…”

“Sorry isn't good enough,” she spat, releasing his face only to raise her fist again.

Before it could descend, a hand closed around her wrist.

“Dah’lia...” Lathrin's voice was low and steady, cutting through the fog of her rage. 

She turned sharply to face him, wrath blazing in her eyes. She considered shaking him off for a moment, unleashing all the venom in her heart upon him, too, even though he didn't deserve it. But then she saw how he looked at her - not with judgement but with understanding. 

She glanced past him at her companions poised with their hands on their weapons, ready to fight for her if necessary.

Yet, Varric’s eyes were pleading.

The fire in her chest dimmed, and she returned to her senses.

She released a shuddering breath, lowering her fist. Turning back to Gribben, she leaned close, her voice icy. “Be thankful for my friend. He just saved your miserable life.” She stood abruptly, leaving him sprawled out on the ground. She towered over him, her gaze cold and unforgiving. “You will provide my people with healing supplies. Those struck by your fire arrows are suffering, and you had better pray to your Maker that they survive.”

“It…it will be done…please just leave me be.” He was almost crying, weak and pathetic. She hoped he never recovered from this.

Lathrin breathed a sigh of relief, brushing his hair back from his face. “Come. You and your friends can join my clan tonight. I think we all deserve a rest.”

She managed a faint, weary smile. “Yes. Thank you, Lathrin.”

The group moved through the gathered Dalish clans, weaving through clusters of elves celebrating with reserved triumph. The undercurrent of victory was unmistakable, but it wasn’t rowdy.

Dah’lia caught sight of Myther’an and the other keepers ushering the alienage residents out of West Hill.

They were welcomed into the fold. Blankets were wrapped around frail shoulders, bowls of steaming stew were pressed into trembling hands, and children were given little wooden toys. They looked bewildered, overwhelmed, and yet their eyes glimmered with something long buried.

Hope.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, campfires blazed across the encampment. The clans settled into merriment - laughter and cheerful conversations mingling with the crackle of firewood.

Dah’lia sat cross-legged on the ground near one of the fires surrounded by Lathrin’s clan. The warmth of the flames and the murmur of voices wrapped around her like a long-forgotten memory. For a fleeting moment, she could imagine herself home again.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost hear Lena’s laugh or the calls of her friends urging her to join the hunt. It was bittersweet - a mixture of comfort and grief.

She looked around at her companions. Varric was holding court, as usual, proudly displaying Bianca to an enthralled group of hunters. Lace stood by his side, arms crossed, shaking her head with a fond smile as he embellished his tales. Nearby, Iron Bull and Thom entertained a group with stories of their recent adventures. Sera sat apart from the others, however, looking uncomfortable. Next to her, Dagna rested her head on her shoulder and whispered soothingly, their hands intertwined. Lastly, Cole perched on a nearby log -  unnoticed as always - watching the celebrations with serene contentment.

Dah’lia exhaled, her body relaxing. Finally, she thought. Some rest.

Her peace didn’t last long. Lathrin approached, settling beside her with an easy, tired smile. “You know…I still can’t believe you pulled it off,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so thoroughly stripped of dignity.” He paused, studying her. “You’re rather terrifying, aren’t you?”

She laughed softly. “Only when I need to be. And it’s not something I enjoy.” She smirked. “Well…maybe a little.”

He chuckled but grew serious after a moment. “We haven’t had much time to talk, but I have to ask - why is the Inquisitor of all people sticking her neck out for us?”

Her head tilted slightly. “Why wouldn’t I? Regardless of my title, I will always protect our people. And besides, you heard what Gribben said. I’m not the Inquisitor anymore.”

He looked at her curiously. “Why not? What happened?”

“I had no choice but to disband the Inquisition,” she replied quietly. “There were…issues, and I’m…searching for someone. I need to keep a low profile, though that hasn’t exactly gone to plan given today’s events.”

He studied her clearly, wanting to ask more, but something in her tone must have given him pause.

She leaned forward, slightly lowering her voice. “Lathrin…can you tell me what Solas’ agents told Keeper Myther’an and the other clans?”

“Solas?” he echoed, his brow furrowing in confusion.

She flinched, biting back a curse. “I mean…Fen’Harel. What did his agent have to say?” The name felt strange on her tongue, as if addressing a stranger.

He looked uneasy but spoke thoughtfully. “It wasn’t just words. The agent was an elf, but there was something…unusual about him. He looked almost regal, and his armour was unlike anything I’d ever seen. He claimed to be a Dreamer. They disappeared together - him and Myther’an - for what felt like hours. When Myther’an returned…” He shook his head. “The look in his eyes, Dah’lia. It was as if he’d seen something he couldn’t unsee.”

“But what did the agent tell him?” she pressed.

Lathrin shifted uncomfortably. “It’s largely what Myther’an told you earlier - our gods are false, and the legends of Fen’Harel are misleading. Myther’an was then instructed to gather the clans, visit the alienages of Ferelden, and liberate them. After that, we’re to travel to a temple in the Frostback Basin, where the agent said he would be waiting for us with others.”

“And you don’t believe him?” she asked, her tone measured.

“I don’t know what to believe. Myther’an seems convinced, but it’s…” He exhaled sharply and looked at the ground. “It’s Fen’Harel, Dah’lia. The trickster of our pantheon. How can we possibly trust him? What if all this talk about the gods being false is just another one of his tricks? Or…what if it’s not even him, just some madman with visions of grandeur?”

“It’s him,” she said quietly.

Lathrin’s head snapped up, his confusion deepening. “But…how can you be so sure?”

“Because I know him.”

He blinked, stunned into silence. His mouth opened as though to speak, but no words came. Finally, he managed a strangled, “You know him?”

She nodded. “The name I used earlier - Solas. That’s his real name. Fen’Harel is a title…a mantle he reluctantly adopted.” She paused, reflecting on her own title and the divinity placed upon her shoulders despite her protests. “He was part of the Inquisition. We fought beside each other, and I…trusted him.” Her voice faltered. “Then he disappeared two years ago. I only learned the truth recently.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m searching for him,” she said. “To stop him.”

“To stop him from what?”

She hesitated, her mind racing. She had said too much. But the look on Lathrin’s face made it clear he wasn’t going to let it go.

“To stop him from what, Dah’lia?” His voice cracked.

She met his gaze. “When Solas sealed our gods - ” she spat the word bitterly “ - away he created the Veil, severing the Fade from the physical world. It trapped them as he intended, but it also sundered our people. It was the beginning of our downfall.” She forced herself to continue. “Then…he slept. Drained by what he had done. He only awakened a year before the Inquisition began, and when he looked upon our world - our people - he saw…an abomination.” Her hand clenched into a fist. “He believes the Veil was a mistake. He means to undo it - to tear it down.”

The sting of her own words echoed in her heart. She had spent so long trying to reconcile the Solas she loved with the Fen’Harel she now knew. How she hadn’t even been a person to him at first - just another fractured piece of the world he believed he had broken.

But he had loved her. Still loved her. Of that, she was certain. And she him - for better or worse.

“Tear down the Veil? What…what does that even mean?” Lathrin asked incredulously.

“It means the Fade and the physical world would be one again - as it used to be.”

Lathrin stared at her, struggling to grasp the magnitude of what she was saying. “That’s even possible!? But…Creators…I don’t think I can even imagine it. I…I mean…surely it would be chaos!?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “It would be. Solas said himself that there would be untold destruction.”

His eyes widened. “He told you!? But…why would he tell you knowing you would try to stop him?”

She hesitated, her chest tightening. “Because I think he felt he owed me that, at least. After…everything.”

The haunted look on Lathrin’s face deepened. Without a word, he stood abruptly and started to walk away.

“Lathrin, don’t - ” Dah’lia’s voice was firm as she reached for him, her hand closing around his arm.

He stopped turning back to her, his expression torn between anger and despair. “They need to know Dah’lia! This is huge! If what you’re saying is true, then he’s using us. Using our people!”

“I know…I know it seems that way…” Her grip on his arm slackened, though she didn’t let go. “But if you tell everyone…” She paused, searching his eyes. “You can’t know how they’ll react. It could lead to more of our people getting hurt.”

“So we just do nothing?” he snapped, his voice raw. “You’re asking me to stay silent while he - ”

“I’m asking you to be clever,” she interrupted sharply. “I’m asking you to trust me.” She softened then, her voice trembling slightly. “I hate what he’s doing, Lathrin. But if I thought for a moment that he wouldn’t care for the people he’s gathering, I would have spoken out myself. He cherishes freedom and the right to choose above all else. Whatever his plans are, he won’t hurt them.” She clung desperately to that belief though a small hidden part of her whispered doubts. “To stop him, we need more than outrage. We need strategy.”

“Strategy,” he repeated bitterly. “While he gets stronger.”

“Yes. To stop him, we have to be careful - stay in the shadows. That’s what my group and I are doing - what my other groups across Thedas are doing. It’s not much comfort, I know. But it’s the best chance we have.”

Lathrin’s shoulders slumped as he sat back down. He looked at his hands, his fingers curling against his knees. “I just…” His voice was unsteady. “I can’t believe it…any of it. A world without the Veil?” His expression turned wistful for a moment, his gaze distant, lost in his imaginings.

They sat silently as Dah’lia studied him, sadness in her eyes. She felt terrible. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It was unfair of me to place this burden on you.”

“No…” Lathrin shook his head slowly. “No, I’m glad you told me. I just - ” He hesitated. “I’m not sure where this leaves me. Do I continue following Myther’an and my clan to wherever Fen’Harel leads them? I…I don’t think I could look them in the eye knowing what I know now…I feel like I’m betraying them by staying silent.”

She regarded him carefully. “You’re not betraying them. And if you are, then…so am I.” Her voice was firm. “But I know in my heart that telling them would only lead to more chaos. Just look around…” She gestured to the encampment. “If we say something and they get angry - if they try to go after Solas - what do you think will happen? What almost happened today?” She hesitated, the memory of her exchange with Gribben flashing through her mind. “Even I am not immune to rash decisions when emotions get in the way.”

”You’re right. Of course, you’re right. It…it doesn’t make it any easier, though.” He stared into the distance, his jaw tightening. “I’ve just thought…” He went silent. When he eventually spoke, his voice was soft, filled with sorrow. “If what you're saying is true…that means our gods are false…doesn't it? And not only false…they were tyrants.”

“Yes.” It was the only word she could manage.

“All this time…all those teachings,” Lathrin muttered sadly. Another loaded silence settled between them. After a few moments, he broke it with a shaky exhale. “I want to go with you.” His voice carried determination, but his hands trembled slightly where they rested on his knees.

Dah’lia blinked, caught off guard. “Lathrin…the path I walk is dangerous. I don’t know where it leads - or if it leads anywhere at all. Besides your clan needs - ”

“I just told you - I wouldn't be able to look any of them in the eye if I go with them!” he said sharply before softening. “And…my clan will be fine without me - they have Myther’an and the other Keepers now that they’re all together. But you? Not to boast or anything, but I’m a skilled mage. My abilities would be useful. I can help.”

She studied him. Her thoughts turned to the strange dreams that haunted her nights, the pained whispers, and the unnerving realisation that Solas might be tracking her through the Fade. She couldn’t deny that Lathrin’s skills would be an asset.

“Please, Dah’lia,” he pressed - his voice earnest. “Let me help.”

She sighed. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been less sure of anything in my life,” he admitted, laughing nervously. “But what I am sure of is this - if Fen’Harel’s plan moves forward, I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t try to stop it…or at least try to understand it.”

She watched him carefully, her expression softening despite the knot tightening in her stomach. “Alright,” she said after a long pause. “But speak to Keeper Myther’an before committing to anything. This isn’t a decision you should make lightly.”

He hesitated, his gaze searching hers. Finally, he nodded. “I’ll do that now,” he said, standing with sudden energy that caught her off guard. He offered her a quick, almost boyish smile - one that softened the subtle intensity she had come to associate with him - before turning and striding toward the heart of the camp.

Dah’lia watched him go. Around her, laughter rang out, voices lifted in song as others danced beneath the stars. She wished she could join them - to lose herself in the music, to feel the rhythm carry her like it once had, to even play them a song on her lyre. But she felt so distant from that person, as if she had been hollowed out. The joy, the lightness she had once carried - it was gone, replaced by something heavier. Something colder. Like stone settling in her chest where warmth used to be.

She sighed and looked for Rowan, who was munching on the grass near the other mounts, his flaxen mane glinting in the firelight. She stood up and walked over, reaching into her bag on the back of the saddle, and pulled out the two Scribblesends. She needed to write to Cullen and Krem - a task that would distract her from the ache in her heart.

After retrieving a quill, ink and two pieces of parchment, she leaned against Rowan’s side and quickly penned two letters detailing their current location and what had happened in West Hill. Sliding each letter into its respective Scribblesend, she closed the hatches and twisted the tops, aligning the runes until a faint thrum vibrated through them. The cracks in the devices glowed with a soft blue light before fading into darkness. She checked both and found them empty.

Dagna’s invention was truly a marvel.

She tucked the devices back into her bag and stepped in front of Rowan, placing her hand on the bridge of his nose. “We’ll set off at first light, boy,” she murmured.

Rowan responded with a gentle whinny and nodded, stomping at the ground with a hoof.

“Good,” came a familiar voice from behind her. “Can’t wait to be away from here.”

She turned to see Sera, her usual irreverence tinged with something softer. “Is it truly that bad to be among your people?” Dah’lia asked.

“My people are people, people. Not elves. Well…some of them are elves, but - ugh. You know what I mean.”

Dah’lia laughed softly. “I think I do.”

Before Sera could respond, Dagna bounded over, her grin wide. “Isn’t this amazing!?” she exclaimed.

“If you say so,” Sera replied, rolling her eyes.

“Aww, don’t be like that!” Dagna nudged her playfully before turning to Dah’lia. “I was talking to your new friend before - Lathrin? Did you know he’s a Dreamer? I can’t wrap my head around dreams at the best of times, but he walks around in his! Like he’s awake! My mind was blown.” She raised her hands to her head and flung them outward in a dramatic explosion, even making the sound effect.

Dah’lia couldn’t help but chuckle.

“And I’m glad we could get those people out of the alienage,” Dagna continued, her excitement undimmed. “I can’t believe that guy! The one you punched - ”

Sera snorted. “Right? What a total arse.” She turned to Dah’lia. “I know some Jennys in Highever, yeah? When we get there, I’ll give ’em word. That piss-bucket won’t know peace.” She let out a giggle, clearly pleased with herself.

Dah’lia smirked. “Good. He deserves everything he gets.”

They continued talking for a few more minutes, but Dah’lia’s mind wandered.

She worried for Lathrin, for the burden she’d placed on his shoulders. She worried for her people, uncertain of where they were being led.

For a fleeting moment, she had considered following them instead of heading to Kirkwall. But the thought unravelled quickly. Their cover would be blown the moment they arrived at the temple. Most of her group were not elves - and one was a massive Qunari. Solas’ agents would question it immediately.

No, they needed to stay the course. Stay in the shadows.

Once Sera and Dagna retreated back to their little corner, Dah’lia let her gaze linger on the rest of her companions. She had meant to gather them to speak of her strange dreams like Varric had suggested the night before. But looking at them now - laughing, relaxed in a way she hadn’t seen in a while - she decided against it.

Another time. A quieter time.

She rubbed her hand down her face, exhaustion tugging at her, and started looking for a place to lay her head. They hadn’t set up their own camp, and she didn’t have the energy to do so now.

She eventually came across an empty tent. Fatigue weighed down on her limbs. She didn’t have the strength to track down its owner for permission. Instead, she stepped inside, sinking down onto the thick fabric that had been laid out for bedding. Her mind quieted at last, and for the second night in a row, dreams eluded her.

Dah’lia woke to the sound of morning birds. Groggily, she looked to her left and saw a woman curled up in a bundle of blankets. She slowly shifted and stood carefully exiting the tent.

The encampment was starting to stir, and the Dalish clans were beginning to pack up to continue their journey.

She wandered over to where the mounts were and found her companions already getting ready to move. Sera looked especially eager. She greeted them, and they all started chatting about the night before - the celebration, the victory. There was something satisfying about it, a shared sense of accomplishment that settled over them like a balm.

They discussed the best route to Highever and quickly decided to stick to the main paths. It would take longer but was far safer and easier than cutting through unpredictable woodlands.

By the time Lathrin appeared with his belongings, he wasn’t alone. Myther’an walked beside him, his expression calm.

“I will be sad to see you go, da’len,” Myther’an said to Dah’lia, his tone warm. “You have done your people proud.”

“Thank you.” Dah’lia bowed her head. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

He smiled knowingly. “I think I have some idea…Inquisitor Lavellan.”

Dah’lia frowned and glanced at Lathrin, but he quickly shook his head.

“Do not worry,” Myther’an reassured her. “Lathrin did not betray your trust. It was not he who revealed your identity. You caused quite a stir among the guards of West Hill. I overheard them discussing you - and the potential repercussions they fear they might face once word spreads. Even though the Inquisition is no more, its shadow remains a powerful thing. You still hold influence, da’len. Use it well.” His gaze flicked to Lathrin, his expression softening. “Lathrin tells me he wishes to accompany you on your journey. To what end, I do not know. I do know, however, that he does not wish to follow the path I’ve set for our clan, and he has been quite vocal about it from the start. I will not force him.” He gave Lathrin a sad yet understanding look. “I have granted him my blessing to join you.”

“Thank you again, hahren,” Lathrin said, deeply bowing.

“Yes, thank you,” Dah’lia echoed, her voice filled with gratitude.

“Welcome to the party, kid,” Varric said, his relaxed demeanour lightening the moment. The others joined in offering warm welcomes to Lathrin, who looked overwhelmed yet honoured.

The group prepared to leave.

Dah’lia turned to Rowan, tightening the straps of her bag and scabbard before mounting up. Lathrin, who didn’t have a horse of his own, loaded his belongings onto the back of the saddle and settled in behind her. Nervous energy crackled in the air.

She turned to look at him. “Ready?” she asked.

He nodded. “Ready.”

The group set out in silence at first, the sound of hooves blending into the faint rustle of leaves and distant birdsong. It should have been peaceful, but a strange unease coiled tightly in Dah’lia’s chest.

Questions swirled in her mind.

What was Solas doing? How far along was he in his plans? Why was he gathering all the elves?

Above it all, just at the edge of her thoughts, came familiar whispers - a soft, haunting voice that sent a shiver through her bones.

“I linger…find me.”

Her breath caught, and her grip on the reins tightened. She shook her head, trying to will the whispers away.

“Dah’lia?” Lathrin’s voice startled her from her thoughts. “Are you alright?”

She hesitated, forcing her breathing to even out. “I’m fine,” she said quietly, though her words felt hollow. As they pressed on, the whispers followed her like a faint echo carried on the wind.