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Chapter Text

The portal blinked out of existence somewhere behind him. He ran to meet the nightmare demon head-on, fury, and determination fuelling him. Massive legs slammed down to surround him, its sharp hairs brushing against his skin as he whirled his staff around to force them away. The blade on the end sliced across flesh, releasing the acidic blood underneath to splash around his feet. Fangs hung just a few feet above his head, threatening to snap it off with one quick motion. He shoved his staff upward into its maw, a burst of fire manifesting and forcing a scream out of its throat. The air stunk of burning flesh and smoke lingering with the unmistakable scent of corpse rot. It made him want to gag, but he did not allow himself even a moment to pause.

Hawke. You know you will not win here. You cannot.

He did not slow to answer it. He continued to swing his staff in swift but calculated intervals – up into the mouth and fangs threatening to close down on him, down and around to slash at the legs trying to trip his own, burst after burst of flame and ice and lightning brought into existence by sheer will alone. 

You have so much fear in you. Fear of failure, fear of uncertainty… fear of the truth you’ve always known.

One of its legs thrust forward and shoved him backward, nearly knocking him off his feet if he hadn’t slammed the blade of his staff into the ground to steady himself. He could feel his blood boil under his skin as his bones screamed for a moment’s rest. Instead, he raised his staff and swung it wide, a wave of frozen shards erupting from nothing and tearing through the smaller spiders rushing toward him.

Was it truly wise to remain here, knowing what you leave behind? Knowing who you leave behind?

Something heavy dropped down from somewhere above, landing on his back and forcing him onto the ground. A second later and half dozen spiders swarmed all over him, their hairy legs piercing through the leather and cloth parts of his armor with ease. At some point, his staff was knocked from his hands, and thrown too far out of his reach. His fingers dug into the filth below, grasping for some kind of leverage to lift himself, but he barely had any strength left.

Or perhaps that is why you chose to remain. Better to die here and now than to live with the consequences of your own failure. Wouldn’t you agree?

His own mind began to taunt him then, joining the nightmare demon almost effortlessly. So this is how it ends, is it? Facedown in Fade-muck, to be stabbed to death by spider legs or drowned in a shallow puddle that smelled worse than the Darktown sewers. What a fitting, noble end for the fabled Champion of Kirkwall. At least Varric would have the decency to make something else up, to make it seem like he died in a less humiliating manner. If he only had one regret, then it was–

Anders… how long do you think he will last without you there? How long before he is nothing more than a rotting vessel for Justice to wear like an old coat?

That was exactly the wrong thing for the nightmare demon to say. It was as if a fire had been lit inside him; the flame crawled up from his belly and spread to his limbs all at once. With a great heave, he threw himself upward and the fire erupted from the palms of his hands, tearing through the spiders as they fell from his body. As the burning remnants fell to the ground, he scrambled to his feet and ran forward to retrieve his staff. The nightmare demon was too slow to stop him, and when it brought a leg down in an attempt to crush him, the blade of his staff slashed it away, cutting through its flesh as it shrieked in surprised pain.

“Maker’s breath, do you ever shut up?” Hawke yelled up at it. His limbs still felt heavy and his body ached — but he still found a renewed sense of determination, enough to force life back into his body. “Next time, I suggest skipping the monologues.”

The nightmare demon lunged down at him again, only to be met with another slash from his blade. Hawke moved deliberately now, careful not to use up what strength and energy he had left. His strikes were more precise, more coordinated, and more intentional — he was looking for a weakness, and he found it just as it reeled back and prepared another lunge. 

Everything seemed to slow down. Giant fangs descended upon him, intent on ripping through his flesh and crushing his bones. He waited for the moment, the perfect chance, a hair of a second before catastrophic failure. And when it came, he seized it with all his might; he spun away from the fangs as they grazed his skin, flipping his staff upside down so the blade stuck straight up. And the magic that coursed through him reached out through the Fade, bursting into the air to throw the demon upward only to drag it back down so rapidly, so violently, that it had no chance of stopping itself. Demonic ichor sprayed from its massive skull as the blade sliced through flesh, muscle, and bone. And its great body seized and writhed a moment, then two, then… stopped. Nothing.

He could hear his staff snap under the pressure, the metal and wood breaking beneath the monster’s weight. He couldn’t care. It was done. The demon was dead for now… but he was still trapped. There was no portal waiting for him to burst through victoriously. For all anyone knew, he was certainly dead. But Garrett Hawke was very much still alive, with no intention of fading into memory.

So he walked. First, he retraced their steps back through the Fade, eventually returning to the place they landed when the Inquisitor tore open the earth below and dropped them here. He didn’t dare get his hopes up to think he might find a way out, but at least the familiarity of the area provided a minor amount of comfort. From there he wandered a bit aimlessly for a time; up a flight of stairs that seemed to flip the world upside down, then through an archway that seemed to shrink as he passed through. Echoes of frightened cries and desperate pleas occasionally caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand, and without his staff, Hawke felt more on edge than he’d cared to admit. 

It took hours – many, many hours – before he found something. A narrow flight of stairs that twisted downward, emanating a warm orange glow in contrast to the sickly greens and yellows surrounding him. The thought that it might have been a trap did indeed cross his mind, but after hours of wandering, Hawke found it difficult to be too concerned. 

Down and down he went, the cavernous walls practically grabbing at his shoulders as he walked. And then suddenly, just when he began to wonder if he might need to turn back, it opened – the walls fell away from around him to float in open space. The staircase continued down, spiraling into what Hawke thought at first was nothing. But the more he walked, the more he began to see. It wasn’t nothing. It was far from nothing. There was, in fact, a door.

His pace quickened. He found it difficult to keep his footing and had to force himself to slow down just to keep from falling off the side and into the void itself. But the door was close, so very close, and when his hand touched the solid wood of it he let out a breath of relief that he didn’t even realize he was holding. 

Turn back.

Turn back? Now? Now when he might have been so close to being out? Something in the back of his mind urged him to listen to the voice. Sense, probably. The common sort. This was the Fade, after all. The door could lead to anywhere – it could lead to nowhere. It could be a trap, could lead him right into his own grave. It could also be his only chance.

Turn back. 

No. He would not listen to the disembodied voice. As easily as the door could be a trap, so could the voice. Hawke scoffed at it openly, unafraid of whatever repercussions it might have in store for him. This might not get him back to the world outside, but at the very least, the door was a step closer to getting out of this Maker-forsaken pit. He would not squander it over maybes and uncertainty. He would not let someone else control his fate. 

He pushed the door open.

Chapter Text

It’d been too early in the morning for Varric’s liking when he climbed into the back of the carriage. The sun wasn’t even fully out yet and there was still a faint mist in the air, making everything feel just a little too wet and a little too chilly. He struggled to get his leather gloves on, his hands still a bit numb from sleep and the cold, and by the time they were out beyond the gates of Kirkwall, he’d nearly thrown them out of the window three times. 

Their destination was a full day’s trip away. Bianca and a small stack of books had been loaded into the back of the carriage and sat neatly beside him, which put dear old seneschal Bran across from him. But whatever delusions Varric had of being able to read any of those books in peace were quickly dashed aside the moment Bran’s ass hit the cushion beneath him.

“–assets and properties of Lady LaRue’s late husband, Lord Orville,” Bran was in the middle of saying. “His eldest son is claiming the marriage was a fraud and asks that Lady LaRue be removed as the primary beneficiary.”

“So they want us to get involved?” Varric asked. If he was honest, he’d only barely been listening, but he knew it had something to do with a will and some adult children fighting with their father’s very young wife. The typical Kirkwall noble shit. “Lord Orville was the one who decided to marry a girl three decades his junior. If he left everything to her, then she either put in the con work and earned it or he has reason not to like his own kids. Maybe both. Tell them to figure it out themselves.”

Bran gave a disapproving hum but said nothing else on the matter as he scribbled something on his writing board. “That brings us to Lord Warnell. He is once again petitioning for the removal of the Dalish elves on his land,” he continued. “He claims they have been stealing food from his stores, vandalizing his property, and terrorizing his children.”

Varric snorted and turned a page in his book. A Laysister’s Tale, allegedly written by a disgraced sister from the Chantry. Riveting stuff, if he could focus on a single sentence without Bran interrupting him. “His children are older than half the recruits in the guard. I’m willing to bet they’re throwing wild parties and blaming the mess on the elves.”

“Be that as it may, Warnell is not known for his patience,” Bran continued. “We’d best deal with the matter quickly.”

Varric hardly looked up. “And I’m not known for giving into idiotic demands.”

Bran sighed and set the writing board he’d brought along with them flat onto his lap. Varric didn’t have to look at him to know he’d been fixed with a hard, irritated stare, the same one he’d been giving since Varric had been elected to the office. “If you choose to ignore both Lord Warnell and the Orville family in such a short period, you will be making enemies of two noble houses. And I shouldn’t need to remind you how few allies you have left.”

It was Varric’s turn to sigh. “Maybe learning a little self-sufficiency will be good for them.”

“If you do not wish to be ousted from your position prematurely, I strongly advise you to take at least one matter seriously, viscount.”

Politics. Every day Varric found a brand new reason why he’d avoided getting involved with this shit before. It was all fun and games being on the sidelines and watching them tear each other apart like sharks in blood-infested waters. It was significantly less fun to be the thing the sharks were vying for. But his time in the Inquisition made him feel like he could do something, bring some real change to Kirkwall. He just wished the people didn’t kick and scream their way into it half the time.

“Fine. I hate it when you’re right. We’ll tell the elves to pack it up and move elsewhere,” Varric said. “And I’ll trust you to figure out how to solve the Orville problem.”

“Very well, messere. Now, there’s the matter of Starkhaven…”

Varric immediately felt a headache forming in his skull at the very mention. The prince’s temper tantrum three years ago still hadn’t ended, no matter how many times he kept throwing his men at their walls and failing to do anything beyond mildly irritating everyone. “Maker’s breath. What’s the matter with Starkhaven this time?”

Bran didn’t seem fazed by the irritation in Varric’s voice and began to read the unfurled scroll before him. “‘His most worthy highness Prince Sebastian Vael once again calls upon Viscount Tethras for his dutiful cooperation in the search for the abomination known as Anders and all those responsible for the murder of Grand Cleric Elthina’... ah, and the rest appears to be the same threats as before. Shall I assume a similar response?”

Varric chuckled at that. “But of course, Bran. Only the best for our dear prince.” Without another word, Bran unlatched the carriage window just enough to toss the letter out to be trampled by the horses trailing behind them. Varric held up the book he was reading before Bran had a chance to drag him into more work. “You sure you don’t want to read any of these? I guarantee they’re all way more interesting than reading complaints from nobles all day.”

“I am certain you would be correct, messere, but I shall pass all the same,” Bran said. 

“Come on, seneschal, what’s the worst that could happen? You gain a new appreciation for the art of the written word?”

“Viscount Tethras, were I to ever consider any form of writing to be art, I would not look to your tastes as the bar to strive for,” Bran said. Varric could only laugh at that, though his seneschal’s own expression didn’t change in the slightest as he returned to his small pile of paperwork. For all the grief Varric gave him, he did appreciate the man’s dedication to his work. It had saved him hours of having to sift through letters and petitions himself, and more often than not, if Bran didn’t think something was worth bringing to his attention, it wasn’t. 

The next few hours were spent in relative silence. Varric finished The Laysister’s Tale feeling deeply unsatisfied and had just moved on to the second book in his stack when the entire carriage gave a great shudder at the unmistakable sound of a wheel snapping off. 

The driver had no shortage of apologies as Varric stepped out. “Many pardons, messere! The wheel’s broken right off its axle! It will be fixed in no time!”

“Don’t worry about it. We could use the break to stretch our legs anyway. Isn’t that right, Bran?” Varric said. But worry the driver did anyway, and Bran remained inside the carriage with his scrolls without so much as a glance in Varric’s direction. He was on his own to wander further up the road, away from the sound of a panicked driver trying to fix a broken wheel.

They were somewhere along the coast, close enough to see the Waking Sea in all of its splendor some miles below a steep cliffside. The road was one he rarely traveled, but familiar enough that it didn’t really surprise him when the wheel broke. This terrain was especially unforgiving; rocky and prone to mudslides, one misstep from a spooked horse could mean a long, terrifying drop and a bone-shattering end. Not even the most stubborn merchants braved this particular road over the safer ones through the Vimmark Mountains. Even Varric found it difficult to look over the cliffside for long without getting a little queasy, so he did his best to keep his eyes forward as he stretched his legs. 

Luckily, the sound of approaching boots gave him something else to think about. Aveline Vallen was an imposing figure, even as she slipped once or twice on the wet rocks beneath her. He raised a hand up to wave at her approach. “Not the smooth journey we’d hoped for, eh, Guard-Captain?”

“I was afraid this would happen,” Aveline said. There was a thin sheen of sweat below her headband and a slight redness to her brow and cheeks, courtesy of the time she’d spent riding on a horse behind his carriage in the blinding sun overhead. “I’ve sent a couple of guards up to assist your man. The sooner we get back on the road, the better.”

“There’s no need to be in such a hurry, you know. The building’s not going to up and walk away while we’re not looking,” Varric said.

Aveline seemed neither swayed nor amused. She and Bran could compete for least entertained by Varric’s commentary today it seemed. “Not now, Varric. You know as well as I do that it’s not the building I’m worried about walking away.”

Varric couldn’t help the falter in his smile. She was right to be worried, and in many ways, Varric felt the same way. But he’d never been one to let the worry get to him, so he waved his hand instead. “The mage Fiona sent us promised we’d have nothing to worry about. Those barriers are stronger than every iron bar in the Free Marches put together.”

“And what if that still isn’t enough? I don’t relish the thought of going on another wild chase through the mountains again,” Aveline said. “We wouldn’t have caught him if it weren’t for that storm. I doubt we’ll have that kind of luck again.”

“You won’t have to, Aveline. It’s been months – if he hasn’t broken out by now then he’s not going to,” Varric said. “You worry too much.”

“And you don’t worry nearly enough,” Aveline shot back. “We should’ve done this a long time ago.”

Varric looked away, out at the waves of the Waking Sea. There was a brief lull in the conversation between them then, enough that the silence was almost deafening. Words unsaid, feelings understood but never expressed, all the ways Varric had tried to put this day off. It was strange. There’d been a time when Aveline and Varric could talk for hours. Now, if it wasn’t about the city or the guard, it was like they couldn’t say more than a handful of words before falling into awkward silence. 

“I miss him, too. But this has to happen, Varric,” Aveline continued. There was conviction in her voice, a determination that he knew to be so utterly like her it was unmistakable in its sincerity. “Anders must answer for his crimes. We’ve put the trial off for far too long.”

“I know that, Aveline,” he said, quietly. “But if there’s even a chance that Hawke comes back and we put Anders on the chopping block, what do you think’s going to happen?”

“Nothing. Because Hawke is gone,” she said. He knew she wasn’t trying to be harsh. It was just a matter of fact to her. Still, it stung. “You said so yourself.”

Varric shook his head. “I said he was trapped in the Fade, not that he was dead. Do you really think some stupid demon is going to be what does Hawke in?”

“It’s been two years, Varric. I can’t think of anyone who could survive what you described for that long.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are we even talking about the same person here? Because I’m talking about Garrett Hawke, the same guy who—”

“Delaying justice for his sake isn’t fair to the people Anders killed or to the people whose lives he destroyed. It’s not fair to us, either,” Aveline said, cutting him off though not unkindly. “I told Hawke the same thing when he was still with us.” She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. It was as if a great weight had settled upon her, and her gaze grew soft. “Actually… that was the last thing we talked about face to face. I told him if he or Anders ever set foot in Kirkwall again, I would arrest them on sight.”

Aveline’s confession chased whatever arguments he had right out of his throat, and the fight fled from Varric. “You were… just doing what you knew was right,” he said. “Shit, I probably would’ve done the same in your position. I’m sure Hawke understood.”

“I hope so.” Aveline grew very quiet then, her head bowed slightly in serious thought. The waves of the Waking Sea crashed somewhere far below them, almost too far to be heard over the sound of guards repairing a carriage wheel behind them. “He just… laughed. And then he asked if Champions get special shackles or standard issue.” 

“Of course he did,” Varric said with a laugh. “Honestly I’m more surprised he didn’t ask if he and Anders could get a pair for fun.”

She shook her head. “Maker, I was so angry at him. Sometimes it seemed like he didn’t take anything seriously. Now… now I can’t help wondering if maybe we’d have found another way… so that he didn’t have to leave.”

“I doubt it would’ve changed much, Aveline. The Inquisition needed him,” Varric said. Guilt lingered in the back of his throat, the memory of his own involvement in Hawke’s disappearance still raw two years later. “I still would’ve led him right into that shitstorm.”

“Do you think the Inquisition would have succeeded without him?” she asked. It was a perfectly reasonable question, one he’d already asked himself half a dozen times. And one that he unfortunately already knew the answer to.

“No… I don’t,” he said. “And he wouldn’t have left Anders either way.” 

It wasn’t the reassurance she was looking for, Varric was certain of that. But it was the truth they both knew, even if it tasted bittersweet in his mouth. Aveline returned to her men and left him alone once again, and he returned to his troubled thoughts.

He had been dreading today. He’d made excuses to avoid it and kept putting it off for months at a time. And not because he held any particular love for Anders. No, that had been drained by the years of bloodshed and strife his rebellion had set off and all but stamped out by a tenure as viscount of the city he nearly destroyed. Seeing firsthand the ramifications of Anders’ actions and how far they’d spread all over Thedas wore down whatever sympathy he might have had for the man.

But his loyalty to Hawke was another matter, and for as fiercely as Hawke loved Anders, Varric did his best to honor at least that. After Lavellan and Stroud returned without Hawke and he’d taken some time to process everything, he got to work right away and tracked Anders down. He kept an eye on him, even asked Harding to make sure the bounty hunters from Starkhaven could never quite catch up to his trail. He sent coin anonymously and hired a dozen or so scouts to track his movements. All of that he did from a distance, without having to be directly involved so that he could make his inquiries, send his letters, hunt down any and every mage he could think of who might know a way to bring Hawke out of the Fade.

Somewhere along the way, though, things changed. The days and weeks melted into months. Everyone left and right told Varric what he was looking for was impossible and eventually, Anders became too dangerous to keep at a distance. But he was also too dangerous to bring to Kirkwall, what with Sebastian itching for any provocation to attack the city again. Those two truths led to where they were heading now – Castra Muniti. An old Tevinter-built prison meant for slaves and, more importantly, other mages. Fitting, he guessed. Anders always harbored a certain admiration for the Tevinter mages.

It’d been harder than he’d expected to get Anders there. Part of it could’ve been blamed on Varric’s damnable sense of sentimentality; he urged his people to go as gently about it as possible. But after losing four good men in the effort, Varric lost his patience. With Cullen’s help, he hired a few former templars to hunt down Anders and bring him in by force. He wasn’t proud of it, nor of the way Anders’ cold, glare made him feel guilty. 

Things only seemed to snowball from there. Anders didn’t wait a whole week before he made his first escape attempt, and he wasn’t a month in before his second. After the third and ultimately successful one, Varric had no choice but to enlist Aveline to find him before any Starkhaven or Circle loyalists did. And once Aveline became aware of his location, she hadn’t let up on going to his office to demand he be returned to Kirkwall for a trial. And in the end, Varric knew she was right.

With the wheel finally repaired on the carriage, Varric climbed back inside only to be greeted with Bran’s newly sorted list of priorities. This time, however, they were a welcomed distraction from his own thoughts. City accounts, business proposals, the state of the treasury, the Arenbergs once again trying to purchase the old Amell-Hawke estate – all things that would have been easier to focus on if he’d had a clearer head for it. By the time the carriage found its way onto cobblestone, the sun outside began its descent behind the mountains. 

Dark clouds had begun to gather off in the distance. A looming omen, if he were the type to believe in such things. As they slowed to a halt, Varric frowned up at the foreboding tower.

“I shall have the servants prepare our rooms at once, messere,” Bran said. He stepped out of the carriage first, and Varric followed after him just a moment later.

“Make sure to include the entire guard company this time, Bran. Everyone’s going to be on edge enough as it is,” Varric said. Bran gave a polite nod and made his way toward the steel doors ahead.

Castra Muniti was as large and terrifying as Varric remembered. It shared many similarities with the Viscount’s Keep back home, save for the distinct lack of any subtlety. Sharp, rigid spikes sat pointing directly upward, flanked by stone-cast statues whose faces had been weathered away a long time ago. The storm clouds were far enough away not to be very imposing on their own, but the way they framed the tower managed to give the place an even creepier vibe. 

“I’ve stationed some men by the main road, in case we’ve been followed.” Aveline’s voice stole Varric’s attention away from the tower. “I’d hoped we could avoid spending the night here.”

“If you want to brave the way back in the dark, be my guest,” Varric said.

Aveline gave him a withering look. “Point taken. Let’s just try not to stay here any longer than we absolutely must. We need to be gone at first light tomorrow morning.”

The two walked into the tower together, flanked by a pair of guards Aveline had chosen specifically for this journey. Varric noted right away that she hadn’t brought Donnic along, although he imagined that had more to do with Aveline wanting him to keep an eye on things back home. The air inside Castra Muniti was immediately much cooler than the outside was, so much so that Varric half-expected to look up and see giant icicles hanging from the ceiling. 

“Maker’s breath – has no one heard of a fire around here?” Varric said. 

An elven woman hurried toward them right then and stopped to bow. Even in the low lighting, he could see her fiery red hair pulled back into a tight bun. “My sincerest apologies, messere! We only just received word that you were on your way an hour ago.”

He rubbed his gloved hands together and took in more of the area. Most of it was dark from the lack of light, though the areas that were lit revealed the near-black stone and marble. This particular part of the tower seemed to be where they processed the intakes; two stone staircases led up to the mostly obscured second floor, while the level they were on seemed to be little more than a long, dark hallway. 

“It’s alright. Just let them know we’re here finally. We’ve got a lot to do,” he said. The elf nodded and led the party up the stairs, and walked for a time before she eventually brought them to an area he assumed must have been used for visiting magisters and other people of importance back during the heydays of Tevinter rule. Aveline and Varric were led to what looked to be a makeshift dining hall; in the center sat a long stone table surrounded by six ornate chairs, and dozens of freshly lit candles in each corner ensured there was plenty of light. While the guards found posts in the nearby corners of the room, the elf focused her attention on Varric and bowed.

“I’ll inform the kitchen you’ve arrived. Is there anything else I may get you?”

“A stiff drink and something to eat would be a good start,” Varric said. The elf bowed again and rushed off. He found a seat at the table and leaned back, gesturing toward the seat beside him. “It’s going to be a long night, Aveline. May as well get comfortable.”

Aveline shook her head. “I’ve been sitting on a horse all day. I’d rather stand for now if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t suppose ordering you as your viscount to sit down would work.”

“No. And I wouldn’t recommend trying.”

They shared a smile between themselves, a brief moment of levity just before the elf returned. Behind her followed a tall, lanky man in thick robes lined with fur and what seemed to be a handmade wool cap atop his head. It took Varric a moment to recognize him — his name was Flynn, and he was one of the mages Fiona had sent. As the elf began setting the table, Flynn approached Varric and thrust his hand out to shake. 

“A fine day to you, messere Tethras,” Flynn said. “It has been too long.”

“Being a viscount is a lot of busy work, it turns out. Go ahead and take a seat,” Varric said. Flynn sat down just as the elf poured wine into his cup. “I’m guessing someone’s already told you why we’re here.”

“Yes, the seneschal came to me right away. I understand we have much to discuss,” Flynn said. He took a long drink of his wine and smiled politely at the elf. “Thank you, Coral.” Her cheeks reddened as she moved to fill Varric’s cup.

“Water for me,” Aveline said before the elf could fill the cup meant for her. “We’ll need to discuss logistics. I know you’re using barriers to keep him sealed.”

“That’s right,” Flynn said, rather proudly. “The barriers essentially negate his magic, in a sense. It’s a trick Templars used to use in the Circle, except I’ve found a way to use it surrounding a living creature. Or, in this case, a living person. Though I’m fairly sure it would work on a reanimated corpse, but I–”

“Can it be used on the move?” Aveline asked, cutting Flynn off.

The mage considered her question. “Well, I… I’m not sure. Theoretically, that shouldn’t be too difficult. As long as there was an enclosed space of some kind, I’m sure I could make something work.”

“Like a wagon?” Aveline asked.

“I think the wagons they used for prisoners are all damaged,” Flynn said. “But, yes — theoretically, of course.”

Aveline nodded. “My men and I will see if there’s at least one we can repair. I’ll feel a lot better if we’re ready to go right away tomorrow.” She nodded to Varric and left just as the elf returned with a jug of water. Dutifully, she still filled Aveline’s cup before she disappeared again.

“Aveline just likes to be prepared,” Varric said. “So, I take it not much has changed since your last report?”

“I… well… messere, quite the contrary,” Flynn said, suddenly much more nervous than he’d seemed before.

“What? Did something happen?” Varric asked. “He didn’t try to escape again, did he?” 

“No, no, nothing like that at all,” Flynn said. “Many pardons. I’m not sure where to begin. It’s just that the, er, prisoner… well, a little while ago, he claimed someone was trying to poison him, that there’s a dagger in the shadows waiting to strike if he lets his guard down.” Varric’s eyes never left Flynn’s face, which granted him the opportunity to notice the slight change in his expression. Concern, or perhaps anxiousness, wore itself plainly on the mage. Flynn lowered his cup down onto the table carefully and frowned deeply.

“And? So he’s still as paranoid as ever,” Varric said. “He’s rambled about people being out to kill him before. It’s not exactly news.”

“He also… stopped eating, I’m afraid. He doesn’t even sleep anymore. I believe the demon inside him is the only thing truly keeping him alive,” Flynn said. 

Varric’s brow wrinkled at that. He glanced in the direction Aveline had gone as if he expected her to be there. If she had been, he wondered what she might say. “How long ago did this start?” 

“Almost a week now, messere,” Flynn said. “At first we thought he was just trying to make us lower our guard, but then when he hadn’t eaten for three days we began checking his food and even interrogated some of the guards.”

“And?” Varric pressed Flynn to continue.

“Nothing. Hardly anyone has direct access to him and there’s been no poison in his food or drinks. I even tried eating and drinking some of it in front of him, but he couldn’t be convinced. Or wouldn’t,” Flynn said. “I’m not sure taking him back to Kirkwall is the best choice right now.”

“Well, leaving him here isn’t an option anymore,” Varric said. “You said he won’t eat?” 

“I’m afraid that’s correct,” Flynn said. “Though… perhaps, if the captain were to speak to him…”

Varric almost laughed. “Trust me, Aveline’s one of the last people he’d want to speak with.”

“You then, messere. Perhaps someone he knows well could get through to him,” Flynn said. “It’s worth a try, at least, no? He’s no good to you if he starves to death.”

Varric could not immediately answer. He rubbed his chin, uncertain not for the first time of his predicament. “Anders and I… don’t exactly get along. I’m not sure I’d be much help. Remember, I’m the reason he’s here in the first place.”

Flynn regarded him a moment. “I’m sure you’re right about that, but he spoke highly of you when he could. Forgive me if I assume too much, messere. I truly believe if anyone could talk some sense into him, it would be you.”

It was difficult to believe that, but Varric still found himself following Flynn all the same, though they walked up the multiple flights of stairs, he began to wish he hadn’t. He wished he’d just told Flynn he didn’t care if Anders starved himself to death or not and left it at that. He could’ve eaten some warm food and climbed into bed and then in the morning, they could be on their way home. But he knew too well what would happen if Anders died in the night or, Maker forbid, on the way back – Sebastian would just assume they were still protecting him and the line of nobles waiting for a chance to shove him out of the viscount’s office would only grow longer. And then if by some miracle he ever did see Hawke again… well, it was perhaps more that thought that had him following Flynn up through the dark, damp tower.

It wasn’t long before the staircase became more narrow and difficult to climb, winding into a tight twist that was almost disorienting. A necessary move, Flynn had explained on the way. If Anders did manage to escape, he’d have a difficult time getting down the stairs without falling and fighting back would be near impossible. Still, Varric wasn’t exactly out of shape, despite the extra time he was spending in the office, but he found himself quite out of breath within a matter of minutes. 

“Andraste’s flaming ass,” Varric swore. “Remind me to have them install a lift in this sodding place.”

Flynn offered a breathless laugh as he led on. He carried a small bowl full of hot stew in one hand and a torch in the other, which provided the only light and heat available as they went up the stairs. “I will do so, messere, though I imagine after tonight we needn’t worry too much about that.”

Varric laughed. “Probably right. Hopefully right.”

“It’s good you came when you did, you know,” Flynn said. “I’ve been trying to talk to him, to understand why he did what he did. His mind is confused most days, but in the moments where he can think clearly, what he’s been able to tell me is quite… enlightening.”

“Trust me, it’s a waste of time,” Varric said. His knees were starting to hurt. “You’re better off just ignoring whatever arguments he tries to use on you to justify the people he killed.”

“A difficult task given my circumstances, messere,” Flynn said with a small laugh. “But I was not referring to the, ah… to what he did in Kirkwall. I meant his dealings with the spirit. He told me about Justice – how they met while he was working with the Hero of Ferelden.”

“Always did like rubbing that one in people’s faces,” Varric said. It felt like his ears were ringing from the way his heart beat against his chest. “Used to get him a free drink or two at the bar.”

Flynn laughed. “I can’t say I’d be able to resist doing the same. It was quite an interesting story. The Hero sounds like she left quite an impression on him. He spoke of his time as a Warden, about the darkspawn who could talk… and he spoke about the spirit like it was an old friend. And the power the baroness used to trap it here must have been–”

“I’ve heard the story,” Varric said, perhaps a bit more curtly than he’d intended. But his legs were sore and every breath felt like he was getting stabbed in the throat. “Tell me something, Flynn. Do you think knowing all that will help you understand why he decided to kill hundreds of innocent people and start a war that killed thousands more?”

A beat of silence, and when Flynn did speak, his voice was quiet. “No. I don’t suppose it will.”

“Well, there you go. Whatever Anders did or who he was before doesn’t matter anymore. He’s more dangerous than he seems. Remember that.”

The rest of their walk up the stairs was made in blessed silence, which Varric appreciated far more than he tried to let on. Flynn seemed like a decent man. A talented mage for sure, and Varric didn’t think for a second Fiona would’ve sent him someone inept. But the way he talked about Anders came a little too close to admiration for his liking. He knew Anders could be charming, funny, friendly – all the things that Varric used to like about him. He remembered watching Hawke fall hopelessly in love while Anders pretended not to notice; he remembered the day they finally stopped dancing around it and made it official, how everyone gathered at the Hanged Man to hand over all the coin they’d lost to Isabela’s bet. He remembered the ring Hawke couldn’t help but brag about the last time they played diamondback together and how proudly Anders wore it on his left hand the very next day.

He also remembered how tired and almost run-ragged Hawke had been when he first arrived at Skyhold. How the time being on the run had worn him down, how desperate his search for a way to separate Justice and Anders had become, and how it’d driven him to places he wouldn’t talk about, even to his oldest and closest friend. How his only request in exchange for helping the Inquisition was focused entirely on Anders, with no regard for himself.

Varric had no interest in watching yet another person throw themselves onto the pyre to protect Anders.

They stopped before a large door, flanked by two guards in Kirkwall gear. Former templars, just in case, courtesy of Cullen. Beyond the door was a cell much larger than many others in the tower, surrounded by a low glow of light. At first, Varric didn’t even see Anders – a moment of panic threatened the pit of his stomach until he caught sight of the unmoving figure sitting on the floor. Now, as they got closer, it was like he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Flynn continued forward first, stopped just before the magical barrier, and set the bowl down before it. He said something Varric couldn’t quite hear, but Anders made no movements and offered no response. Flynn lingered only a few seconds more before he stood and returned to the door.

“I shall leave you to it, messere, and wait with the guards outside,” Flynn said. “And don’t worry about the barrier. You’ll be able to reach through, but he won’t be able to do the same back.”

Varric said nothing in reply. He was too focused on Anders and took note of what he could make out in the low light. Anders’ hair had grown much longer, sitting an inch or two past his shoulders, tangled and matted in some places. His clothing looked relatively clean but almost comically large on his thin frame. Slatted light from the moon outside the barred windows offered some degree of visibility, though not enough for Varric to see Anders’ face from the angle he was at. He paused at the threshold of the door, searching in vain for an excuse to simply turn around and walk right back down the stairs.

He stepped inside and stopped a few feet away and squinted in the low light. From here, he could tell that Anders was at least alive; he was breathing, and now that Varric was so close, he could hear faint mutterings. Nothing audible enough to make out, but enough to send a chill down his spine. He ignored it, but the low hum from the barrier only added to the eeriness of it all.

“Hunger strike’s a little dramatic,” Varric said, willing himself to pretend the hair standing on the back of his neck wasn’t there at all. “Personally, I would’ve kept working on Flynn. He seems to like you.”

Anders did not answer, but neither did the muttering stop. Varric leaned slightly closer as if that would improve his chances of being able to make out what the mage was saying. It didn’t help much, but he could at least see Anders’ face a bit better in the dark. He had a full beard now, one that looked as untamed as the rest of his hair and aged him well past his thirty-four years. His gaze seemed fully fixated on whatever was on the filth-covered floor below him. 

“Ah, so it’s the insanity plea we’re going for,” Varric said. “Not sure how that’s going to hold up during your trial. Most people already know about the whole possessed mage thing. It’ll probably cut your credibility in half, at least.” The muttering continued, and Varric found it nearing the point of being unbearable. He bent to pick up the bowl and move closer, though he paused to examine the barrier warily. 

“It won’t hurt you.” The muttering had stopped. Anders’ voice came out barely louder than a whisper and so hoarse that Varric at first didn’t recognize it. “The barrier. It’s only meant to hurt me.”

“Good to know,” Varric said. His voice sounded cold, even to himself. “We’re taking you back to Kirkwall tomorrow. It’s a long way to get there and we don’t plan on stopping, so you better eat while you’ve got the chance.” It was all he could do to stop from throwing the bowl into the cell, though the way he dropped it still caused some of the stew to splatter out onto the floor. He couldn’t bring himself to be sorry about it.

“You and the captain have an impressive dedication to oppression,” Anders said. His words came out with what sounded like considerable effort as if he hadn’t spoken in a long time, yet they were steady at the same time. “I admire that about you two.”

“Don’t give me that shit,” Varric snapped, unable to stop himself. “What you did was wrong and you damn well know it. The people you killed – all those lives you ruined – do you think it was all justified?”

Anders turned his head slightly, enough that Varric could tell he was looking in his direction. Something about it made Varric feel… wrong somehow. Like Anders was looking through him rather than at him. He lingered a moment before he looked away again, back at the floor below him. And said nothing.

The years of resentment and pent-up rage came boiling up before Varric could think twice about it. Varric felt several things all at once, like an explosion of emotion going off somewhere in his chest; feelings of betrayal and confused anger that he thought he’d dealt with already came rushing back to him in a wave. “That’s it? Nothing to say about that? Not going to take credit for the mages being free now? Damn you, Anders! Or Justice or whoever the hell you are now! If you’d just waited, you’d have seen the Circle mages were already planning to leave the chantry. But no – what was it you said? ‘There can be no peace’? Well, you got what you wanted. Is war what you wanted the whole time? Well? Well?! Answer me!”

Anders still said nothing. Varric wasn’t sure why the silence made it worse, why it made him angrier than he ever thought possible. What he did know was that his hands had found their way around the bars of the cell, squeezing so tightly that his fingers ached. He stared at Anders’ back in cold fury, then pulled himself away with a disgusted noise. 

“I don’t care what you do. Eat or don’t eat,” he said. He sounded like Aveline now, and maybe a little like Cassandra. “The only reason this trial didn’t happen any sooner was for Hawke’s sake.”

Anders made another sound then. It was as if he let out a breath he’d been holding, followed by a small laugh. “Hawke… said he’d be back before I knew it. A few days at most.” Another sharp breath. “A few days, that’s all, love. Safer if I stayed put… yes, just stay put…”

The muttering started again and Varric was suddenly exhausted. As he walked back down the stairs trailing behind a very quiet Flynn, he knew that it had been a mistake seeing Anders at all. He was all but completely mad now – the reports made that much clear. Whatever moments of lucidity he had seemed reserved only for brief windows where Flynn managed to coax it out of him. Hell, Varric forgot why he’d even bothered in the first place. The muttering… was just madness, that’s all. By the time he climbed into bed, all he wanted to do was close his eyes and pray the memory of that damn muttering didn’t haunt him too.

Chapter Text

Incense lingered heavily in the air. Streams of flickering candlelight passed through the smoke, casting down upon the statue of Andraste and illuminating the whole chantry with a soft golden light. Curtains cut from deep red cloth and trimmed with brilliant gold hung from the ceiling and framed Andraste perfectly, like the flames of her pyre.

Not a single pew was empty, full to the brim with the Maker’s devoted flock. Some were far in the back, kneeling on the stone floor in deep prayer. Some knelt outside the open doorway without regard for the gentle rain that fell upon them. All listened with reverence as Revered Mother Neilina gave her sermon, though none listened with as much devotion as the prince himself.

Sebastian Vael knelt before the Revered Mother in solemn prayer, one knee resting upon the red carpet below while his head remained bowed. Just a few years ago this place might have seen only a dozen or so people at a time. Now, the reign of Prince Sebastian saw the chantry swell with the faithful. Guided by the Maker’s hand, he led his people through their most difficult times, even when all the world was being strangled by the hands of a heretical faction. Through his fervent devotion, he inspired the faithful to Starkhaven in droves from all over Thedas. 

As the sermon came to an end, the prince stood and prayed with the Revered Mother, her hands clutching his. “All men are the work of our Maker’s hands. From the lowest of slaves to the highest kings. You walk with the Maker at your side, Prince Sebastian.”

“Thank you, Revered Mother,” he said. He turned to face the rest of the people, many still on their knees. They looked at him with rapt attention. “My hearth is yours, my bread is yours, my life is yours, for all who walk in the sight of the Maker are one. As was declared by Eileen, so I declare to you as well. What is mine, is also yours.”

The crowds parted for the dozens of servants entering the chantry, soaked to the bone from the waiting they did outside. Carried in each of their arms were massive baskets filled to the brim with fruits, vegetables, wheat, and barley – things many in the city desperately needed. But the most prized of all were the six hunters who trailed the end of the line; upon their backs were the freshly hunted corpses of halla, their fur soaked pink and brown where the arrows pierced their hearts. Tears of joyful gratitude filled the chantry, overwhelmed with loving praises to the Maker and Andraste both.

But he could not linger. His duty to his people came second to the Maker’s will, and with the Revered Mother’s blessing, Prince Sebastian made his leave. He walked through the streets as a common man would, to show his people that he was still a man among them. A seamstress offered him a cloak made of fine silk, which he graciously declined – but the touch of his hand upon it alone guaranteed it sold mere moments after he walked away. He stopped one last time to pray with a woman carrying her sickly infant in her arms, her tears staining the sleeves of his dark velvet tunic to be carried with him back to his home.

The halls of the palace were as quiet and reverential as the chantry itself, so much that one might not have known the difference between the two. Servants bowed dutifully as the prince walked by and did not rise again until he’d passed. The elven servants in his chambers were ready to attend to him as he bathed and changed into something more suitable for the dinner being prepared in the dining hall. Gone was the heavy velvet tunic adorned with the Maker’s sun, replaced now by one made of crimson lined with gold. He was every bit the Prince of Starkhaven once more.

He entered the dining hall and held his hand up to stop his guests from rising. “Please, remain seated. You’ve all traveled a long way to be here,” he said and instead bowed himself. “It is I who should be honored by your presence.” A chorus of polite conversation hummed over the table as he greeted each guest in turn, courteous to every single one before he took his place at the head. As the servants began placing small bowls of sugared almonds in front of them, Sebastian took the opportunity to regard each person carefully.

There was Marcel Renou, freshly appointed Duke of Hercinia; Lucrezia Venier, a representative of the Sunbrand; Giano de Silva, a member of Wycome’s City Council; Elyssa Fletcher, Starkhaven’s own captain of the guard; Grand Enchanter Vivienne from the recently re-established Circle of Magi; and perhaps most importantly, Dietrich Keller on behalf of King Wilhelm Augustin. Each one came with opportunities the prince had been keen to capitalize on with the downfall of the Inquisition. Each one also came with just as likely a means to undermine him should they choose another path instead. 

“My friends, I must thank you once more for agreeing to this gathering on such abrupt notice,” Sebastian said, raising his wine-filled cup. The others followed suit, their eyes all locked onto him in expectation. “You have all done your part to see that the Maker’s justice is served. A toast to commemorate this coming together of His most loyal servants. May His Hand guide us well.”

“Thanks are owed to you as well, Your Highness, for arranging this gathering in the first place,” Grand Enchanter Vivienne said. 

“Here, here!” Giano de Silva said. “The lady speaks for us all, Prince Sebastian! Starkhaven is a jewel among the Free Marches.” He took the deepest drink of them all, some of the wine spilling from the corner of his mouth and into his salt and pepper beard. A nearby servant was quick to refill his cup, as they had been instructed to do before the man even arrived. Giano’s reputation for fine food and wine preceded him, and Sebastian made sure to stock up on his favorite Antivan vintage. 

“You are too kind, Grand Enchanter,” Sebastian said. “I hope you are enjoying your stay here in Starkhaven. It’s not every day we are visited by someone of your stature and reputation.”

The Grand Enchanter offered a gracious laugh. “How very kind of you to say. It has been entirely too long since I’ve been to the Free Marches. Starkhaven has been positively charming.”

“I pray that my city continues to treat you well, my lady,” he said.

Lady Vivienne was one of the few guests Sebastian had been most apprehensive about getting involved with. Not only for the fact that she was a mage, but her previous involvement with the Inquisition had left Sebastian with few expectations. Yet she surprised him, surpassing those expectations with ease. Her arrival had been a grand affair, and her presence at the recently reinstated Starkhaven Circle had been a great inspiration to the mages still loyal to the Maker’s teachings. To have met her after all he’d heard, he never would have imagined she was capable of falling in with the heretics at the Inquisition. But then, that was perhaps why she would make such a cunning ally — and a formidable foe. Her ability to utilize everyone and everything around her to her advantage made her quite possibly the most dangerous person at the table. 

“Your Highness, I must offer my sympathies. I understand Starkhaven has fallen victim to the same plights we suffer, what with the plagues ruining crops all over the Free Marches,” Giano de Silva said through his thick Antivan-born accent. “I hear you’ve taken to giving away the food from your own stores to combat the famine.”

Sebastian smiled softly. Whether the comment was meant to poke or pry at him in some way, or the councilman truly meant to voice his worry, the prince couldn’t know for certain. All these years later he still found the sea of politics a treacherous and confusing thing. “Aye, that is true. The Maker would not take kindly to a man as privileged as I if I chose not to act in service to my people.”

“The Maker must have smiled upon you indeed for you to have found so many halla this far in the Free Marches,” Dietrich Keller said. His praise sounded genuine and was followed by agreements from the Duke and de Silva. 

“Quite so. A clan of Dalish agreed to part with half of their halla in exchange for a more agreeable arrangement with our city, thanks to Captain Fletcher,” Sebastian said, raising his cup to the captain. Fletcher gave a courteous nod.

“Thanks to you as well, my prince. It is my greatest honor to serve Starkhaven,” she said. Their answers seemed to please the Ander adequately, who congratulated Fletcher for her success.

Truthfully, the Dalish were the victims of a harsh truth: their presence in the woods not far from the city meant they were taking up valuable resources. He’d prayed for half a morning that the Maker would see fit to guide them into a peaceful solution. Sadly, they’d chosen to fight when his men arrived, the poor fools. In the end, they were no match for the might of Starkhaven’s best hunters. What remained of their clan surrendered only when their Keeper fell, and their First agreed to give up their herd of halla in exchange for their lives.

“What luck you must have, or it’s as they say and the Maker truly does favor you,” de Silva said. “We’ve not seen a single Dalish in months near Wycome, not since Keeper Istimaethoriel vanished with the rest of the clan.”

The news seemed to surprise everyone at the table, except for Lady Vivienne. “The Inquisitor’s clan too, is it not?” Sebastian asked. At de Silva’s nod, he frowned lightly. 

“Is it such a shock? Or a coincidence?” Duke Renou said. “The Inquisition was led by an elf and now that it is no more, they are all disappearing. And not just the Dalish! My own servants have begun slipping away too, the little knife-eared ingrates. The Inquisitor is surely gathering her elven cousins, no doubt to declare war on us all.”

Sebastian wasn’t sure what it all meant. Clan Lavellan disappearing so soon after the fall of the Inquisition couldn’t have meant anything good, but to think the Inquisitor would turn around and start a war against humanity in the name of elven conquest? It was something he hadn’t even considered… yet given the truth he now knew about the so-called Herald and her closest allies, he wasn’t sure it was an unreasonable possibility.

“I shouldn’t think we’ll need to worry about that anytime soon, my lord,” Lady Vivienne said. Her tone was one of comfortable dismissal as if she knew something no one else did. “If the Inquisitor wanted to declare war, she would have done so when she had throngs of followers at her command.”

“Ah, you laugh it off now, but so did we all when the Inquisition first told us that the Herald of Andraste was to be an elf,” the Duke snapped. “And look at what happened. Everywhere they went they claimed authority, flaunted the breaking of laws, and passed their own judgment wherever they willed it! All in the name of Andraste while their own leader made a mockery of the Maker’s teachings. If we are not careful, we are doomed to see it repeated again.” 

“I agree with the Grand Enchanter,” Lucrezia Venier said. “The Inquisition is no more. The elves vanishing are of no consequence to us now and will not be later. Even with all of their clans combined, they cannot hope to stand against all of Thedas.”

“And there you have it. You have nothing to fear from the elves,” Lady Vivienne said. 

 The Duke regarded Lucrezia a moment before he returned his attention to the Grand Enchanter. “As you say. But perhaps we should not put so much stock in the words of a woman whose presence within the Inquisition was tolerated at best if the rumors are true.”

Sebastian had heard the same rumors himself; they told of a contentious relationship between Lady Vivienne and the Inquisitor, one that ended on a sour note not long ago. Even so, the Grand Enchanter had clearly gotten what she wanted out of her time at the Inquisition, and the Duke’s attempted dig seemed ineffective. Her lips spread into a pleasant smile and she laughed cooly, ebbing away at the hot anger rife in the Duke’s voice. “My dear, if we are to put any stock in rumors about one another, I hardly think you would be in any position to speak so openly. Your cousin was the previous duke, was he not? Such a terrible shame what happened to him… if the rumors are true.”

Every pair of eyes at the table seemed transfixed on the two. The Duke bristled with rage while the Grand Enchanter sat unmoving, calm, and utterly unbothered in every way. The servants replaced everyone’s empty bowls with ones filled with a delicious autumn soup, and Sebastian cleared his throat. “It will do us no favors to squabble amongst ourselves tonight, my lord, my lady. We would do better to remind ourselves why we are here in the first place: to do what is right for the people of the Free Marches, and indeed all of Thedas, by casting aside our differences and joining together. The Free Marches united at last.”

“Shall we discuss my king’s proposition?” Dietrich said, seizing the opportunity to shift the conversation with Sebastian.

“In due time, my friend. If we are to unite at all, we must attend to the matter of Kirkwall first, then we will be able to discuss King Wilhelm’s offer in full. Fletcher,” he said and motioned toward his guard-captain.

Sebastian could tell that Fletcher had been waiting for her moment by the way she straightened her posture. “Our spy sent word a few hours ago that they intend to take the Maleficar back to Kirkwall to stand trial.”

“A trial they will fix to ensure his survival, I’m sure,” Sebastian said, unable to keep the bitterness from his tongue. 

“Almost certainly. The viscount is said to have already made arrangements with the College. I have no doubt they will offer to take the Maleficar with them back to Ferelden where he will be protected under King Alistair.”

Sebastian frowned at that. If they took Anders back to Ferelden, then there would truly be no hope of avenging the murder of Elthina, or the destruction his rebellion brought down upon them all. “The King of Ferelden’s compassion for mages will one day be his undoing, but until such time, we cannot risk that abomination slipping through our fingers once more.”

“I could not agree more,” Fletcher said. “Which is why we will intercept their escort. We’ve learned they intend to travel by the old Imperial road along the coast.”

Giano laughed incredulously. “They must be truly desperate to avoid detection if they are to brave that path!”

“They are. Further proof of their loyalty to themselves above the Maker’s demands,” Sebastian said. “Do we know who is escorting them?”

Fletcher nodded. “A small company of city guards led by Captain Vallen and a mage sent by the College. My agent says they plan to use magic to further conceal themselves, though could not tell me how exactly.”

“Likely arcane barriers and glyphs to disguise their movements,” Lady Vivienne said. “My own mages will make short work of that, alongside Ser Venier’s Sunbrands, I’m sure.”

“Of course. I have brought twenty of my best men, Prince Sebastian. They remember the vows they made to the Maker as templars,” Lucrezia said. He did not doubt her. The Sunbrands were the last remnants of the Free Marches’ most loyal templars, ones who vowed to serve the faithful while their brothers made a mockery of themselves.

“We shall cut them off at the pass. The narrow road will not give them any room to turn around and our archers can pin them down from above,” Fletcher said.

“And while they do that, our Sunbrands will charge from the front, with assistance from the Grand Enchanter’s mages,” Lucrezia added. 

Sebastian felt a wash of exhilaration come over him, though he allowed it to show only through a nod of understanding. “Have your men take care to grant the opportunity to surrender the Maleficar peacefully first,” he said, though the words felt less than sincere to say aloud.

Duke Renou scoffed lightly. “Forgive me, but considering our plans for Kirkwall, is such a courtesy strictly necessary?” 

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just,” Sebastian echoed the Benedictions. “Master Tethras may flaunt and revel in Kirkwall’s sins, but we will make every effort to show that Starkhaven did what it could to honor the Maker’s teachings.” He paused to take a drink of his wine, to swallow down the excitement that bubbled somewhere in his chest before he continued. “Though I assure you, Duke Renou, if I know who we’re dealing with at all, it certainly won’t be necessary.”

“Ah, good. It would be a terrible waste to call off my ships so soon,” the Duke said with a laugh. “They will be in position within the week. When my men take control of the harbor, Kirkwall will have no choice but to surrender, if they know what’s good for them.”

“With no viscount and no seneschal, I doubt they will have any choice at all,” de Silva said. “Of course, such an open display of aggression requires certain assurances.” Though de Silva’s cheeks and tips of his ears were red from the wine he’d been indulging in, it was clear he hadn’t lost all of his sharpness. Sebastian watched as a servant hurried forward to once again refill the councilman’s wine, and he smiled warmly.

“You shall have them, my friend, make no mistake about that,” Sebastian said. “Taking Kirkwall and bringing the Maleficar to justice is only a small part of the Maker’s grand plan for a united Free Marches.”

“King Wilhelm has pledged his support for Starkhaven,” Dietrich said. “With the Inquisition no more, my lord is free to carry out the Maker’s justice where it is needed most, and all who know the tragedy of Kirkwall are obliged to act.”

“Yes, I’d heard these rumors myself not long ago,” de Silva said. He swung his cup up high, narrowly missing the side of Lucrezia’s face as he did. “Congratulations are in order! To think the prince of Starkhaven is to be wed at long last.”

“Princess Lucia is an inspired match, Prince Sebastian,” the Grand Enchanter said. “Her devotion to Andraste is almost as renowned as her sense of fashion.”

Laughter rippled through the table. The conversation turned to talk of the upcoming wedding preparations. Dietrich led most of the discussion, talking more of the logistics of bringing Anderfels nobles from across the continent and making arrangements with the Nevarrans for assistance. Wine continued to pour while they talked, accompanied by the main course of fish and egg pie alongside jellied pig feet. Sebastian remained politely attentive, though talk of his own wedding did very little to actually interest him. He had no doubt that this was indeed the Maker’s will, that the alliance between himself and Lucia was exactly what the Free Marches needed.

But his attention truly lay elsewhere, fixated upon that which had already been set in motion. These people, are all brought together by a common goal, a common enemy, and more importantly, a common love. In just a few hours, they would finally see justice served and the beginnings of a new future for the Free Marches. And Sebastian knew it was not pride that swelled in his chest at the thought. It was not selfishness that had brought him here. It was the Maker Himself, guiding him all along and all Sebastian had to do was stop and listen.

Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker’s will is written.

Chapter Text

“It can’t be helped, messere! We can’t possibly hope to travel in this weather.” Flynn was arguing, and had been arguing since they woke. He followed Aveline practically at her heel, but Aveline still would not budge. She continued to issue orders to her men as they prepared the prisoner wagon. As Aveline walked around it, Flynn hurried around to the other side and blocked her path.

“Guard captain, please. It’s barely safe enough to travel in ideal weather let alone a storm like this,” he said. Aveline went around him as if he weren’t there at all.

“I want this wagon fully secured and ready to go within the hour,” Aveline said, dismissing Flynn with ease. A tarp made from scrap leather and tattered cloth had been stretched over top, though it didn’t seem able to cover the whole cage. “Hammer it down if you need to, men.”

Varric looked up from his book in time to watch Flynn’s hands bury themselves into his hair in frustration. Aveline could not and would not be swayed, no matter what the mage said, even if there was a part of Varric that agreed. He glanced outside one of the tall barred windows and shivered; it was practically a torrential downpour out there. The sea wind forced the rain sideways and made it sound like a thousand tiny battering rams hitting against the tower’s stone walls. But it didn’t matter – they had a schedule to keep, and Aveline’s mind had never been easy to change once she set it to something.

“Viscount, you must see that this is madness,” Flynn said. He’d crossed the room and positioned himself in front of Varric with a pleading look. 

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, kid,” Varric said. He shut the leather-bound cover of the book he’d been reading and rested one hand on top of it. “I’m Aveline’s boss in name only and if she says we’re leaving today, then we’re leaving today.”

“But—” Flynn started, but Varric held a hand up to stop him.

“Trust me, Flynn, arguing will get you nowhere. It’ll be a lot easier and a lot less frustrating if you just do what needs to be done,” he said. 

For a moment, it seemed as though Flynn considered arguing further. His mouth opened then closed a couple of times though only a few puffs of frustrated air came out, and within a few seconds his shoulders sagged forward with defeat. “Very well. I’ll go make the preparations.”

“Good plan.” Varric watched Flynn leave before he slipped off the old wood chair to follow in the direction Aveline had gone. He very quickly regretted the decision as soon as he stepped outside. Even with the overhanging roof above, the rain poured through the gaps and instantly soaked his leather coat, forcing him to pull it tighter around himself in a near futile effort to keep the clothes underneath from getting too wet as well. Aveline’s orders carried over the wind and her men struggled to keep their footing as they attached the prisoner wagon to a large black horse. 

Aveline joined him a moment later, her cheeks, nose and ears flushed red from the cold air. “We’d be gone a lot quicker if we hadn’t taken up so much time on the tarp,” she said.

“Probably shouldn’t drown the prisoner before we can pass the sentence,” Varric said. 

Aveline’s scoff was barely audible over the sound of rain. “Part of me can’t help but think it’s more than he deserves.”

“It is. But everyone in Thedas is entitled to a fair trial,” Varric said, though the last bit came out a bit hollow. He turned and began to walk back inside with Aveline at his side. “I told them to get some sturdier clothes on him. Seems like we’ll be on the road a little longer than we want to be.”

“Most likely, but my men are prepared and they tell me the horses are used to this type of storm,” she said.

“Let’s hope they’re right. I wouldn’t want to get caught out there in this weather,” Varric said. 

They walked up the stairs, muddy boots coming down upon stone heavily and echoing through the halls. On the second floor of the tower, servants were hurriedly moving about, packing up food and other essential items. The bulk of them would remain behind to finish up and join them back in Kirkwall later, when the storm had cleared and the tower could be properly cleared out. Bran was among them taking an account of the inventory, going down what was no doubt a meticulously penned checklist of items with the redheaded elven servant from the night before. She nodded dutifully and scurried off as Aveline and Varric approached the seneschal.

“Everything appears to be in order, Guard-Captain,” he said. “We’ll be able to leave as soon as the prisoner has been brought down.”

“Thank you, seneschal,” Aveline said. “I’ll go make sure it’s done.” With that, she continued further up the stairs, her pace quicker than Varric expected given how heavily soaked her armor was.

Bran’s attention remained on his checklist, though he did glance away from it briefly to look at Varric. “Is there anything else we need to bring back with us, messere?”

“Make sure we take some of those old Tevinter scrolls back with us. They look older than the city itself, so I’m sure there’s bound to be something interesting there,” Varric said.

“Very well.” Bran stepped away to pull another servant aside and issue them another list of items to be packed and Varric took the opportunity to visit the kitchen for a quick breakfast of boiled eggs and bread. He’d had some faint hope of the rain letting up at least a little by the time Bran came to retrieve him, but he found no such luck as he stepped outside.

The viscount’s carriage had been pulled right up to the door, providing Bran and Varric some mercy from the rain as they quickly climbed inside, accompanied by both Bianca and another assortment of books for the journey. He glanced out the carriage’s window only once, just to confirm that Anders was indeed sitting in the center of the prisoner wagon. The rain made it difficult to see him clearly, but even then Varric could see he was motionless. Flynn joined the driver’s side, wrapped in a heavy cloak and holding what looked like a rather heavy leather bag. It wasn’t until Aveline rode up beside them on her own horse that the carriage finally began to move.

They traveled at a much slower pace than Varric would’ve preferred. Every brief pause and slight turn made it seem as though the coast went on forever. A rumbling thunder joined the sounds of rain, putting an end to any thoughts about taking a nap. Varric had never been particularly fond of the coast’s penchant for storms, and this one seemed especially harsh given the time of year. “The rain will be good for crops,” Bran said at one point, breaking the silence between them. “Much of the Free Marches is dealing with an extended drought, Starkhaven included.”

“You’d think the Maker would spare his favorites,” Varric said, a smirk on the corner of his lip. “Gotta hand it to him, I really didn’t think he’d turn a whole city into radicals.”

Bran shrugged lazily. For once, he didn’t have a list in front of him, though Varric was certain that only meant he had more letters for them to look over later. “Belief is a powerful motivator, especially if one can leverage it to serve their economy smartly.”

“Are you implying that the prince is cheating his own people?” Varric asked. 

“Perhaps not directly, but I don’t doubt the boom in their population contributed significantly to the sale of Starkhaven-sealed Andrastian idols,” Bran said. “It seems they’ve tripled the treasury.”

“Shit. Maybe we should get into that line of business,” Varric said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 

“Quite the heretical notion from a former member of the Inquisition,” Bran said.

“Take the joke. Just don’t tell Cassandra,” Varric said with a laugh. “I’m sure she’d love an excuse to harass me again.”

Bran almost smiled at that. He opened his mouth and everything. But the sound of splintering wood broke through the rain and thunder. The carriage lurched to a sudden halt, nearly knocking Varric out of his seat and into Bran’s lap. A hiss shot through the air and ended with a heavy thunk. Varric’s eyes followed the sound to an arrow embedded on the floor of the carriage below his feet. Without a thought, he grabbed one of the thick books beside him and held it above his head, just in time for an arrow to sink into its leatherbound cover.

“Bran! Get out of the carriage and–” Another arrow tore through the roof above and landed in the top of the seneschal’s skull. Bran fell to the side limply, his body crumpled unnervingly. Varric swore under his breath and tossed the book aside to scoop up Bianca instead, silently praying that his timing wasn’t entirely off as he kicked the door open. His feet hit the ground as a dozen arrows came crashing down into the carriage.

He was met with immediate chaos. The driver of his carriage hung over the side of his bench, blood mingling in the puddles of water on the ground below. Miraculously untouched, the horses squealed and screamed in their panic, shifting nervously and dragging the carriage from side to side as they did. They were somewhere along the more narrow parts of the pathway, with a steep cliff on one side and a tall hill beside them. No doubt the assailants were on that hill; it didn’t take a genius to figure out that this couldn’t have been a random bandit attack—the arrows were clearly aiming for a specific target.

“Protect the viscount! Protect the viscount!” A guard called out as he ran toward the carriage.

“Hang on! They’re about to fire again!” Varric called to him, but it was no use. Arrows fell down from above, almost hidden among the heavy rainfall and several plummeted into the guard’s body, knocking him off balance and right over the cliff’s edge. Varric waited until the last arrow hit the ground beside him before he pulled back Bianca’s string and stepped out long enough to catch sight of an archer in the middle of fitting a new arrow.

“Gotcha, you son of a bitch,” he said and fired. The bolt found its target with ease, piercing through whatever armor the man had been wearing and throwing him backward. Varric fired twice more and two more bodies fell, and he ducked just in time to narrowly avoid the arrows flying for his head. 

“Varric!” Aveline’s voice managed to cut through the storm and fight both as she rushed toward him. With her shield held up high, the arrows that came for her hit the ornate Orlesian-made steel instead and fell to the ground uselessly. A swing from her sword freed the horses still attached to the carriage and they ran away in a panic. She dropped down next to Varric and kept her shield aloft. “You’re unhurt,” she said, breathlessly. “Bran—”

“Didn’t make it. Bastards got him,” Varric cut her off. “Flynn?” A pause, then, “Anders?”

“They’re fine. I left the rest of my men with them, but they’re not the target,” she said, unnecessarily. 

Varric swore under his breath, but neither had any more opportunity to talk. A shrill horn blast echoed from the ridge above—then everything changed. The next volley didn’t come from bows. It came from the sky.

A crack of unnatural magic tore through the air like the storm itself had split open. Aveline raised her shield instinctively as a streak of green-blue energy slammed into the center of the road, striking just shy of the prisoner wagon. The carriage exploded into splinters, a fireball of wood, canvas, and metal. Varric threw himself aside, hitting the ground hard as the shockwave surged outward.

His ears rang. His head spun. He blinked through smoke and rain, chest heaving as he struggled to focus. Aveline was still upright, crouched behind her shield, the metal warped and steaming. Her armor sizzled where the blast had touched it, and a gash ran down the side of her face. She staggered toward him, lips moving—saying something—but he couldn’t hear a word.

And then it hit.

A second wave—colder, deeper. It didn’t burn or blast. It washed. A wave of magic so vast it seemed to flatten the very air around them. It rolled out from the shattered cage, unseen but overwhelming, pressing down on Varric’s chest like a boulder.

His vision blurred.

Aveline reached for him.

And then everything went black.

When Varric opened his eyes, it was still raining.

The storm had eased, the wind no longer howling, but the rain continued to fall in a steady curtain over the ruins of the road. His back ached. His coat was soaked. Every breath came with effort. He pushed himself upright slowly, pain flaring in his ribs, and looked around.

There were bodies everywhere.

The guards were dead—every one of them—but so were the attackers. Strewn across the road and hillside like broken puppets, blood mixing with mud in deep red pools. Horses lay in twisted heaps. The carriage was gone entirely, reduced to smoldering debris.

Aveline stirred a few feet away, groaning as she rolled onto her side, and Varric’s muscles screamed as he crawled to her.

“You alive?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“Barely,” she muttered, pulling herself up with effort. Her shield was gone, and one arm hung useless at her side. She winced as she looked around. “What in the Maker’s name happened?”

“Something went very, very wrong.” Varric’s eyes moved to the spot where the prisoner wagon had once stood. All that remained was the twisted wreckage of the cage. Chains lay snapped in the mud like ribbons. The iron bars had bent outward.

Flynn was nowhere in sight. Neither was Anders.

“Shit,” Varric whispered.

Aveline followed his gaze. Her jaw tightened. “We need to find him,” she said.

Varric didn’t argue. “Yeah. We do.”

She stood slowly, grimacing through the pain. “If he did this, there’s no telling what he’ll be capable of when he’s had time to rest.”

“You don’t have to convince me, Aveline,” Varric said, snapping ever so slightly. He lifted Bianca up gingerly, eyes trailing over her wood frame to ensure the damage was only surface level. “Come on. We need to get a move on.”

A beat passed. They didn’t look at each other, but they understood.

Without another word, they started walking.

Chapter Text

Hawke stood at the threshold of the lone door floating in that vast emptiness, his hand pressed against age-worn wood. A soft orange light glowed from the seams of the frame, far too inviting for anything in the Fade. He hesitated only for a moment, only after an ethereal voice whispered turn back—a warning, or perhaps just another trick of this realm—but he scoffed under his breath. He’d come too far to shy away now. As easily as the door could be a trap, so could the disembodied voice. Either way, the door was the first sign of hope he’d seen in hours of wandering his Maker-forsaken nightmare. Hawke wasn’t about to squander it over maybes and what-ifs. 

Still, his heart hammered in his chest. How long had it been since Skyhold’s courtyard, since the moment he’d made the choice to help the Inquisition? It felt like only a handful of hours since he’d shoved the Inquisitor through the portal to safety and turned to face the Nightmare demon himself. Hours since the Fade had closed around him, stranding him in darkness. Hours, and yet an eternity. The Fade played tricks with time and memory; each step felt endless, each heartbeat too loud in the silence. 

His fingers curled around the door’s iron handle. Anders… The name surface unbidden, a half-formed prayer on his lips. He clenched his jaw. I’m coming back. He had promised, after all, on the last night he’d seen Anders. The last night they spent together, the weeks leading up to then. The memories flooded in, vivid as life.

They had fled Kirkwall under moonlight and panic, just ahead of the templars’ wrath. In those first fevered weeks after the Chantry’s destruction, Hawke and Anders lived moment to moment. They slept in stables and abandoned huts, never the same place twice, always with one eye open. The world was in chaos—the Circles rebelling, the Chantry outraged—and in every tavern whispers carried tales of the “Terrorist Mage” and the Champion who’d aided him. Even in remote corners of the Free Marches, the Chantry’s agents and Starkhaven’s bounty hunters sniffed at their heels. So they became nobody; a pair of anonymous apostates on the road, hiding in plain sight.

Hawke remembered one rainy evening in a cramped barn outside Ostwick, straw itching at his neck as he lay beside Anders in the dark. They’d taken refuge there after traveling all day under assumed names—Adam and Henri, that time, laughably bland. Anders smirked when Hawke introduced them to a farmer with those aliases, amused that the best Hawke could come up with on such short notice was calling himself Henri. 

“Too many Orlesian romance novels, love?” Anders had teased later. 

Hawke waggled his brows and replied, “Would you prefer Octavius? I could wear a feathered hat.”

Anders’s laugh then had been quiet, a rare flicker of light in the gloom, and for a moment they’d almost felt like two carefree travelers instead of fugitives.

But that rainy night in the barn, Anders couldn’t sleep. Hawke woke to find him sitting up, lean shoulders hunched and fingers worrying the pouches of lyrium potions at his belt. A slit of moonlight through the boards illuminated Anders’s face—drawn and haunted, golden hair hanging loose around eyes ringed with exhaustion. He was whispering to himself—or rather, to someone unseen. Hawke recognized the cadence instantly; Anders was arguing with Justice again. The spirit’s presence was growing, pressing against Anders’s mind more fiercely by the day.

“Anders?” Hawke said quietly, reaching out to rest a hand on Anders’s back. He could feel the tension coiled in those muscles, a tremor just beneath the surface. Anders flinched at the touch, his eyes snapping to Hawke’s. In the dim light, they glowed faintly blue.

Hawke’s voice stayed gentle. “Hey. It’s just me.”

Anders’s lips parted, the light in his eyes sputtering out as he forced a shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, familiar guilt turning his voice rough. “Did I wake you?”

“I’ve slept through Varric’s singing—this is nothing,” Hawke replied softly, a lopsided grin on his face. He tried humor before anything else. Jokes had always been easier than addressing the dread curling in his belly. Reaching up, he brushed a strand of Anders’s hair back behind his ear. “Besides, your sleep-talking is quite charming. Though if you start taking Justice’s side and bad-mouth my cooking, we might have a problem.”

Anders huffed a weak breath of laughter and leaned into Hawke’s touch. “He’s restless tonight,” he admitted. “I… I keep telling him to be quiet, but all this…” Anders gestured vaguely at the barn, the rain, their pitiful hiding spot. “It agitates him. He knows we’re being hunted. He thinks—” Anders’s voice caught. “There’s more we should be doing. That… that I should be doing. And that I’m only putting you in danger by staying with you. He thinks I should leave.”

Hawke felt a spike of anger at that. Not at Anders, never at him, but at the spirit that dared suggest tearing them apart. Maker, give me patience. “Justice is a nag,” Hawke said firmly. He shifted, sitting up fully so he could look Anders in the eye. “The day I let some glowy parasite tell me what risks to take will be the day Varric grows a foot taller. I’m exactly where I want to be.”

A flash of blue pulsed in Anders’s eyes—an objection from Justice, no doubt—but Anders blinked it away and closed his eyes. Rain drummed on the roof, and for a moment neither spoke. Hawke could see Anders’s jaw trembling as he fought for control. Gently, Hawke cupped the side of Anders’s face, feeling the dampness of half-shed tears on his cheek. Anders leaned into the palm of his hand as though it were a lifeline.

“I’m right here,” Hawke murmured. “I’m not going anywhere without you. We promised, remember? Whatever comes, we face it together.”

Anders nodded faintly. In the dark, he reached up and covered Hawke’s hand with his own. His grip was cold and desperate. “I remember,” he said. “I just wish I hadn’t brought this upon you. If it weren’t for me—”

“If it weren’t for you, I’d be twiddling my thumbs in Kirkwall waiting for the next disaster. Face it: you make my life interesting.” Hawke offered him a crooked grin. “Some men get a dog when they want excitement. I got a sexy mage with a possibly insane spirit in his head. Lucky me.”

Anders choked out a laugh—real this time—and in it Hawke found warmth. Without another word, he reached for Anders again. His hand found Anders’s, their fingers brushing before linking together, knuckles brushing hay and worn wool. Anders squeezed back, not hard, but with purpose. A reassurance. A request. Maybe both. 

“I hate this,” Anders murmured into the dark. “Hiding. Running. Watching you sleep with one eye open because of me.” He didn’t pull away, but there was a rawness to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “I feel like I’m poisoning everything I touch.”

“You’re not,” Hawke said softly. “You’ve saved more lives than you’ve ruined, and you’re not done yet. You’re not a poison—you’re a storm. And sometimes storms knock down a few walls.”

Anders gave a bitter chuckle. “And sometimes they drown villages.”

“Well,” Hawke murmured, leaning in to brush his lips against Anders’s temple, “we’re not a village. We’re a stubborn apostate and a half-mad revolutionary. I like our odds.”

Anders turned then, slowly, like the motion cost him. He shifted just enough to meet Hawke’s eyes, his voice dry as he said, “You… always know what to say.”

“No,” Hawke said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “I just mean it when I say I love you.”

Something flickered across Anders’s face—startled, fragile. His gaze softened as he reached up to touch Hawke’s cheek. His palm was warm now, and steady. His thumb traced the edge of Hawke’s jaw like he was memorizing it. 

There was no urgency in what followed. No frantic tug of clothes, no breathless rush like there might have been in other stolen moments. This was different. Deliberate. A wordless agreement passed between them in the way Hawke cradled Anders’s face, in the way Anders leaned in and kissed him—not with heat, but with reverence.

They undressed slowly, as if each layer carried weight. Not just of fabric, but of fear and guilt. Of days spent running and night spent wondering when it would all come crashing down around them. Anders’s fingers trembled when he unfastened the last buckle of Hawke’s coat, not from lust, but tenderness. As though he feared the moment would vanish if he moved too fast. Hawke stilled his hands, kissed the corner of his mouth, and let him take his time.

The barn around them smelled of straw and rain-soaked earth. Not ideal, but real. Wind whispered through the old boards and the storm outside softened into a steady, rhythmic tapping on the roof. The world felt distant then, washed away in the hush of the moment.

When they lay back down together, skin to skin, the warmth of it was nearly startling. Not just the heat of bare flesh, but of safety. Anders’s breath hitched as Hawke pressed a kiss to his collarbone, then another to the soft hollow of his throat. His hands roamed slowly, reverently, as though reacquainting himself with every scar, every shiver.

Anders touched him like he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to, as if Hawke might vanish with the next breath. And Hawke, in turn, guided his hands with a gentle sort of confidence that betrayed every ounce of love he carried for the man.

Their bodies moved together with quiet precision, each motion more an act of reassurance than desire. There was a rhythm to it, soft and steady, as if they were matching the beat of the rain. No rush. No need to prove anything. Just two men anchoring themselves in their love for each other.

Anders buried his face in the crook of Hawke’s neck, whispering his name like a confession. And when he trembled—when the wall finally cracked and a sound caught in his throat—Hawke held him tighter and murmured, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

It wasn’t perfect. The hay scratched at their knees. They laughed when Hawke slipped forward and nearly toppled them both into a much dirtier pile of hay. The air was cool and smelled of damp wood and livestock. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

When it was over, they didn’t separate. They stayed pressed together in the quiet, tangled limbs and shared breath. Anders’s eyes were glassy with unshed tears, but his shoulders no longer shook. Hawke kissed his temple, his hair, the edge of his brow, and felt him finally, finally, relax.

“I needed that,” Anders whispered. 

Hawke’s voice was rough with emotion. “So did I.”

And in whatever fragile space of time they had between satisfied exhaustion and sleep, it was each to believe—to hope, perhaps—that the world could wait.

But the world couldn’t wait. There were more close calls; a squad of templars nearly cornered them outside Ansburg; a bounty hunter with a Starkhaven accent recognized Hawke in a crowded market in Wycome, forcing a midnight flight into the woods. Through it all, Hawke’s wit never wavered—he taunted their pursuers when he could, kept Anders smiling when all he wanted was to collapse under sorrow’s weight. In rare moments of safety, they snatched happiness wherever they found it. A stolen kiss beside a pilgrimage shrine on the coast. Laughing together as they stumbled through adopting new personas in each town (Anders nearly blew one cover story by responding to “Adrian” too slowly, and Hawke had loudly scolded “my idiot brother” until the curious guards moved on). Little fragments of normalcy in a life on the run.

Bittersweet, every one, because always, Justice’s shadow loomed. No matter how freely Anders laughed or how tenderly he kissed Hawke under the stars, sooner or later his eyes would take on that otherworldly glow, and his voice would harden with some grim pronouncement. As the months wore on, those moments grew more frequent. Too frequent. Justice was destabilizing, turning to vengeance with no outlet but Anders’s own body. More than once Hawke had awoken to Anders shouting in his sleep, radiating blue light, only to watch him crumple into anguished apologies moments later. It was as though Anders was a glass filling up with raw lyrium energy, inch by inch, and any day now Hawke feared he would overflow and shatter.

They sought help wherever they could. A desperate trek into the Frostback Mountains to find a reputed Dalish healer—the elder knew much of spirits and warned them somberly that to sever a spirit bound so tightly would almost certainly kill the man bound to it. Anders had stood there in the firelight of the Dalish camp, shoulders squared as if to take a blow, hearing that. Hawke remembered reaching for Anders’s hand, lacing their fingers together as if sheer resolve could change this truth. The healer offered an alternative—some ancient Dalish ritual to calm a vengeful spirit—but it required years of preparation and rare ingredients scattered across Thedas. Time they didn’t have, and resources certain to be burned by the brewing war. 

After they left the Dalish, Anders had been silent for a long time. When they made camp that night, he finally spoke in a low, hollow voice. 

“It might come down to a choice. Me or him.” He didn’t need to clarify who he meant. Anders’s eyes stayed fixed on the campfire. “If… if Justice goes too far, if I become a monster, I need you to promise me, Hawke—”

“We will find another way,” Hawke insisted, outright refusing to entertain what Anders was sure to ask of him. Anders flinched slightly at the sharpness of Hawke’s tone, and Hawke reached forward to grip him by the shoulders. “I’m not losing you. And I’m sure as void not letting Sebastian Vael be proven right.” The mention of the zealous prince only made Anders flinch more obviously, and Hawke gentled his tone. “Anders, listen. You’re not a monster. You won’t become a monster. Not on my watch.” 

In the end, he never promised to strike Anders down; instead he promised, fiercely, to save him. Anders had nodded, not truly reassured but too exhausted to argue further. They’d held each other long that night, neither admitting aloud that the solutions were dwindling. 

In time, that bleak acceptance turned into renewed determination. If ancient Dalish lore couldn’t help, maybe someone else could. They quietly sought out maleficarum and scholars, anyone who dabbled in spirits. Dead ends and false leads, one after another. The stress took its toll—Anders grew gaunt from sleepless nights and constant worry, and Hawke himself bore new scars from skirmishes with those who tried to claim the hefty bounty on Anders’s head. Yet they persevered, buoyed by the simple fact that they still had each other.

Then came word of the Inquisition in the south, of Corypheus and a tear in the sky. Varric’s letters found them eventually, urging Hawke to come to Skyhold—that Thedas itself hung in the balance and Hawke’s Grey Warden contacts were needed. Hawke had been of two minds: how could he leave Anders even for a moment, given Anders’s precarious state? But how could he refuse a plea to stop an even greater catastrophe? Anders solved the dilemma for him. “You have to go,” he said, clutching Hawke’s hands so tightly it hurt. “The world needs you. I… I’ll only slow you down in that fight.” Anders had tried to smile then, ever self-sacrificing. “Besides, someone has to stay behind and not get thrown into another damned Fade rift, and I volunteer as tribute.” The joke had been weak, but Hawke loved him for it. They both knew the danger—Corypheus, the Wardens, everything. And Anders knew that walking into the Inquisition’s reach could be fatal for him if his identity were discovered. So Hawke agreed, reluctantly, to go without him. Just for a while.

Their parting was the hardest thing Hawke had ever done. It was on the outskirts of Ferelden, by a half-ruined waystation on the Imperial Highway. A light rain had been falling, misting Anders’s hair as he pulled Hawke into a final embrace. Every instinct in Hawke screamed not to let go.

He remembered the way Anders’s voice shook when he whispered in Hawke’s ear, “Come back to me, love. Don’t you dare do anything heroic like… like getting yourself killed.” The laugh that accompanied the words was brittle.

Hawke forced a breezy tone he did not feel, brushing his thumb across Anders’s cheek. “Me? Heroic? I think you’re confusing me with some other dashing mage.” He pressed his forehead to Anders’s, allowing a more serious promise to slip through the cracks of his wit. “I will come back. I swear it, on the Maker, on Andraste, on Varric’s unwritten smut chronicles—whatever keeps you believing it. My oath, I’ll be with you again soon.”

Anders had closed his eyes, a tear escaping despite himself. “I’ll hold you to that.” He reached into the pocket of his coat then and surprised Hawke by pressing something into his hand: a small token, a wooden carving of a mabari hound that Anders had whittled during one of their quieter nights. It was smooth and warm from Anders’s touch.

“So you don’t forget what’s waiting for you,” Anders had said, attempting a smile. That had almost broken Hawke’s composure; he’d pulled Anders into a fierce kiss, pouring every ounce of love and reassurance he could into it. When they finally parted, Anders’s honey-brown eyes were shining with trust and worry in equal measure. Hawke lingered until the very last second, their fingers slipping apart only when distance forced it. He’d glanced back a dozen times as he walked away, each time seeing Anders standing there in the drizzle, watching him go.

Hawke blinked, his eyes stinging sharply. The Fade’s empty air offered no cool mist to excuse the tears threatening to fall. He scrubbed a hand over his face, cursing himself under his breath. Here he was, wallowing in memories, when the man from those memories was still out there—very likely in peril, and certainly thinking Hawke dead by now. 

“Come on, now, no time for this,” he muttered to himself. “Keep it together, Garrett.” He’d survived this long in the Fade by sheer will; he wouldn’t fail now. Not when a chance, however slim, lay literally at hand.

His resolve hardened anew, and whatever this mysterious door represented—trap or escape—he would face it. If there was even a chance of hope that it could lead back to Thedas, back to Anders, then Hawke would take it. And if it was a trap… well, any demon waiting on the other side was about to meet an exceptionally stubborn human.

“No turning back now,” he muttered, more to the unseen voice than to himself this time. With a final, steadying breath, he pushed the door open and stepped through.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but a flash of blinding light and a sensation of falling forward. Hawke threw up an arm to shield his eyes, but it was the air that felt truly… different. Warmer. There was a scent to it that he hadn’t smelled in what felt like ages. Woodsmoke, and something cooking. His boots found purchase on solid ground—on wooden floorboards, no less. Slowly, Hawke lowered his arm and took in his surroundings.

He stood in the center of a cozy, firelit room. It was a small cottage of some sort, with log walls and an inviting hearth crackling with flame. A kettle hung over the fire, emitting gentle tendrils of steam and the savory smell of stew. On a worn oak table nearby sat two bowls and a loaf of crusty bread, as if set for supper. The details were achingly mundane and homey; a shelf of books against one wall, a well-loved green couch draped with a knitted blanket, an open window revealing a golden evening sky outside. It was the kind of tranquility that Hawke sometimes dared to imagine on the more difficult nights—a snug little cottage, far away from any Circle or Chantry, where he and Anders could be safe and together.

Of course, it was this very thing that put every one of Hawke’s nerves on edge. This was simply too perfect. The Fade must have shaped this space to disarm him, whether by dredging from his own desires or through some deliberate demon’s craft. Hawke’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the room warily, expecting a horned silhouette to leap at him from a corner or a sly whisper to curl around his mind. But nothing so overt happened. The cottage remained still, peaceful and quiet save for the crackling fire.

Hawke’s eyes were drawn to the mantle above the hearth, where a framed sketch sat front and center. He edged closer, careful not to let his guard down, and peered at it. Instantly, his chest constricted. The sketch depicted two figures in charcoal—himself and Anders, sitting on that very couch by the fire, tangled up in each other and laughing. He recognized the scene; it was drawn from memory, one of their rare carefree moments months ago in Kirkwall, before the world turned upside down.

Hawke felt a pang behind his ribs. He had no such sketch in real life, of course, but if he could have drawn his happiest memory… well, it would be exactly this.

“Enjoying the view?” 

The voice was immediately familiar. Hawke whirled, pulse jolting. He knew that voice better than any other, and there he was: Anders, standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame with arms crossed and a familiar crooked grin on his lips. He looked solid, real—absurdly so. He wore a simple patched shirt and trousers, his blond hair fell loose to his shoulders, clean and gleaming in the firelight. There was no staff on his back. No mage coat or any trappings of war. No tension. Anders looked… at peace.

For a fraction of a second, Hawke’s heart leapt and he almost surged forward before cold sense stopped him. This couldn’t be Anders. Anders was not here—Anders was never in the Fade if he could help it; he hated the Fade. Only Justice would be here, and Hawke knew, logically, that he could not have escaped so easily. The door didn’t lead out of the Fade. It led deeper into its snare.

All of this he knew, and yet seeing Anders… unharmed, smiling, whole. It made Hawke’s defenses wobble. His voice came out in a husky gasp as he choked out, “Anders?”

The figure pushed off the door frame and stepped closer. Those honey-brown eyes regarded Hawke with such fondness that it physically hurt. “Who else?” he replied, with a lightness Anders had lost years ago. “Supper’s almost ready. You must be starving.”

Starving. Hawke suddenly realized how long it had been since he’d eaten anything at all. The stew smelled divine—lamb and potato, maybe a hint of elfroot spice the way Anders used to season it. His mouth watered, and he had to steel himself anew. Hunger, comfort, love—every basic want was being catered to in this illusion. It was almost painfully obvious now. A Desire Demon was at work.

Hawke’s hand slid instinctively to his side, where normally he’d rest it on the pommel of a dagger. With his staff shattered, he only had a small belt knife at the moment, which wouldn’t do much to a desire demon except buy him a few seconds before getting ripped apart.

“This is a neat little scene,” he said, forcing a breezy tone even as his throat tightened. “Cozy fire, home-cooked meal… and my very own apostate house-husband! I have to say, whoever set this up really did their research.”

“Anders” tilted his head in a perfect imitation of confusion. “What are you talking about? It’s me, Hawke.” He chuckled softly and took another step forward, reaching a hand out. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

Hawke did not step back, but neither did he accept the offered hand. Maker, the way this thing moved, spoke, smiled—it was all so precise. If Hawke hadn’t been on guard, he might have been fooled, at least for a moment. His chest ached with the temptation to grab that hand, to pull this mirage into an embrace and pretend it was real. But the real Anders was waiting for him beyond the Fade, not here in some demon’s dollhouse.

“I’ve seen plenty of ghosts. You’re a bit too solid for that,” Hawke said, lifting his chin and quirking an eyebrow. He mustered a smirk, masking the turmoil roiling inside. “Credit where it’s due: you almost had me. The stew was a brilliant touch. And the sketch—really tugging the heartstrings there. Is this where I applaud?”

The imposter’s expression flickered ever so slightly. The smile remained, but something cold glinted in those borrowed brown eyes now. “Hawke, it’s me,” he insisted, voice gentle but with an undercurrent that rang false. “You’re safe . You don’t have to keep fighting. Stay, rest.” He stepped closer again, now only an arm’s reach away. His hand hovered, then settled lightly on Hawke’s forearm. The weight and warmth felt exactly like Anders. “I’ve missed you,” the fake Anders continued, eyes searching Hawke’s. “Isn’t this what you want? Me, you… a life together without anyone hunting us? We’re free, love. Truly free. No Chantry, no Circle, no Inquisition. Just… us.”

Hawke’s throat tightened further. Hearing Anders call him love again in that familiar timbre… Maker, it took every ounce of will not to close his eyes and accept the fantasy. For a moment he stood there, jaw tight, staring into the face of everything he desired most. The fake Anders—Fanders?—gaze back with a look of such open affection that Hawke felt himself teetering on the edge of grief. This was the dream he’d clung to on lonely nights. Anders safe, smiling, whole, himself. How many times had he wished they could simply disappear to a cottage somewhere and live out their days in peace?

Too many times. But wishing didn’t make it reality, and the reality, harsh and unyielding as it was, was that the man in front of him was not Anders at all.

Hawke lowered his gaze to the hand on his forearm. Gently, he lifted it away as if removing a delicate cuff, and released it. “What I want,” he began, voice calm but steeled, “isn’t something a demon can give me.” He looked back up and allowed a touch of sorrow to temper his wry smile. “Nice try, though. Really. You got the eyes right, too! Soft around the edges and everything. But you overplayed your hand.”

The fake Anders—honestly, Fanders sounds a bit like what you might call a fart—blinked. “I… I don’t understand.” There was a subtle shift in the voice now, a resonance beneath the surface, like two tones speaking at once.

Hawke crossed his arms loosely, affecting a casual stance. “Oh, where to start? First of all, Anders never called me ‘love’ this early in the evening. He’d make me suffer through at least one bad joke or a self-deprecating rant before trotting out the sweet talk.” Hawke tapped his chin in mock thought. “And this stew? Smells wonderful. But Anders, decent cook though he is, always puts too much sage in his lamb stew. Drove me to drink water by the gallon. Probably his plan all along, actually.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Details, details.”

The demon’s eyes flashed. For an instant, a sultry amber light glowed beneath the borrowed brown. The charade was cracking. “And here I thought you’d be difficult,” Hawke continued, sighing in feigned disappointment as he chipped away at the cracks. “I mean, sure, you did your homework. Pulled memories from my head, set the stage. But any Fade denizen worth their salt ought to know by now: I have trust issues.” He gave a humorless chuckle, then his tone hardened slightly. “Now, do you drop the disguise willingly, or do I have to start a lover’s quarrel to break the illusion? Because believe me, I’ve had practice.”

That did it. Anders’s form rippled like a reflection on disturbed water. For a breath, Hawke watched as Anders’s face faltered—his warm features stretched into something gaunt and alien, both like and unlike the man he loved. Then the figure stepped back, and with a sound like a sigh, the entire illusion fell away. The cozy cabin, the smells of supper, the firelight—all of it dissolved into wisps of Fade energy. Hawke blinked, adjusting as the environment returned to the familiar green-tinged gloom of the Fade’s raw landscape. The door he’d stepped through still stood behind him, now open to empty air. The cottage had been no more than a bubble of a dream.

Where “Anders” had stood now loomed a different shape: tall, lithe, and unmistakably demonic. She (and the figure was recognizably feminine in form) towered a head above Hawke. Her skin was a deep azure hue, patterns of elegant violet light shimmering beneath it. A pair of twisting horns crowned her brow, framing a face both beautiful and fearsome—sharp cheekbones, almond eyes glowing with a golden allure, lips curled in a perturbed pout. She was clad in gauzy silks that left little of her sinuous form to the imagination, the fabrics shifting as if in an unfelt breeze. A Desire Demon, in all her terrible allure, stood before him.

Hawke let out a low whistle despite himself. “And I thought I’d seen all the fashion the Fade has to offer. Blue really is your color.” He kept his stance relaxed even as his pulse quickened. Desire demons could be deadly foes, to say the least. Masters of manipulation and more than capable of ripping a man apart once seduction failed. He had no staff and very little mana reserves left; a direct duel would almost certainly end poorly. But she hadn’t attacked yet. In fact, she regarded him with a curious tilt of her head rather than rage.

When next she spoke, the voice she used still held lingering hints of the one she’d tried to use against him just moments ago, now layered with a throaty echo. “You are an interesting one, Garrett Hawke.” The way she said his name was languid, as if she was savoring the very taste of it. She took a slow step forward, hips swaying, deadly grace in every movement. Her eyes—catlike, unblinking—roved over him from head to toe. “Most mortals would have lost themselves in that little paradise. I crafted it from your own deepest yearnings. It should have been… irresistible.” There was a hint of frustration in her tone, but stronger than that was intrigue.

Hawke made himself shrug lightly. “What can I say? I’ve always been resistant to… commitment.” He smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t take it personally. You had me at the brink for a moment. That’s more than most can claim.”

She narrowed her golden eyes. “But not enough. You are in pain, yet you refuse what I offer. Why?” The demon’s voice softened into silken perplexity. “This place could have given you everything. The man you love, safety, peace. Freedom to live without fear. Is that not what your heart longs for every waking moment?”

Hawke felt a flash of anger at how casually she spoke of it. He lifted his chin slightly. “You’re right. It is what I want—what I want more than anything, actually.” The admission cost him nothing; hiding the obvious from a desire demon was pointless anyway. “But what you offered wasn’t real. It was a lie—a pretty lie, but a lie. And I’m not so far gone that I’d trade reality for a comfortable fantasy.” He paused, then added with a wry twist, “Also, not even trying to use a hint of sarcasm? Dead giveaway you weren’t him. Anders would never let me off that easily.”

The demon’s lips curved into a slow smile. It was strangely genuine, as if she appreciated the humor. “So a false Anders, no matter how perfect, was not enough. How touching. You mortals and your insistence on reality, even when reality is so very cruel.” She began to circle Hawke leisurely. He turned as she moved, keeping her in view at all times, though she didn’t seem poised to strike. It was more like a curious animal studying a new creature in its territory. “Do you know how many mortals would gladly surrender their troubles for a life of bliss, even if it’s a life woven from dreams alone? Why face hardship when one can live in desire fulfilled?” She sounded genuinely curious, as though his very resistance fascinated her.

Hawke let out a short breath, running a hand through his dark hair. Maker, he needed a bath. “Because no matter how convincing that dream was, it wouldn’t be him. It wouldn’t be us.” He fixed the demon with a firm look. “The real Anders is out there. Maybe hurt, maybe on the run, maybe thinking dead. Whatever the case, he needs me. A fake paradise solves nothing—Anders would still be in danger, Justice would still be tearing at him. Nothing changes just because I pretend it has.” He spread his hands in a helpless, almost defiant gesture. “I didn’t throw away my life in Thedas just to play house in the Fade while the people I care about keep suffering. That’s not who I am.”

As the words left his mouth, Hawke felt a steely certainty settle in his bones. Saying it aloud crystalized his resolve: he would find a way back, or at the very least he would not lose himself here. Not to despair, not to hollow temptations. Whatever trials awaited, he would meet them as himself—and nothing less.

The desire demon stopped her circling. They stood facing each other amid the dim, shifting landscape of the Fade. Fragments of what once had been the cottage’s domain drifted around them like fading fireflies. The demon’s gaze lingered on Hawke, and something new kindled in her luminous eyes. Admiration? Hunger? Possibly both.

“You are either remarkably steadfast for a human… or a fool,” she purred. “Perhaps both. Mortals often are.” She stepped a bit closer, and Hawke tensed, but still she made no move to attack. Instead, she lifted one claw-tipped finger and lightly traced an invisible line in the air, as if drawing a picture only she could see. “This Anders… your love for him burns so very brightly. I tasted it in your dreams.” Her tongue curled around the last word with a delight that sent an unsettled shiver down Hawke’s spine. “Such longing, such devotion… such regret. It’s intoxicating.”

Hawke’s skin prickled at her choice of words. “I aim to entertain,” he said dryly. “If you’re quite done feasting on my personal life—”

She laughed, a low musical sound. “Oh, I didn’t feast. If I had, you’d know. No… no, I only sampled the flavor.” Her gaze bored into him, and Hawke felt suddenly as though his soul were slightly less guarded than before, like she could see the hairline fractures in his heart that even he tried to ignore. “It is rare, you know. To find a mortal with a desire so pure and yet so unattainable. A lesser man would have let me ease his burden. But not you.”

There was no malice in her face now, only intense interest. Hawke realized with a mix of relief and caution that, for whatever reason, the demon wasn’t attacking. If anything, she looked intrigued to the point of distraction—like a cat that had found a new toy it couldn’t quite figure out. He wasn’t sure how long that would last, but talking was preferable to trading blows, given his current situation. And if there was anything Hawke was good at, it certainly was talking.

“Unattainable? Now hold on,” Hawke objected, raising an eyebrow in dramatic fashion. “I fully intend to attain it, thank you very much. Just because I haven’t yet doesn’t mean I won’t.” He injected confidence into his tone that he didn’t entirely feel, but that didn’t really matter. “I’ll get out of here, find Anders, and make that lovely little retirement dream a reality. Might take a bit of doing, but I’ve never shied from hard work.”

The demon’s smile widened, showing a hint of sharp teeth. “Such brave words from a man lost in the Fade with no way home.” She leaned in slightly, as if to share a secret. “The truth, my dear, sweet mortal, is that even if you escape this place, the life you want will forever elude you. The world beyond is cruel. Your beloved is tormented by a spirit he invited and cannot control. The Chantry and others hunt him to the ends of existence. And you… you are but one man, however exceptional, against the tides of events set in motion.” She shrugged one elegant shoulder. “The odds are… not favorable, I’m afraid.”

Nothing she said was anything he hadn’t already told himself in his darkest moments, yet still Hawke’s heart lurched in his chest. He’d been fighting against exactly those truths, bound and determined to simply will a happier ending into existence. It was possible she was right; perhaps he and Anders were doomed to tragedy. But he refused to accept that outright.

He flashed a grin that was almost convincing, though it felt a bit tight. “If I loved long odds, I’d take up playing diamondback with Isabella’s cheating crew. You can’t fault me for wanting the real thing. If you truly plucked through my desires, you know Anders and I aren’t interested in illusions and hiding from the world. Not for a lack of trying, of course.” He gave a small but heavy sigh. “He wouldn’t have been satisfied in that dollhouse you made. Not really. And neither would I. We don’t need a fake paradise handed to us—we need a fighting chance to earn a real one.”

His words hung in the glowing haze. The demon regarded him with an unreadable expression. Slowly, she nodded, as if coming to a decision. “A fighting chance… How very mortal.” There was almost a touch of fondness in her tone. “I can see why Fear and Pride find your kind so delectable. You all refuse to accept what you cannot control.”

“I’d consider that a compliment if it wasn’t so ominous,” Hawke muttered.

Her eyes drifted past Hawke for a moment, toward the emptiness beyond the door that led him to her. “I offered you comfort, and you refused. If I were Rage, I’d strike you down for spurning me. If I were Pride, I’d scoff and vanish to let you rot in your stubbornness.” Her gaze snapped back to him abruptly, and a slow smile curved her lips, sharp as a knife. “But I am Desire. And my, my… you, Garrett Hawke, have piqued mine.”

An involuntary flush crept up Hawke’s neck, and he cleared his throat. “Flattered,” he drawled cautiously. “But you’re not exactly my type.” He waggled two fingers in the vicinity of her horns. “No offense. Love what you’ve done with the hair, though.”

She laughed again, genuinely amused. “I don’t desire you in that way, foolish man. What I desire is to see this through. To witness this devotion that burns in you… to see whether it truly can defy the Fade and fate itself.” She took a step back, her form gliding with eerie grace as she began to pace slowly. “Color me curious. How far will you go for love, I wonder? Far enough to resist every temptation? Far enough to challenge anyone—anything—that stands between you and him?” She hummed low in her throat, her eyes half-lidded as if imagining the taste of that outcome. “Your loyalty is positively delicious. I suspect the moment you reunite with your Anders—should such a moment come—will be a feast beyond measure. The relief, the joy…” She shivered in delight.

Hawke felt a sting of possessive anger at the idea of this demon treating his reunion with Anders as some anticipated meal. He squared his shoulders. “I’m not interested in being your entertainment. Or your food.”

“Too late,” she purred, hand trailing seductively down her chest until it settled at her side. “You’ve already entertained me. And you carry such mouth-watering emotions. I could no more ignore you now than a bee could ignore a field of jasmine in bloom.” She grinned, mischief lighting her eyes. “Fret not, mage. If I wanted to drain you dry, I would have done so when you were lost in reverie at my hearth.”

He hated that she had a point. If she’d meant him real harm, she likely could have struck while he was briefly disoriented by the illusion. Instead, she’d chosen to talk. To study him. It was an odd thing, and Hawke wasn’t entirely sure he was better off for it, but at least he still drew breath.

“So… what now?” Hawke asked warily. “You decide to let me go out of scholarly interest? Or are you planning to tag along for a front-row seat to the Hawke Defies Fate Again and Makes A Dashing Escape Show?” He delivered it flippantly, but the suggestion was half serious. Demons rarely just “let you go” without strings attached.

But her smile became a sharp, dazzling thing. “Why, I believe I will accompany you.”

Hawke had been joking—mostly. He blinked. “You… pardon?”

She inclined her head graciously, as if he’d offered her a formal invitation rather than a sarcastic comment. “I have decided that I wish to see more. Consider it a… research project. You, dear Hawke, are a rare specimen of loyalty and longing. Instead of making you another thrall or devouring you, I think I’d rather like to keep you and see what becomes of this lovely devotion of yours.”

He stared at her, momentarily at a loss for words. Of all the outcomes he had imagined, a desire demon sidekick was not one of them. “That… sounds dangerously close to altruism,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “What’s in it for you, exactly? You expect me to believe you’re helping me out of the goodness of your heart? If you have one, that is.”

The demon gave a light shrug. “Call it a gamble. If you succeed and find your beloved, I shall have the privilege of savoring the euphoria that pours off you both. The love reunited, the desire fulfilled—it will be a banquet of emotion beyond anything a conjured fantasy could provide.” Her tongue flicked over her lips, as if already tasting it. “And if you fail…” She watched him with cat-like intensity, stretching the pause out far too long for his comfort. “Well, if your hope falters, if despair or desperation take hold, I’ll be there to catch you then too. Either way, I win. So why would I not help keep you going a little longer?”

Hawke felt a chill rush up his spine at her casual assessment of his possible failure. Trust a demon to hedge all bets in her favor. It was clear she saw him as nothing more than an investment—a source of future sustenance, whether that be joy or despair. He didn’t appreciate being viewed as a walking feast, but he also recognized the pragmatism behind her words. She intended no immediate harm because either outcome of his journey would feed her eventually.

“That’s quite… comforting, actually,” he said, voice wry. “And here I was worried you’d be self-serving.”

She gave him a sly grin that crinkled the corners of her eyes. Despite himself, Hawke noted again how oddly human some of her expressions were—likely deliberate, an echo of all the mortals she had tempted over time. “Think of me as an interested patron. That I am sponsoring your little expedition through the Fade.” She extended a clawed hand to him as if to shake on it, a parody of a gentleman’s agreement. “You continue being fascinating and I shall continue not killing you. I may even render aid, if it suits me.”

Hawke eyed the offered hand, the nails ending in find points, each extremely capable of flensing flesh with ease. “And what’s to stop me from saying ‘no thanks’ and walking out of here alone?”

She chuckled. “Walk where, exactly? You have no idea how to navigate the paths of the Fade. Without guidance, you’ll wander until something far less congenial than I finds you. The next demon might not ask nicely before cracking your skull open like an egg.” Her offered hand remained, steady and confident. “Besides, I suspect you know that a guide would be useful. I have been here a long, long time. I know routes, I know hiding places. And I know how to avoid attracting the attention of things you cannot hope to defeat in your current state.” Her eyes flicked pointedly to the emptiness where his staff should be.

It irked Hawke that she was right on all counts. He was thoroughly lost. He’d stumbled on this door by chance. Without his staff, and with fatigue dogging his every step, his odds of surviving a trek alone were dim. And like it or not, a demon—especially one of desire—would deter lesser denizens of the Fade. Most would steer clear of her, unless they were truly powerful. She was effectively a walking deterrent.

He hated feeling beholden to a demon’s logic, but pragmatism was something he and Varric often shared—use whatever advantages you have at your disposal. If she truly intended to accompany him, perhaps he could turn the tables and use her. A desire demon would have insight into the Fade’s workings that he lacked. He could learn from her, maybe find an actual escape.

And if she turned on him… well, he’d burn that bridge when it came time to cross it.

Hawke ran his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully. “Alright. Suppose I agree to this partnership of sorts. Do you have a name, or should I keep calling you ‘Desire Demon’? Bit of a mouthful. And it lacks personality, if you ask me.”

Her lips curved in amusement. “Mortals do so love their names. Very well. I have had many, given to me by those who summoned or cursed me… The one you might find most pronounceable is ‘Valtaeva.’” She pronounced it with a rolling lilt. “It will do.”

“Valtaeva,” Hawke repeated, trying it out. The name felt strange in his mouth—ancient and seductive. He inclined his head in a polite half-bow. “Garrett Hawke, though you know that already. Some call me Hawke. I suppose you can too.”

She watched him with a bemused light in her eyes. “A pleasure.” Seeing that Hawke still hadn’t taken her hand, Valtaeva withdrew it without offense and instead made a flourishing gesture of her own. In a blink, the appearance of a long, curved blade materialized in her grasp—a weapon seemingly made of silver and Fade-smoke. Hawke tensed, but she merely examined her claws idly against the gleaming edge.

“Since we are allies of convenience now,” she began casually, “a bit of advice. The realm ahead is quite unstable. The death of that Nightmare sent ripples through the Fade.” Her voice turned mocking for a moment. “You did make quite the splash, Champion.”

Hawke couldn’t help a dry chuckle. “At least someone noticed. Here I thought I’d have to slay a few more horrors to get anyone’s attention.”

Valtaeva smirked. “Trust me, every spirit and demon felt that struggle. Many fled or went into hiding. The Fade is quieter than usual, but it also means paths have shifted.” She pointed the tip of her blade toward the emptiness beyond the ledge. The staircase that had led Hawke here was gone, melted away into the mists. The Fade was like that—places appearing and vanishing. “Where do you intend to go, I wonder? Back the way you came? There is no portal waiting, as you can. The tear that brought you here is closed.”

Hawke’s stomach tightened, but he pushed down the spike of worry. “If there’s no open rift, then I’ll just have to make one,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “The Inquisitor got us in. I’ll find a way out. Maybe an Eluvian, or some other old magic. You said you know this place. Ever hear of mortal souls escaping physically?”

Valtaeva drifted closer to the edge of the platform, peering into the swirling void around them. “Rarely. Very rarely. But it is not impossible.” She glanced back at him, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Your presence here is unusual in itself—so solid. You are not a dreaming spirit but flesh and blood. I can feel the weight of your form against the Fade’s fabric. It’s why lesser creatures have avoided you; you are an anomaly, and anomalies are unpredictable.”

Hawke stepped up beside her, following her gaze outward. The landscape ahead was a chaotic patchwork of floating rocks, broken towers, and islands of memory. Far in the distance, he thought he saw the suggestion of a forest with leaves of shimmering silver, and beyond that, perhaps a glimmer that could be a lake under a violet sky. None of it obeyed the laws of nature, of course. The Fade simply did not offer straight roads or clear destinations.

He took a breath. “If it’s not impossible, that’s good enough for me.” He looked sideways at Valtaeva. “You wouldn’t happen to know of any places where the Veil is particularly thin? A spot where a fellow might slip through, with enough magic?”

Valtaeva tapped a claw against her chin. “There are rumors of tears that still linger since the Breach. Scars in the Veil left behind, hidden pockets… But getting to them is another matter.” She smiled slyly. “Luckily for you, I find myself rather invested in your quest. I can guide you towards one such place—though I make no guarantees. Even I avoid the edges of the Beyond. Strange things do stir there.”

Strange things. Hawke figured he’d cross that bridge (or lack thereof) when he came to it. Maybe burn it, too. At least it was a direction. “I’ve always wanted to take a romantic stroll through uncharted metaphysical terror, how did you guess?” he quipped. “Lead the way, my dear demon.” He swept an arm in a gallant gesture, as if inviting her to walk ahead.

Valtaeva responded with an elegant mock curtsey, the motion oddly graceful despite her inhuman form. “As you wish.”

She extended her arm. With a flick of her wrist, the air just beyond the platform rippled and a series of floating stones wavered into solidity, forming a precarious path. Hawke hadn’t even realized those were ever there, hidden until she’d revealed them. He wondered, not for the first time, just how easily he could fall into nothingness. The thought was sobering.

Hawke rolled his shoulders, trying to release some of the tension knotting there. This was far from ideal—traveling with a desire demon at his side with only a vague promise of being interesting enough to keep alive—but it beat being alone and lost. And despite her ulterior motives, Valtaeva had stayed her hand when she could have killed him. In her own twisted way, she was helping. Or at least, not actively hurting. For now, that was enough.

He cast one look back at the doorway, still standing forlorn on its own. The frame led to nowhere at all, the cottage illusion long gone. On an impulse, Hawke reached into his coat pocket and found what he sought: a small wooden mabari figurine, the keepsake Anders had given him. It was still with him—perhaps the Fade hadn’t thought it important enough to steal, or perhaps his sheer will had kept it through the transition. The little dog was a tangible piece of reality, a token of Anders’s faith in him. Hawke squeezed it in his palm until the edges bit comfortingly into his skin.

I’m coming back, Anders, he promised silently once more. No matter what it takes.

“Garrett,” Valtaeva called, using his first name with playful cadence. She stood poised on a floating rock a few paces ahead, beckoning. “Try not to fall. I’d hate to lose my new favorite mortal so soon.”

Hawke pocketed the carving and stepped forward onto the first hovering stone. It bobbed slightly under his boot, but held. He shot the demon a roguish grin, masking the whirlwind of apprehension and hope inside him. “Don’t worry about me. I’m pretty good at defying gravity as well as fate.” He took another step, then another, following her into the shifting mists. “Just try to keep up, Val. I wouldn’t want you getting lost out here.”

She arched a delicate brow at the casual shortening of her name, but her smile lingered. “By all means, Champion. Lead on.” The title was laced with irony yet lacked malice; it seemed, at the very least, that she enjoyed the banter.

Side by side—an unlikely duo if there ever was one—the two set off into the unknown Fade. Greenish haze curled around them as they left the lonely door and its promise of false paradise behind.

Hawke didn’t look back again. His gaze was fixed forward, toward whatever path Valtaeva would reveal and whatever lay at its end. The weight of dread still pressed on him—he was far from home, farther still from the man he loved—but he carried something stronger within him now: resolve. And, unexpectedly, he wasn’t entirely alone.

Chapter Text

Prince Sebastian Vael stood before the tall windows of his study as morning light spilled over Starkhaven’s skyline of spires and steeply pitched roofs. The city beyond was already alive with industry and prayer alike; distant chants from the Grand Chantry mingled with the sounds of merchants opening their stalls. Sebastian closed the leather-bound ledger in his hands, having finished reviewing the day’s petitions from his people. Even in these routine duties, he carried himself with measured reverence, as if each decree he signed were a prayer offered to the Maker.

A gentle knock at the door drew his attention. “Enter,” Sebastian called, and in stepped Captain Elyssa Fletcher. Her polished breastplate caught a glint of the morning sun as she walked in a few steps before stopping to bow her head. The red-and-gold of Starkhaven’s crest shimmered on her tabard like the sacred flames of Andraste.

“Your Highness, forgive the intrusion,” Fletcher said, voice steady but tinged with urgency. Sebastian’s attuned eyes caught the slight tremor in the stoic captain’s clasped hands. “We’ve just received a rider from beyond the gates. It’s about the Maleficar.”

Sebastian’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the ledger’s spine. A quiet heaviness settled in his chest, meeting with an apprehension he could not name. “Go on,” he prompted softly, stepping away from the light.

“The ambush near Castra Muniti was carried out as planned, and the transport was destroyed.” She hesitated, and the hesitation made dread coil deep in his gut. “But something happened. All the guards escorting the wagon, and our men… they were killed, Your Highness. But the Maleficar’s body was not recovered. Nor were the remains of Viscount Tethras or Guard-Captain Vallen.” A beat. “Our scouts believe that the Maleficar has escaped.”

For a moment, the only sound was the gentle crackle of the fireplace and the distant echo of a bell tolling the hour. Sebastian bowed his head, and his lips moved in silent recitation. Maker, receive their souls, for they served the righteous cause. The words from the Chant of Light sprang unbidden to mind. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker’s will is written. These men and women had given their lives guarding a killer in the name of justice; their blood sanctified the road on which they fell. Sebastian’s hand found the silver Chantry pendant around his neck. He closed his fingers around the engraved sunburst symbol of the Maker, and while his outward composure was that of a man in solemn prayer, within him a spark had landed upon a waiting bed of embers.

He had sanctioned this attack. Not with signatures or proclamations, but with prayer, quiet meetings, and a single word—yes. His name would not appear on the parchment, but his soul had already offered the burden up to the Maker. And in His wisdom, the Maker had not struck him down. That, in itself, was a kind of absolution. Proof that Sebastian had not acted out of vengeance,  but out of a desire to see the Maker’s will done—to bring justice to the Maleficar who’d nearly destroyed the world. A trial in Kirkwall, presided over by Varric Tethras no less, was not justice. It was theater. A compromise dressed as mercy.

“How did it happen?” he asked at length, lifting his gaze to meet Fletcher’s. His voice was calm, but there was no chance Fletcher would miss the taut undercurrent vibrating through each word.

She cleared her throat, straightened her back. “Witness accounts are few, Your Highness, but a merchant traveling on a far road claimed to see a green-blue fire rain down from the sky.”

Sebastian frowned in thought. Green-blue fire… a lyrium explosive? Or some abomination’s work? A spark of anger shot through him as he considered that Anders could have been responsible. And if he had been, it would certainly explain why Varric and Aveline had very likely survived. Silence fell again in the study. Through the leaded glass window, Sebastian could see the sun drifting behind a bank of gray clouds, casting a hazy light over the city. A herald of an approaching storm, he thought distantly. Inside him, another storm was gathering, silent but inexorable.

“The Maleficar free again… and all those lives lost,” Sebastian murmured. There was a weight to his words. A weight of profound sorrow wrapped around a core of smoldering anger. He closed his eyes, summoning a memory that had never left him: the charred remains of Kirkwall’s Chantry, flames clawing at the sky, the broken and burned body of Revered Mother Elithina amidst the rubble after Anders’s infernal deed. That day, Sebastian had knelt amid ash and blood and vowed before the Maker that such sacrilege would not go unanswered.

But now Anders walked the world again, unburdened by chains, leaving new corpses in his wake. Was this, too, part of the Maker’s plan?

His eyes opened, and he realized Fletcher was watching him intently, awaiting his command. Sebastian drew himself up, shoulders square. The Prince of Starkhaven would not be found faltering in faith or resolve. “Any indications on where he went?” he asked, voice quiet but firm.

Fletcher shook her head. “No, Your Highness. And no trace of Viscount Tethras or Captain Vallen either. We don’t know if they were taken, killed elsewhere, or escaped before the blast.”

He turned away, moving to the fireplace. The embers there were low, the scent of old incense lingering. He rested a hand on the mantle and stared down into the pile of blackened wood. “I have no doubt that Aveline and Varric survived,” he began. “They will try to recapture him. Take him back to Kirkwall for that trial they insisted upon.” The word trial left his tongue with a hint of bitterness he did not bother to hide.

Fletcher’s brow creased. “Viscount Tethras should have turned him over to us from the start. His crimes were against the Chantry itself—against Starkhaven,” she said, her tone hard and full of righteous fury that nearly matched Sebastian’s own. By all rights, Sebastian could have claimed jurisdiction over Kirkwall following Elthina’s murder. Instead, he’d stayed his wrath at Divine Justinia’s behest, allowing Kirkwall to handle their own Maleficar. And now, Justinia was gone, the Inquisition he’d sought aid from disbanded, and still Anders remained a bane upon Thedas.

“The Viscount meant well,” Sebastian said, voice measured. “He hoped for a lawful resolution and thought to spare Kirkwall from war.” He let out a slow breath. “I fear their good intentions may have once again robbed the Maker of the justice He is due.”

Fletcher nodded grimly. “What are your orders, Your Highness?”

Sebastian stepped to the window once more. “We will do what must be done,” he said. From the palace heights he could see across the gleaming marble plaza to Starkhaven’s Grand Chantry. Its great bell tower dominated the skyline, crowned with a statue of Andraste raising her sword to the heavens. Even in the dimming daylight, he could see faithful devotees gathering on the steps for morning devotion. Starkhaven had become a refuge of piety in a world wracked by heresy and strife. Here, the Chant of Light was sung openly and joyously each dawn and dusk. Here, mage and templar alike knelt together in prayer under his rule, and the sins of the mage rebellion was held at bay by common reverence. All of it, every hard-won harmony in his city, was a testament to the Maker’s grace. He would not see that harmony threatened by the likes of Anders—an abomination who had become the very image of apostasy and disorder.

“Send our fastest riders to every village between here and Kirkwall,” Sebastian continued, turning back to Fletcher with eyes as blue and hard as winter ice. “Distribute his description in every tavern—and make it known the bounty on him stands doubled. No,” he lifted a finger, “tripled. Alive or dead.”

Fletcher’s chin lifted and she gave a quick nod. “At once, Your Highness.”

“Dispatch a raven to the Kirkwall City Council,” Sebastian continued, his voice growing more resolute with each instruction. “Express our deepest condolences for the lives lost.” A beat of sorrow tempered his tone. “Offer any aid they require in tending the wounded or honoring the fallen. And then make it clear Starkhaven will not abide the Maleficar’s freedom. I expect full cooperation in tracking him down.”

Fletcher allowed herself a tight, satisfied smile. “If he is out there, we’ll find him.”

Sebastian nodded, a quiet fervor burning in his chest. “The Maker’s justice will find him,” he corrected gently. “We are but the instrument.”

At the words, the captain thumped her fist to her heart in salute and turned on her heel, eager to carry out the prince’s commands. She had almost reached the door when it swung open before her, revealing a tall woman in an elegant gown of midnight blue silk. Lady Vivienne de Fer swept into the study unannounced, a vision of composed grace framed by the doorway. Her gown’s collar rose high and regal, embroidered with golden filigree in the shapes of twisting serpents and lilies. A delicate smile played on her lips as she laid eyes on the prince.

“Ah, Captain, do excuse me,” Vivienne said smoothly, inclining her head to the captain as she passed. “I do hope I am not interrupting?”

Fletcher glanced at Sebastian for guidance, and at his slight nod, quietly took her leave with only a polite nod of her head to the mage. As the door shut behind her, Sebastian studied his unexpected guest warily. “Lady Vivienne,” he greeted her. “This is… an unanticipated pleasure.”

Vivienne’s ruby-red lips curved a fraction wider. “Forgive the intrusion, Your Highness. I heard a rumor that troubling news had reached you this morning. I thought perhaps I might offer my counsel, if you’d hear it.” She moved further into the room with a swish of skirts, the faint scent of Orlesian perfume trailing behind her. With practiced poise, she lowered herself into the chair opposite Sebastian’s desk without waiting for an invitation—a minor breach of etiquette that Sebastian chose not to remark upon. The Lady de Fer was ever one to assume her welcome.

Still, he did not immediately reply, moving instead to the sideboard where a carafe of wine and two chalices rested. It was customary hospitality to offer refreshment, even amid crisis. In truth, Sebastian’s stomach was knotted far too tightly for wine, but pouring the liquid gave his hands something steady to do. “Your concern honors me, Grand Enchanter,” he said carefully as he filled the cups. “But I wonder what a lady of your stature might know of this news already, that she comes so swiftly.”

Vivienne accepted the chalice from him, delicate fingers brushing his hand for an instant as she did. Her dark eyes glittered with keen intelligence. “Word travels quickly within the palace, my prince. Whispers of an attack on a prisoner convoy are hard to keep contained.” She took a polite sip, never breaking eye contact. “I suspected it could only be one prisoner in particular, given recent… discussions.”

Sebastian inhaled slowly. Vivienne’s presence in Starkhaven had proven her to be a shrewd observer of all goings on—perhaps too shrewd for Sebastian’s comfort. She was no doubt a valuable ally at court, but one whose moral compass he still found difficult to read. Her time in the Inquisition notwithstanding, she was a woman of great cunning. Vivienne moved through the world with a practiced grace and a willingness to bend where Sebastian would stand firm. To a man determined to see the world in the clarity of the Maker’s light, her murkier shades of gray were inherently disquieting. Of course such rumors would reach her so quickly.

“It seems you already know, then,” Sebastian said. “The Maleficar has escaped custody.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue, and a sip of wine did little to temper it.

Vivienne tilted her head, expression sympathetic yet controlled. “A terrible setback. You have my deepest condolences for the men lost.” She sighed, setting her cup down on the desk with a soft clink. “That apostate has a talent for sowing tragedy. In truth, I had hoped Kirkwall’s attempt at a trial would conclude this ugly business quickly, the ambush a last resort. Alas, it seems we are to be disappointed yet again.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Vivienne’s tone was gentle, but there was an undercurrent of something undetectable. He wondered just how long it would be before word reached the others as well. Sebastian folded his arms, the fabric of his princely robes rustling, and leaned against the edge of his desk. “Justice’s road is seldom without obstacles,” he replied. “This morning I’ve been reminded of that.”

Vivienne nodded, studying him. The afternoon light slanting through the window picked out the bronze undertones in her complexion and gleamed on the golden ornaments at her ears and throat. She was every inch the composed courtier, a picture of Orlesian elegance that somehow felt slightly out of place amid Starkhaven’s simpler halls of austere stone. “Do you recall what I said when we first discussed the apostate’s capture?” she asked lightly. “I warned that those who see him as a symbol might seek to intervene. There are apostates still lurking in the shadows who idolize his defiance. And, perhaps more pertinently, there are those with political aims who would be pleased to see you fail in bringing him to justice.”

Sebastian’s brow furrowed. He had indeed not dismissed that possibility. After all, Anders had become a figurehead for the mage rebellion after Kirkwall’s chaos—a martyr to some misguided fools, and a monster to those who recognized him for what he was. “Are you suggesting that some of our own were trying to rescue him, then? If so, they would have paid dearly.”

A wry note entered Vivienne’s laugh. “If they were mage sympathizers, they were astonishingly foolish ones. By all accounts, that magical explosion would have slew the very rescuers it should have spared. Not exactly the outcome one would plan.” She tapped a finger on the arm of her chair thoughtfully. “It sounds to me more like the apostate himself—or the spirit inside him—unleashed something uncontrollable. Desperation, perhaps.”

Sebastian’s mouth pressed into a grim line. The thought of Anders giving himself fully over to that spirit, exploding in wild magic, was not far-fetched. It aligned with the abhorrent nature of his crime in Kirkwall; on that day, Anders had likewise shown no regard for innocents caught in his wrath. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. Sebastian recalled that verse, a righteous chill prickling across his skin. Truly, Anders had proven those words with every action, even before Hawke’s death. Now?

“Regardless of how it happened,” Sebastian said, voice quiet but firm, “the Maleficar is loose. And the Maker has placed the duty of stopping him squarely in front of me once more.”

Vivienne inclined her head, a few curled locks of her dark hair brushing her cheek at the movement. “Indeed. I admire your devotion, Your Highness. Many in your position might have washed their hands of the matter by now, leaving Kirkwall to its mess. But not you.” Her eyes, sharp as a falcon’s, searched his face. “I suspect this is not merely political or personal for you.”

“It is justice,” Sebastian answered instantly. The vehemence in his own tone surprised him. He straightened, setting aside his wine on the desk. “The Maleficar violated the laws of man and the Maker. The lives he’s taken, the faith he’s shattered—these things cry out for justice. It falls to me to see that done. I do not call it vengeance.” He realized his fists had clenched atop the desk. With effort, he unfurled his fingers, one by one. “I call it duty.”

Something flickered in Vivienne’s expression, then; not quite approval, something more incisive and calculating. “Well said,” she murmured. “And true. Yet let me offer you one caution, if I might be so bold, my prince.”

Sebastian gave a stiff nod. “Speak freely.”

Vivienne rose from her chair, the skirts of her gown sighing against the floor. She stepped nearer to him, lowering her voice as if imparting a secret. “Conviction such as yours is a powerful weapon. But like any weapon, if swung blindly, it can cut friend as easily as foe.” She lifted a manicured finger, as though to gently emphasize her point. “Do remember that Kirkwall is not your enemy. The people want the apostate found—it was their own who were slaughtered, after all. If you were to approach this as an inquisition of your own, you might alienate those whose cooperation could prove invaluable.”

Sebastian felt a flash of heat in his cheeks at the implication. He bristled, instinctively resistant to being lectured on restraint by Vivienne, of all people—a woman who saw fit to bend morality when it suited her ambitions, or so he suspected. And yet, in this, she was not wrong. “I have no intention of casting blame onto the people of Kirkwall,” he replied, a touch defensive. “I know they did not choose this outcome. But neither can I let them, or their Viscount, deter me. The Maleficar has slipped through their fingers once again.”

“Just so,” Vivienne said. She reached out and, in a gesture that startled him, laid her hand lightly on his forearm. Her skin was butter-soft, the contact one of almost loving reassurance. “I only suggest that you guide them to see things your way, rather than treating the city itself as an obstacle. Frame Starkhaven’s involvement as assistance, not intrusion, and they will yield to it. I’m certain that Viscount Tethras has no desire for a confrontation with you—if he is still alive, that is.”

Sebastian gave a slow nod as Vivienne’s meaning sank in. Varric was pragmatic; he would have to accept Starkhaven’s help, even if it galled him, because he could not afford to antagonize Sebastian with Anders at large. And Aveline, for all her pride, would have to concede they needed the manpower. He could insist on Starkhaven leading the hunt, perhaps even on Anders being remanded to Starkhaven once caught.

Yes.

That path was clear and achievable without open conflict. In truth, Sebastian had little appetite for another war in the Free Marches—he wanted Anders, not a battlefield of young men and women once again shoved into killing one another.

“You’re right,” Sebastian conceded softly. “Better to guide than to threaten. Ultimately, we seek the same end.”

Vivienne removed her hand from his arm with a graceful flourish and stepped back. “I am glad my counsel is of use.” Her gaze drifted past him, out through the window toward the Chantry spire beyond. “The world has seen far too much needless conflict as of late. Best to avoid adding to it, if we can. And as loathsome as the apostate is, causing strife between Starkhaven and Kirkwall would only delight our true enemies.”

“Our true enemies?” Sebastian echoed, curious at her phrasing.

A thin smile curved Vivienne’s lips. “Those who would see chaos reign, naturally. The fiends and maleficars still lurking after the dust of the Inquisition’s victories has settled. Corypheus may have fallen, the Breach may be sealed, but do not think the darkness has ended. There are always those—mage or otherwise—who thrive on anarchy and bloodshed. Anders was but a herald of one such age of chaos. I suspect others will seek to use him as a herald again, if they can.”

Sebastian absorbed her words quietly. In this, at least, they shared perspective. The battle against darkness was never truly over. “Not while I still draw breath,” he said, the oath in his voice as solemn as any he’d sworn before a chantry altar. “I will see the Maker’s peace restored, Lady Vivienne. Starkhaven stands as proof that the faithful can rebuild what was broken. And I will not allow one heretical mage to unravel that.”

Vivienne’s eyes softened just a touch, and she offered him a genuine nod of respect. “Of that, I have no doubt, Your Highness.” With that, she gathered her skirts and dipped into a flawless curtsey. “Thank you for granting me an audience. I shall leave you to your preparations. If there is any service I might lend in this endeavor, you need only say the word.”

Sebastian inclined his head. “Your presence and counsel have been service enough. The Maker go with you, my lady.”

“And with you,” Vivienne replied smoothly. She turned and glided toward the door. Before she took her leave, she glanced over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. “I suspect the next time we speak, it will be with better news. I might go so far as to hope we’ll raise a glass together to celebrate that justice has been done at last.”

Sebastian managed a thin smile. “Pray that it is so.”

When Vivienne was gone, silence reclaimed the study. The daylight was now fully embraced by the clouds of dark gray as they cloaked the sky. Sebastian realized that he had been holding himself ramrod straight throughout the entire conversation, every muscle tensed as if in anticipation of a blow. Now, at last, he allowed his shoulders to relax. A long breath escaped his lungs, and his arms settled at his sides.

He moved to the window once more and unlatched it. The chill air caressed his face, smelling of distant rain on stone. Below, the last rays of sun vanished behind the city walls, and the streets of Starkhaven were painted in a dull, graying color. Far across the city, in the bell tower of the Grand Chantry, a great iron bell began to toll the call to afternoon prayer. The first sonorous peal rolled over the rooftops, and in the square he could see the faithful stopping in their tracks, turning toward the sound. Tiny figures bent their heads or knelt; shopkeepers paused, chantry sisters ushered children into pews, lanterns were lit against the coming fog. The sight filled Sebastian’s heart with a fierce, protective affection for his people. These were the souls he labored for: good folk striving to live in the light of the Maker’s grace. He would be damned before he let any darkness harm them.

As the bell tolled again, Sebastian’s hand found the Chantry pendant around his neck once more. His fingers wrapped around it tightly, feeling the press of silver sink into his skin. His lips moved silently in time with the bells. “Maker, hear Your servant. Guide my hand in Your will. Make me an instrument of Your justice.” Each word was an anchor, steadying the anger that simmered in his blood, shaping it into resolve as unyielding as steel.

High above Starkhaven, Sebastian Vael gazed out over his city. A dull light haloed the edges of the storm clouds in a burnished gold, like a corona of holy fire behind a veil of darkness. A sign, perhaps, that even in dark times the Maker’s light burned on. Anders was a shadow on the world again—but Sebastian would be the light sent to banish it. This he swore to himself. This he swore to the Maker.

The Chantry bell’s final knell echoed, slowly fading into quiet. Sebastian said nothing, for there was nothing left to say. Instead, he only tightened his grip on the pendant until the edges bit into his flesh. In that slight pain there was clarity. There was purpose. As the first cold drops of rain struck the windowsill, Sebastian remained, eyes unblinking and spirit unbowed, a righteous fire tempered into a fine, holy fury. Starkhaven’s prince would meet this test as he had all others—with faith unshaken and purpose unwavering—until divine justice was done.

Chapter Text

Varric sat hunched at the broad oak desk in the Viscount’s office, rubbing a thumb absently over a shallow gorge in its surface. In the days since the ambush, Kirkwall’s Keep had fallen unnaturally quiet, as if even the usual clamor of quills, footsteps, and distant harbor bells refused to disturb the dead. A half-melted candle flickered at his elbow, battling the midday gloom that seeped through rain-streaked windows. Kirkwall’s weather had mirrored its Viscount’s mood since their return: gray, sodden, and cold.

He exhaled slowly and leaned back, feeling the protest of bruised ribs beneath his neatly tailored doublet. The healers insisted he wear a brace after the blast—a precaution for cracked ribs he hadn’t realized he’d earned—but he’d discarded it that morning. It pinched, and he had work to do. Across from him, in the chair that had always been Bran’s, sat only a neatly folded cloak. Bran’s cloak. Varric hadn’t mustered the nerve to move it yet.

A sharp rap sounded at the door, three quick knocks. Only one person in Kirkwall knocked like they had urgent business and the right to interrupt the Viscount. “Come in, Captain,” Varric called. His voice came out low and rough in the hush. He cleared his throat.

Aveline entered with her usual brisk purpose, but Varric didn’t miss the way she cradled her left arm. Her mail sleeve hung empty in a sling; her shoulder was still healing from the dislocation and shrapnel wounds she’d suffered in the explosion. Despite her injuries, and the dark hollows under her eyes, her presence was as solid as ever. She nodded respectfully as she came to a halt in front of his desk.

“Varric,” she said. There was a softness in her tone saved for old friends, undercut by formal concern. Viscount when others listened, Varric when they were alone.

“You should be resting that wing of yours, Aveline,” Varric said, managing a faint smirk. “Didn’t the healer tell you to keep off duty for a week?”

Aveline snorted and eased herself into the chair opposite him—Bran’s chair. Varric saw her eyes flicker to the cloak resting there, and an uncomfortable silence passed between them. Aveline shifted her gaze quickly back to him. “I am resting. I’m merely sitting in a chair in the Viscount’s office, conveniently discussing guard business.”

“Ah, of course. As long as it’s convenient,” he replied lightly. But the humor didn’t reach his eyes. He tapped a folded parchment on the desk. “Our friend the Prince of Starkhaven has written. The raven arrived an hour ago.”

Aveline’s expression tightened. “It better not be another threat.”

“Depends on your definition,” Varric said. He unfolded the missive with a flourish and cleared his throat in an overly formal manner, affecting a grandiose Starkhaven accent. “To the Honorable Viscount Tethras and the Good People of Kirkwall,” he intoned, voice dripping with theatrical pomp. “It is with deepest regret that I learned of the tragic loss of Kirkwall lives in the recent…” Varric’s showmanship faltered as his eyes skimmed over the list of the fallen. Guardsmen, loyal allies… Bran’s name among them. He fell silent.

Aveline lowered her eyes. For a moment, the only sound was the patter of rain against the window glass. Varric swallowed hard and continued in his normal voice, “Sebastian offers his condolences. And ‘any aid we require in honoring the fallen.’” He let the parchment fall to the desktop with a soft slap. “Thoughtful, isn’t he? You know, for a guy who probably planned the whole thing.”

Aveline’s jaw set in a hard line. “Thoughtful as a viper. What does he want in return?”

Varric nudged the letter toward her. “See for yourself.”

She picked it up, scanning quickly. As her eyes moved down the page, Varric studied her face. He saw the moment she reached the heart of it—her brows snapped together, lips thinning. “Starkhaven will not abide the Maleficar’s freedom,” she read aloud, voice edged with anger. “We have therefore seen fit to triple the bounty on Anders, that justice may be done. Kirkwall’s full cooperation in this matter is both expected and appreciated…” Aveline lowered the letter, a wry, humorless smile tugging at her mouth. “Expected and appreciated. How polite.”

Varric let out a slight scoff and took the parchment back, flicking it toward a clutter of other documents. “The Prince is making sure we know he means business. Triple the bounty… He’s painting a giant target on Anders’s back and inviting every fortune seeker in Thedas to take a shot.”

Aveline let out a slow breath, her gauntleted fingers drumming once on the arm of the chair. “Kirkwall will be crawling with bounty hunters soon. Vigilantes, fanatics—every two-bit mercenary hoping to claim that reward will start their search here. The city guard can scarcely keep order on a normal day, never mind with that lot stirring trouble.”

She was right. Kirkwall’s streets had only just begun to stabilize in recent years. With the Inquisition disbanded and Divine Victoria’s reforms calming the mage-templar conflict, things in the Free Marches were supposed to be getting better. Supposed to. Varric ran a hand over his face. “It’s the last thing we need. And Sebastian damn well knows it.”

“He’s counting on it,” Aveline said. “He wants to flush Anders out, one way or another. And if Kirkwall burns in the process? So be it.” There was a bitterness in her voice. She’d once considered Sebastian Vael an ally, even something close to a friend, back when they all fought side by side with Hawke. That felt like another lifetime now.

Varric stared at a crack in the desktop, following its jagged path through the wood grain. Sebastian’s letter might as well have reopened an old wound. He remembered the last time the Prince of Starkhaven had stood in this very office, months after the Chantry explosion, demanding Kirkwall assist in hunting down Hawke and Anders to face justice. He’d all but threatened war then, too. Only Divine Justinia’s intervention had convinced Sebastian to stay his hand and let Kirkwall deal with its own.

Now Justinia was gone, taken by the Breach at the Conclave, and the Inquisition that had helped to keep the peace was disbanded. There was no one to hold back Sebastian’s righteous vengeance—no one but Varric Tethras, a dwarf who preferred a good tavern and a saucy book to playing at politics. And yet, here he was.

“He’s offering to send aid,” Varric said suddenly, breaking the silence. He tapped the letter. “Men or supplies to ‘tend the wounded and honor the fallen,’ he says. I’m sure the Pious Prince of Starkhaven would love to plant some of his people here under that pretense.”

Aveline gave a curt shake of her head. “Kirkwall doesn’t need Starkhaven’s help to mourn our dead. We’ve handled it.” Her voice softened. “The Chantry held a memorial yesterday. You would have been proud of Bran, Varric. Half the nobility turned out to laud his service. The Viscount’s Seneschal died a hero in defense of the city.” Her throat bobbed, grief momentarily cracking through the captain’s composure. “He deserved better… but at least he got his due respect.”

Varric looked away, swallowing the tightness in his own throat. He should have spoken at Bran’s memorial. Maker knew he’d wanted to say something about the man who had stood by Kirkwall through its worst years. But when the time came, Varric’s voice had faltered. All he could remember was Bran’s body crumpling in that carriage, the sudden silence as life went out of his old friend’s eyes. He’d failed to protect him, and no flowery eulogy could ever set that right.

“We won’t forget him,” Varric managed, his voice thick. He cleared his throat again and forced himself to focus. “Sebastian’s ‘aid’ is a foot in the door. The moment we accept help, he’ll claim justification to station Starkhaven forces here—ostensibly to help hunt Anders, but really to keep an eye on us.” His mouth twisted into a bitter, humorless smile. “I’d be shocked if he hasn’t already sent a few agents into the city quietly.”

Aveline’s nod was grim. “Spies or scouts, likely. It’s what I’d do in his position.”

“As if triple bounty posters aren’t enough.” Varric pinched the bridge of his nose against an oncoming headache. The scent of hot wax and ink from the candle mingled with the damp air. “We’re stuck, Aveline. If we do too little, Starkhaven will say we’re practically harboring the mage who murdered the Revered Mother and slaughtered who-knows-how-many since. If we do too much—turn Kirkwall upside down to find him, open the gates to every zealot with a sword—we throw the city right back into chaos all over again.”

Aveline leaned forward despite a wince of pain, fixing Varric with a firm, steady gaze. “We’ll need to strike a balance. We can’t appear lax, not now. Sebastian’s waited years for Anders to slip through our fingers.” She hesitated, then added in a lower voice, “And slip through he did.”

Varric felt the familiar swell of anger and guilt curdling in his gut. Anders had slipped through their fingers, yes—after snapping his chains and blowing half the convoy to pieces. His ears still rang faintly if he woke at night, remembering the thunderous roar of that magical wave. He couldn’t forget the sight on that mountain pass; the twisted iron of the prison wagon, bodies of Kirkwall’s finest strewn in the mud alongside the corpses of the ‘mysterious’ attackers. Sebastian could pretend all he liked that they weren’t his agents, but whatever they’d been, Anders had leveled them too. Maker only knows if the blast had been intentional or just an uncontrolled burst of his abomination’s power.

Aveline’s good hand tightened into a fist on her thigh. “After what he did on that road… after what we saw…” She trailed off, shaking her head. The lines of fatigue on her face deepened. “We can’t let him hurt anyone else. I won’t allow it.” Her tone had a hard edge of resolve, but under it Varric heard pain. Those were her guards who lay dead along with Bran. They’d served under her command and died under her watch.

“You think I’ll argue?” Varric said quietly. “We have to stop him, Aveline. For Kirkwall’s sake.” He drew a slow breath and added, “For Hawke’s sake too, maybe.”

At the mention of Hawke, Aveline’s eyes softened with sympathy. “Varric—”

But Varric didn’t let her finish. He waved his hand and nodded. “I know, Aveline. I know. Hawke isn’t here anymore.”

Varric’s chest constricted as he spoke the words aloud. The years of blood and chaos Anders’s rebellion sparked weighed heavily on him. In truth, any lingering affection Varric once held for the apostate had withered away, scorched by the same fires that had left Kirkwall in near ruin. All that kept him from outright hatred was the memory of Hawke’s face, of the determination in his eyes and conviction in his voice whenever he spoke of saving Anders. Hawke had believed Anders was worth fighting for, worth saving. And Varric… Varric had believed in Hawke.

His gaze drifted to the rain-blurred light beyond the window. Somewhere out there, Sebastian Vael was invoking the Maker and sharpening his righteous blade, and Anders—the man Hawke loved—had become a monster Hawke might not even recognize. And Hawke… Hawke was gone, lost to the Fade two years past. The road to that tragedy wound all the way back to Anders as well. How many more lives would Anders claim, directly or indirectly, before this ended?

“We’ll do what needs doing,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “We owe it to those who died. To Bran. Maybe even the idiot Anders used to be, to put him out of this misery he’s become.” Varric’s voice hardened. “Sebastian wants cooperation? Fine. Kirkwall will cooperate. We’ll hunt Anders down, same as Starkhaven. That much we were always going to do.”

Aveline released a breath that she had been holding, a hint of relief in her nod. She likely feared Varric’s loyalty to Hawke might make him waver again. But they were in accord: Anders had to be found, one way or another.

“Question is,” Varric continued, eyeing the letter, “on whose terms. Sebastian would love to march in here and take over the search. That, we can’t allow. Kirkwall’s not going to become a vassal of Starkhaven.” He drummed his fingers on the desk thoughtfully. “We need to send a reply, something that keeps him at bay, to at least buy us some time.”

Aveline grimaced as she started to rise. “The Council should convene on this. We’ll need to present a united front.”

She was right, but Varric wasn’t eager to sit through a full session of Kirkwall’s most annoying nobles today. Half the counselors would be too busy either wringing their hands in panic at Starkhaven’s ire or else baying for Anders’s blood even louder than Sebastian. Kirkwall’s largest trading partners in Ferelden threatening sanctions or worse would certainly send the merchants into hysterics. No, he needed a clearer head to draft the initial response before unleashing the pack on it.

“Let’s draft a letter first,” Varric said. “We can show the Council after. Fewer cooks in the kitchen.” He carefully shuffled aside a stack of expense reports and took up a fresh sheet of parchment. Aveline sank back down with a muted sigh of relief, clearly glad to rest her legs a moment longer. 

Varric dipped a quill in ink and paused, the tip hovering. “We acknowledge his condolences, pledge our determination to bring Anders to justice—”

“—and we politely decline any direct aid,” Aveline added. “Kirkwall can manage its own wounded and memorials.”

“Right.” Varric began scratching a line in elegant cursive, murmuring softly as he composed. “Your Highness, Kirkwall thanks you for your gracious offer… etcetera… However, the situation remains firmly under control.” He glanced up and squinted slightly in thought. “We should probably mention the investigation. Let him know we’re serious.”

Aveline nodded. “Emphasize that we’ve already set plans in motion to recapture Anders.”

“We could mention cooperation in a way that doesn’t actually cede any authority,” Varric mused, twirling the quill. A blob of ink splattered on the page, marring the careful script. He sighed. His hands were unsteady today. “Maybe, Kirkwall will of course share any information we discover on Anders’s whereabouts with Starkhaven. That sounds cooperative.”

“And still keeps us in charge of the search,” Aveline agreed. She managed a small, tired smile. “I’ve missed your wordsmithing, Varric.”

He smirked faintly. “Stick around, Captain. You might get a whole sonnet at this rate.” He shook his head and reached for the blotter to fix the ink splotch. His quill had just touched parchment again when the double doors to the office creaked open without a knock.

Both Varric and Aveline turned, expecting perhaps a harried messenger or a forgetful clerk. In limp a slight figure in a damp cloak, carrying an armload of ledgers and scrolls. Varric raised an eyebrow at the intrusion. It was an elf—no, not quite; the ears peeking through the individual’s tight black curls were only modestly pointed. Half-elven, then. Young, by the look of the smooth face and bright golden eyes fixed on a ledger, oblivious to the room’s occupants.

“Memorial expenditures came in under budget after all, I’ve tallied the Chantry donations and—” the newcomer began as they shuffled inside, nose buried in the ledger. As they ventured a few steps further, at last they glanced up. “—and I—oh!”

The half-elf stopped short, nearly dropping the stack of scrolls. A ribbon-bound registry slid to the floor with a thump. “Apologies, serah, I didn’t realize the office was occupied,” they blurted out. A feminine voice, light and warm, with a hint of a Marcher accent. The stranger’s cheeks flushed as they awkwardly bent to retrieve the fallen registry, juggling their load. “I was just—um—” Their eyes flicked between Aveline in armor and Varric in his plain burgundy doublet. It seemed that Guard-Captain Aveline was easily recognizable, yet the dwarf at the desk was apparently not.

Varric bit back a smile. It wasn’t the first time someone had entered expecting the Viscount’s office to contain someone taller. He decided to take pity… but not too quickly. “So, how can we help you, miss…?”

They straightened, clutching the books to their chest. A few ink-smudges marked their chin and left ear, as if they’d been hastily taking notes and scratching an itch at the same time. Maker, they couldn’t have been older than twenty. “Not miss, just Seren,” the half-elf answered, blinking. “I—well, I work here. Under Seneschal Bran… that is, I worked under Seneschal Bran.” The correction brought a flicker of sorrow to their face that mirrored what Varric felt. “I’ve been keeping up with the clerical work since… since the other day.”

Aveline cleared her throat. “Seren. I recall seeing your name on Bran’s staff list. Weren’t you handling the ledger in the galley office?”

“Yes, Guard-Captain,” Seren answered quickly. Their gaze darted to Varric again, curious and a touch uncertain. Clearly they were wondering who this guy was and why he was seated so casually at the Viscount’s desk, scribbling notes while chatting with the Guard-Captain. Perhaps Varric’s informal attire and lack of ceremony had thrown them off. 

Varric steepled his fingers. “You’ve been taking on Bran’s duties?” he prompted gently.

Seren nodded, a bit sheepish. “Someone had to, serah. There are invoices, petitions… oh, and this.” They inched forward and placed one of the scrolls onto a clear space on the desk. “It’s the official transcript of the Starkhaven letter that arrived this morning. As per protocol, I’ve copied it for the City Council records.” They offered a faint, wry smile. “Though I suspect you’re already familiar with its contents, otherwise you wouldn’t be here, right?”

Aveline’s eyebrows lifted and Varric couldn’t help but grin. “Efficient,” he remarked. Not ten minutes had passed since he’d received the raven, and already this half-elf clerk had entered it into the ledger and delivered copies. Bran himself would applaud such speed. “Thank you, Seren. We were just drafting a reply.”

Seren let out a breath of relief. “Oh good. Honestly, I hoped I’d catch the Viscount before he left for the Council meeting. I had a few, ah, thoughts on the matter that I wanted to put forward. Strictly informally, of course.”

Varric leaned forward, folding his arms atop the desk. He bit back a smile. “Informally, of course. And what makes you think the Viscount isn’t here to hear them himself?”

Seren blinked, then gestured loosely toward the empty expanse of the office. “Well… no offense, messere, but I would expect the Viscount would have a bit more of an entourage. Guards, and… perhaps a herald announcing his entrance?” They glanced at Aveline for confirmation. “Not to mention, Viscount Tethras is a dwarf, and you—”

“—and I am also a dwarf,” Varric finished for them, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. “Don’t let the no beard thing fool you.”

At that, Seren’s mouth opened, then closed. Their eyes widened as they looked at Varric anew. Realization and mortification dawned in equal measure. “Oh Maker’s—” They nearly dropped the ledgers again. “Viscount Tethras! I-I beg your pardon, serah, I didn’t… I mean, of course you are also a dwarf, I can see that, I just—” They took a step back and executed an apologetic half-bow that nearly sent their quill flying from behind their ear. “Please forgive me! I never meant any offense, I just—”

Aveline coughed—or was that a smothered chuckle? Varric waved his hand, smiling warmly. “At ease, kid. No offense taken.” He eyed the smudges on Seren’s earnest face and their rain-damp clothes. Hardly the image of a perfectly composed seneschal, but then, Varric hardly fit the image of a traditional Viscount either, and look where he was. In truth, he irreverence was… refreshing. He’d had more than his fill of stiff-necked diplomacy this morning.

Seren straightened, shifting to adjust the books and scrolls they still carried in their arms. “For what it’s worth, messere, you’re not what I pictured,” they said with a lopsided, apologetic smile. “The Sums of Kirkwall quarterly financial report doesn’t really go into what the Viscount looks like.”

Varric barked a short laugh. “Ha! I suppose not. If it did, it would no doubt mention ‘uncommonly handsome dwarf, eyes like molten amber, impeccable sense of style’...” He gestured vaguely at himself with a grin. “I’m sure it was an honest mistake.”

Seren’s cheeks flushed again, but this time with suppressed laughter. Aveline rolled her eyes skyward, though a hint of a smile played at her lips. “And modest to boot,” the Guard-Captain said dryly.

“Modesty is for people who haven’t earned the right to show off,” Varric quipped, then waved Seren toward a seat. “Since you’re here, Seren, and already up to your neck in this business… Let's hear those thoughts you mentioned. Informally.”

Seren looked between him and Aveline as if to confirm this was truly acceptable. When neither protested, they carefully placed the stack of books down on a side table and stepped forward. “Alright, well… It’s about Starkhaven’s letter. I’ve seen a few diplomatic letters in my time—only a few, mind, but this one…” They pursed their lips. “The tone caught my attention.”

“Oh?” Varric folded his arms, intrigued. He exchanged a quick glance with Aveline, whose expression had gone cautiously neutral, evaluating the young half-elf.

Seren tapped the parchment copy they’d delivered. “His Highness couches it in all the usual pleasantries—sorrows, prayers, friendship between our cities, blah blah—but the demands… those are quite strong, even veiled. Tripling a bounty is no small thing. And saying he ‘expects’ cooperation?” They gave a shake of their head. “Prince Vael isn’t making a request so much as issuing an ultimatum, if you ask me.”

“We noticed that too,” Aveline said. “Go on.”

“Given how… precarious relations have been with Starkhaven, I assume we intend to placate them. To a point, anyway. But bending over backward could make us look weak.”

“Exactly,” Varric nodded, pleased at how succinctly they’d grasped the problem. “So what would you suggest?”

They chewed their lip. “If it were up to me, I’d respond with overwhelming courtesy—mirror his tone. Thank him so very kindly for his concern, emphasize how tragic this all is… show we take it seriously. But,” they raised a finger, “I’d also subtly remind him that Kirkwall is handling it. Perhaps mention how much we’ve already done in pursuit of the mage, before Starkhaven ever got involved.”

Varric felt a grin tugging at his mouth. “Funny you should say that. We did capture Anders before without Starkhaven’s help, until that blasted ambush.” He tapped the quill against his chin, thinking. “A little reminder that we were the ones who had him might not hurt. Something like: Rest assured, Kirkwall has never relented in its duty to bring the criminal Anders to face justice.”

Seren bobbed their head enthusiastically. “Yes! And perhaps note that we’re already cooperating. After all, wasn’t the prisoner transport itself part of that? I assume we meant to give him a fair trial instead of summary execution in Starkhaven, but it shows we were acting in good faith to resolve things lawfully.”

Aveline interjected, gingerly crossing her arms. “Careful. From Starkhaven’s view, that trial was a concession on their part, not ours. They believed he was theirs by right.” She grimaced at the memory of Sebastian’s rage years ago. “The letter even says Kirkwall insisted on a trial and how our ‘good intentions’ robbed the Maker of justice. He clearly thinks we were too lenient.”

Seren shrugged one shoulder. “True… but it might still be worth saying Kirkwall remains committed to seeing the mage face judgment. And we can slip in that he was in custody, implying we did our part until unforeseen events.” Their eyes flashed with sly intelligence as they added, “We need to respond to the implicit accusation that Kirkwall bungled it. Without admitting fault, of course.”

Varric couldn’t help but chuckle. Light and irreverent as Seren seemed, they had a keen instinct for the political subtext. “Maker’s breath, you’ve a talent for this.” He shot Aveline a look. “Bran certainly knew how to pick his assistants.”

Aveline gave a slow, appraising nod. “It appears so.”

Encouraged, Seren stepped closer to the desk. “One more thing, messere—Your Excellency,” they corrected themself hastily, then plowed on. “Prince Vael’s letter offers help with the wounded and ceremonies. We should respond to that explicitly. If we ignore the offer, he might send people anyway under the guise of concern. Politely decline, but in a way that flatters him.”

“Flattery I can do.” Varric tapped the quill to parchment again, his earlier fatigue momentarily forgotten in the flurry of ideas. He began to write, speaking as he scribbled. “Your Highness’s offer of aid displays the noble spirit we have long respected in Starkhaven. How’s that?”

Seren nodded slowly. “A tad thick on the praise, but he’ll probably like that. Then follow with something like, Fortunately, Kirkwall’s wounded are receiving excellent care, and the sacrifices of our fallen have been duly honored by the city. So, thanks but no thanks.”

Varric jotted the phrases, chuckling lightly. “Remind me never to get on your bad side, Seren. You could charm the teeth off a High Dragon.”

The young half-elf grinned, cheeks flushing from the compliment. “I don’t know about charm, messere. Just common sense and a… dash of creative wordplay.” They hesitated a moment, then added, “Also, perhaps we should say something about communication. Such as, we welcome Starkhaven sharing any leads they find, and we will do the same. That way ‘full cooperation’ is defined as an exchange of information, nothing more.”

Aveline let out a soft sound of admiration. “Huh. That’s clever. Turn his own language around. Make him live up to ‘cooperation’ by sharing what he knows, not just demanding it from us.”

“Exactly!” Seren’s eyes shone now, their earlier embarrassment all but entirely forgotten. “He can hardly object without looking uncooperative himself.”

Varric finished the final lines of the draft with a flourish, signing his name and title rather than stamping it. He sat back, flexing the cramp from his fingers as the tension in his chest began to ease for the first time in days. They had a plan, or at least a damn good letter. It might not solve the crisis, but it would keep Starkhaven at arm’s length while Kirkwall regrouped. While he regrouped.

He sanded the wet ink and passed the page to Aveline for review. She read it carefully, lips moving faintly as she absorbed each line. Finally, she gave a single firm nod. “This will do. It’s firm, but not disrespectful. Emphasizes our resolve and sovereignty without poking his pride too hard.” She cast an approving look at Seren. “Well done.”

Seren ducked their head, pleased. “Just doing my job… more or less.”

Varric stood, sliding off his chair. His muscles protested; days of inactivity and nights of restless brooding had left him stiff as an old man. Still, he moved around the desk to face Seren. They straightened at his approach, uncertainty flickering across their face. Perhaps wondering if they had overstepped their bounds by advising the Viscount so boldly.

Varric extended a calloused hand. “Seren, was it? Let me officially thank you for stepping up these past few days. Bran would be grateful to know someone capable had his back.” He meant it sincerely. He hadn’t even considered who was tending to the bureaucratic minutiae while he and Aveline dealt with the various crises at play. It seems this half-elf with ink on their cheek had simply taken the initiative, and he wouldn’t hide his gratitude.

Seren hesitated only for a moment before they took Varric’s hand, giving it a respectful squeeze. “Of course, ser—Your Excellency. I only hope I filled Seneschal Bran’s shoes well enough, even temporarily.”

Aveline stood as well, cradling her bad arm. “If this is any indication, I’d say you did. You’ve kept this ship sailing in very rough waters.” She gave Varric a sidelong glance. “It’s more than some on the Council have managed, truth be told.”

Varric’s lips twitched. That was Aveline’s polite way of acknowledging that a few councilors had been nearly useless in crisis, one even fainting at the sight of the wounded returning. Seren, on the other hand, had worked without needing to be asked. There was competence here, and poise beneath the fluster. Kirkwall needed that now. He needed that.

“Seren,” Varric said, releasing their hand. “I know you were Bran’s assistant, but… do you have any formal title or rank currently?”

They shook their head. “No, ser—just a clerk in the seneschal’s office. I only started six months ago. Honestly, I thought Bran would dismiss me after I spilled ink on one of the Viscount’s—your, I mean—tax reports.” They winced at the memory. “But he didn’t. He was very patient. He took me under his wing.”

Varric nodded, but felt a pang in his chest. Trust Bran to nurture young talent silently. “He never mentioned that incident to me,” he offered gently. “Probably because he had faith you’d learn from it.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, you’ve certainly learned. And Kirkwall could use more of that competence. Effective immediately, I’d like you to continue handling Bran’s duties… as Acting Seneschal.”

Seren’s large brown eyes grew even larger. “Acting… you mean…?”

Aveline gave a satisfied nod, as if the decision met her approval. “We’ll make it official at the next council session, but yes. The Viscount is offering you the position, at least for now.”

The half-elf’s mouth opened and closed once before they managed to speak again. “I… I’m honored! Truly. I won’t let you down, serah!” They straightened to something like attention, hands raising and lowering as if they were about to salute then thought better of it. “I mean, are you sure? Not that I’m ungrateful, I just—I’m quite young and I know some of the magistrates don’t… well, they might not listen to a half-elf, even one speaking with the Viscount’s authority.” Their tone was frank, not self-pitying. Just acknowledging a political reality in this old city.

Varric exchanged a knowing look with Aveline. Kirkwall’s elite certainly could be prejudiced; old habits died hard, especially when it came to the elves. But Varric flashed a roguish smile and waved his hand dismissively. “Let me worry about the nobles. If anyone has an issue, they can take it up with me. I find a crossbow on the desk tends to shorten those debates.”

Seren laughed before they could stifle it. Aveline sighed in mock exasperation. “Please don’t actually put Bianca on the council table again, Varric.”

“No promises.” He winked, then addressed Seren more solemnly. “You’ve got the brains and the guts for this job. That’s enough for me. And like Aveline said, we’ll confirm it properly with the Council, but in practice? You’re the seneschal now, kid. We’ll have to lean on you.”

Seren squared their shoulders. Despite their casual dress and ink stains, there was a certain dignity to them as they raised their chin. “Then I’ll be the best seneschal I can. Kirkwall won’t fall on my watch, Messere Tethras.” They caught themselves. “Er… Your Excellency. Sorry.”

“Maker’s breath, please—just call me Varric when we’re not in front of the nobility,” Varric insisted. “I get enough of ‘Your Excellency’ from petitioners trying to kiss my ass. I don’t need it from the people actually doing the work.”

“Varric, then,” Seren agreed, a smile lighting their eyes. “Thank you. I won’t forget this trust.”

Aveline stepped toward the door, nodding to the both of them. “On that note, I should return to the barracks—conveniently resting as I do so,” she added with a smirk, preempting Varric’s protest. “I’ll have Donnic send out additional patrols to keep an eye out for any influx of bounty hunters. And I’ll quietly inform the border garrisons to report any Starkhaven ‘visitors’ they spot.”

“Good thinking,” Varric said. “We won’t be caught off guard again.” He moved to escort Aveline out, and Seren hastened to open one of the heavy office doors for the Guard-Captain. They nearly tripped over the hem of their cloak in their eagerness.

As Aveline passed, she paused and put a hand on Seren’s shoulder. “We’ve lost too many good people. Take care of yourself while you’re taking care of this city, understood? Kirkwall needs you in one piece.”

The concern in Aveline’s voice prompted Seren to pause, then nod solemnly. “I will. And Captain… I am truly sorry about the men we lost,” Seren said softly. “If there’s anything I can do for their families—”

“We’ll see to them,” Aveline assured them, though her voice went husky for a moment. She gave a brisk nod, composed herself, and continued out. “I’ll leave the politics to you two, then. Try not to start an international incident before lunch.”

“No promises there either,” Varric called after her, earning himself an unamused glare over the shoulder as Aveline continued down the hall. He flashed an impish grin until she disappeared down the stairway.

When Seren gently closed the door, Varric noticed they were beaming. “You look real happy for someone about to dive into a mountain of parchment for Kirkwall’s sake.”

“I’ve been doing that already,” Seren said with a laugh. “But yes. I won’t lie, it feels good to make a difference. This city gave me a chance when I had nowhere else to go. I owe it a lot.” Their expression turned pensive. “Though I admit, I never imagined I’d be advising the Viscount on diplomatic correspondence my first week acting in the role.”

“Strange times,” Varric said, moving back to the desk to retrieve the finalized reply. The rain outside had slowed to a drizzle, and a ray of weak sunlight broke through, illuminating motes of dust in the air. Strange times indeed; everything that could’ve gone wrong the last few weeks had, and yet Varric felt something almost like optimism. Or at least determination. They would figure it out, one step at a time.

“Strange times,” Seren echoed. They tilted their head, studying Varric thoughtfully. “If I may ask… what’s to be done about the mage? Beyond letters and bounty hunters.”

Varric met their eyes. Clever and forthright—they deserved an honest answer. “We find him,” he said simply. “And we stop him, before anyone else gets killed. Starkhaven wants his head on a pike. Kirkwall…” He sighed. “Kirkwall just wants peace. However we have to get it.”

Seren absorbed that, their hazel gaze sympathetic. “Understood.” A beat of silence passed, then they cleared their throat. “Well, I’ll have this reply copied and sent by raven immediately.” They reached for the drafted letter in Varric’s hand. “Shall I see if the Council is available later today to approve our response officially?”

Varric handed it to them, then impulsively held on for a second, giving them a pointed look. “You and I both know the Council will rubber-stamp whatever gets us on Sebastian’s good side fastest. But yes, schedule a quick meeting. And Seren?”

“Yes?” They paused, letter in hand.

Varric offered a faint, lopsided smile. “Remember to get some rest. You’ve been through as much as anyone these past days, even if your battlefield is ledgers and letters. Don’t work yourself to death for this city. Kirkwall needs you alive.”

For a moment, Seren was speechless. Then they returned his smile with a bright one of their own. “I’ll try, se—Varric.” They headed for the door, a mix of professionalism and excitement in each step. As they opened it, they paused and added over their shoulder, “And you—get some sleep once this is done! That’s an order, from your new seneschal.”

Varric chuckled, watching them disappear into the hall. He couldn’t remember the last time someone other than Aveline dared to give him an order in his own keep. It was strangely charming. “As you say, Seneschal,” he murmured to the empty room.

Alone once more, Varric moved to the window and braced his palms on the cool stone sill. The drizzle had almost stopped, leaving the streets of Hightown gleaming wet and empty. In the distance, the newly restored chantry’s bell began to toll for the midday devotion. Sebastian’s letter lay open on the desk behind him, but Varric’s eyes were on Kirkwall’s spires. He could see the dark outline of the Gallows far across the harbor—once a prison for mages, now a hulking reminder of all they’d survived.

“Tripling the bounty, huh, Choir Boy?” Varric muttered under his breath. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic.” He shook his head, weary affection and lingering ire mingling in his chest. He would answer Sebastian with diplomacy today. But Maker help him, if the prince pushed too far—if he endangered Kirkwall’s people or insulted the sacrifices of its greatest Champion—Viscount Tethras would not roll over. Kirkwall had paid in blood for its independence, and Varric would see that sacrifice honored.

He allowed himself a moment to close his eyes, reminiscing about those lost years in Kirkwall. Bran’s forced, unamused half-smile flickered behind his eyelids; Hawke’s full-chested laugh; Aveline’s steady hand on his shoulder as they limped away from a skirmish. So much loss, so much responsibility. Varric felt the weight of it like an iron mantle. But he wasn’t alone, even now. And in time, perhaps, he’d have even more allies to call on. Maybe even cash in on that favor Lavellan promised him.

“Alright, people,” he sighed, speaking to ghosts and memories alike. “Let’s play this game.” There was sorrow in his voice, and resolve, and a spark of the trademark Varric Tethras humor yet. “We’ve dealt with qunari invasions, blood mages, and one rogue magister with a pet dragon. What’s one zealous prince and a runaway abomination, eh?”

Outside, the bells of the chantry rang on, and Varric Tethras, Viscount of the City of Chains, squared his shoulders against the trials to come. The pieces were moving and the board was set—and Varric had never been one to turn down a good game.

Chapter Text

A patter of rain fell against his face as Anders drifted back into consciousness. For a fleeting, blissful moment he felt nothing—no pain, no fear, just the cool kiss of water on his skin. Anders might have believed he was dead, that the Maker had finally granted him peace, but the illusion shattered as soon as he drew a breath. Agony ripped through his body, tearing a ragged gasp from his throat.

He lay sprawled in mud and splinters. The iron cage that had been his whole world for a few brief hours was now a twisted ruin beside him, its bars bent outward as if some great force had burst from within. Chains that had bound his wrists and ankles lay snapped like thread. Anders’s head swam as he pushed himself up onto shaking elbows. Every muscle protested; he was weak—Maker, so weak that even this small motion left him trembling. A year locked in chains, nearly two weeks without food… it was a miracle he was moving at all.

Blinking rain from his eyes, Anders tried to get his bearings. Night pressed in around him, the darkness cut by sheets of distant lightning. All along the broken road, craters and corpses mingled with debris. Men and horses lay strewn in grotesque positions, as lifeless as the charred wood scattered about. A pained gasp wrenched from Anders’s chest before he could stop it. 

Did I do this?

Memory came flooding back in disjointed flashes; the prison convoy trudging along the mountain pass, rain drumming on the wagon’s canvas; then shouts and arrows from the cliffside; the crack of unnatural energy ripping through the air. Anders remembered a blinding green-blue flash striking near his wagon, the world flipping as fire and force tore it apart. He remembered searing heat, the feel of his own magic howling out of him in an uncontrollable torrent. After that… nothing.

A ragged cough jolted him from his thoughts. Anders startled, panic flaring. He scrambled backward in the mud before recognizing the collapsed figures only a few paces away. Aveline lay face-down, her short cropped bright orange hair matted with blood and rain. Nearby, Varric’s stocky form was half-buried under a broken plank, unmoving save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. They were alive, but only just.

For an instant, Anders felt nothing but bitter satisfaction. These two had dragged him from hiding, bound him like an animal, and hauled him toward what was sure to be his execution. Aveline—former friend turned captor—had watched him caged and collared, convinced she was doing the righteous thing. And Varric… Anders’s stomach twisted. Varric had not only stood by and allowed it—sitting silently while they threw Anders to the wolves—but he’d sanctioned it. Even gloated in his face the night before. If they died here and now, a small vicious part of Anders thought, it would serve them right.

Lightning flickered overhead, and in the brief illumination Anders caught a glimpse of Varric’s face. The dwarf’s eyes were closed, his brow furrowed in pain, rainwater streaming down his nose. Anders recalled another time he’d seen that face drawn with worry—years ago, after the Chantry explosion when chaos erupted throughout Kirkwall. Varric had been afraid then, too; afraid of him, of what Anders had done… but also afraid for him. For Hawke. Yet even so, Varric had stayed a friend for as long as he could, in spite of everything.

And Aveline… for all her sternness, she had never been cruel. She had given him chances once, allowed Hawke to hide his involvement with the mage underground. She had even defended mages’ rights in her own pragmatic way. Anders swallowed hard. These two had been his allies, his friends, once upon a time. Did he truly want them dead?

He shut his eyes, rain beating on his lashes, and imagined Hawke standing beside him now. Garrett Hawke. His dearest friend, his greatest love, whose faith in him had wavered but never truly broken. Anders could almost hear his voice through the storm. “You’re not a monster. Not while I’m here.” Hawke would never have abandoned a stranger, let alone a friend. Hawke would never want him to become the kind of man who could callously leave someone to die.

A trembling sigh shuddered out of Anders. Andraste’s breath, what was he doing? He couldn’t just leave them, no matter what happened between them. Resentment and hurt roiled inside him, but he knew in his heart that if he walked away now, he would regret it forever—and Hawke… Hawke would never forgive him.

Gritting his teeth, Anders dragged himself through the muck to Aveline’s side. His limbs felt like lead, his vision tunneling from effort as he rolled the armored woman onto her back. She was heavy in her plate mail, but Anders managed, nearly collapsing beside her. Aveline’s freckled face was slick with mud and blood; a nasty gash from her brow to her cheek bled freely, the red diluted pink by rain. Unconscious as she was, a soft groan escaped her lips when Anders pressed shaking fingers to her neck. She had a pulse—faint, but present still.

Anders swallowed, steeling himself. Healing magic had always come to him as easily as breathing. Now it took precious seconds of concentration before he felt the familiar warmth kindle in his palms. He had so little mana to spare; the explosion had ravaged his reserves, and the long days of starvation left him hollow. It was like cupping his hands into a dry well, only to scrape dust. Still, Anders scraped what he could, channeling the spell with gentle precision into Aveline’s wounds. A soft gold light flickered around his hands. He felt her torn flesh knitting under his touch, the bleeding slowing to a trickle. Broken bones—Maker, her left arm was bent at an odd angle—were a harder fix, but he coaxed the bone to straighten, the edges of the fracture aligning. It wasn’t a full mend, just enough that it would hold.

By the time Anders finished, he was panting with exertion, a fresh wave of dizziness threatening to topple him. He crawled next to Varric, still pinned under a shattered wagon plank and the limp body of an unfortunate mercenary. Anders mustered the last vestiges of his strength to shove the debris off Varric. His face was pale beneath a layer of mud, and his breath hitched in pain when Anders moved him. Perhaps a cracked rib or two—his leather coat was torn from the blast. “Hold on, Varric,” Anders whispered hoarsely, not even sure if the unconscious man could hear. “Just a little longer.”

He laid a hand over Varric’s sternum and sent another pulse of healing magic forth. Anders nearly blacked out as the spell left him; stars danced at the edges of his vision, but he clung on stubbornly. The taste of lyrium burned bitter on his tongue—a phantom sensation, since he hadn’t sipped a draught in ages. With a low groan, Anders directed the healing warmth into Varric’s injuries, mending what he could. Bruised organs, fractured bones, internal bleeding—nothing obvious on the surface, but he could sense the hurts beneath. He wasn’t sure how long he knelt there in the mud, pouring what little he had left into healing his old friend. By the time he was done, Varric’s breathing had evened out and some color had returned to his cheeks.

Anders rocked back onto his heels, swaying. The world tilted dangerously. He’d done it—he’d saved them. A hysterical little laugh bubbled in his throat at the thought. What a righteous man he was. His captors, his would-be jailers and executioners, tended and mended by his hand… while he himself was left bleeding and barely upright. In truth, he doubted he had the strength to heal even a paper cut now. His vision swam as he glanced down at himself—a bruised, emaciated mess of a man. Blood oozed from a jagged cut on his side, soaking through his tattered shirt. He pressed a hand to it, tried to summon just a wisp of healing for himself, but nothing came. The magic had guttered out, leaving only emptiness behind.

Another soft groan from Aveline tore his attention away from his wound. He couldn’t stay here. Already Anders could hear faint shouts echoing through the mountain pass—distant, but drawing closer. Reinforcements? Bounty hunters, templars, Sebastian’s righteous hunters… whoever it was, he had no intention of finding out. If they found him here, they’d haul him right back into a cage, and all of this—all of those deaths—would be for nothing.

And what would Aveline and Varric do when they woke? No. Anders didn’t want to wait to see. Grateful as they might be not to be dead, they were still bound by their purpose—by duty or by righteous anger—to see him captured. He doubted kindness would change that. He had to run.

Anders forced himself to stand. His legs quivered violently under him, and for a heartbeat he thought he’d simply keel over. But adrenaline, or what little remained, pushed him forward. He spared one last glance to his former friends lying there in the rain, their breathing now steadier. It wouldn’t be long before they’d wake, he knew. Looking away from them, he turned and limped away from the wreckage, toward the black silhouettes of trees that loomed by the roadside. 

The forest welcomed him with a darkness as thick as velvet. Anders stumbled beneath towering pines, his sodden boots slipping on roots and wet leaves. Every breath burned in his starved lungs, yet he pressed on, fueled by fear and the strange exhilaration of freedom. For the first time in Maker knew how long, no walls or bars caged him. The early evening air tasted of pine resin and cold rain instead of damp stone. Even the throbbing ache in his skull, the gentle thrum of leftover magical energy, was a grim kind of comfort. It meant his magic was his again, with no templar-dampening field smothering the crackle of the Fade at his fingertips. He was free. Free and alive when he had fully expected to die a prisoner.

A laugh tried to well up in his chest—half delirious relief, half madness—but Anders choked it down. The effort sent him doubling over to cough. Where was the voice that usually raged within him at times like this? The spirit that shared his soul remained eerily silent, a realization so sudden that it startled him. Justice? Anders called inwardly, almost hesitant.

Nothing. Only his own ragged thoughts echoed back. He had not been truly alone in his mind since the day he first welcomed Justice in; the sudden silence was jarring, yet…

Time lost all meaning as Anders pushed forward. Minutes? Hours? He wasn’t sure. The rain had lessened into a mist at some point, and the storm’s fury waned into a distant grumble. Under the thin moonlight that crept through torn clouds, the forest was a monochrome of black tree trunks and pale wisps of fog. At first, terror drove him at a frantic pace. He half-ran, half-staggered through brambles and gullies, mindlessly desperate to put as much distance between himself and the carnage on the road. Twigs snapped under his feet like the crack of bones, yet he barely noticed the gashes the briars opened on his legs. He felt strangely numb, still riding the tail end of an adrenaline he wasn’t sure would last much longer. His heart hammered and his nerves sang with raw energy, the Fade’s currents flowing through him unbound once more. It was almost good, that feverish high that dulled hunger and pain.

But the high was fleeting. Soon Anders’s steps grew labored and clumsy. The crash came all at once: the rush of energy sputtered out, leaving only a trembling exhaustion. Every pang of hunger he’d been ignoring now stabbed at him with a vengeance. A hollow ache gnawed at his belly, sharp enough to double him over if he let it. His head swam, the trees around him spinning in lazy circles.

When had he last eaten? Ten days? Fourteen? He couldn’t remember—time in that cell had blurred into a haze of despair. Only now did his body seem to fully remember what it needed. Anders pressed a hand to his abdomen as if to quiet the gnawing emptiness, but it was no use. Each step became a battle of will, his legs threatening to buckle.

As exhaustion set in, so too did fear. Every rustle of leaves or snap of a branch made Anders’s heart leap into his throat. In the whisper of the wind, he imagined he heard voices—low murmurs, the barking orders of templars on the hunt. Several times he swore he saw a tall armored silhouette out of the corner of his eye, only to blink and find nothing but tangled boughs and darkness. Once, when the clouds uncovered a sliver of moonlight, he caught sight of his own reflection in a puddle and nearly screamed. A gaunt man with cheeks smeared with dirt, wide golden eyes glinting with madness… he looked like a wraith, hardly recognizable as the man he’d once been.

More than once, Anders stopped short, convinced he heard someone trailing him. Once he could have sworn he heard the patter of paws and a faint meow, but there couldn’t possibly be a cat this deep in the woods. Another time he thought he caught the sweet whiff of candied nuts and saw a warm lantern glow, as if he were back among the stalls of Lowtown’s market. He almost sobbed at the vivid memory of simpler days. It was just his mind playing tricks, dredging up fragments of a life that felt worlds away. He shook his head and stumbled on, bitterly cursing himself. The farther he went, the more the shadows in the trees seemed to coil and take shape. Faces from his past flickered in the darkness: the betrayed face of Grand Cleric Elthina as she stood in her Chantry a heartbeat before it exploded; the hollow, lifeless eyes of Karl and all the other mages he’d seen made Tranquil; even Hawke’s face, stricken with sorrow as it had been the last time Anders saw him. These phantoms clung to him, whispering accusations he could not quite hear but felt deep in his bones. 

Murderer.

Monster.

At last, his body could take no more. Anders tripped over an exposed root and crumpled to the ground, mud oozing between his fingers as he caught himself. A jolt of pain lanced up his injured side, stealing his breath. He tried to stand once more but his legs refused; instead he managed a feeble crawl to the base of a large oak. With a strangled groan, he propped himself against the trunk. The rough bark bit into his back, but at least it kept him upright.

For a few heartbeats, Anders simply sat there, rain dripping from the canopy above in a slow rhythm. He was so tired… so bloody tired. Perhaps he could rest, just for a minute. Maybe he’d never get up again, and maybe that was fine. He had done what little good he could, and if death wanted him now, he would not fight. Not when he was free at last.

A snap of a branch nearby jolted him awake. Anders’s eyes flew open. That sound—it was too loud, too deliberate to be a trick of his mind. Someone was out there, moving through the brush not far away. His pulse spiked, a final shot of terror giving him the strength to drag himself to one knee. Through a gap in the undergrowth, he glimpsed a shadowy figure approaching, haloed by faint moonlight. They were closing in carefully, as a hunter might stalk a wounded deer.

Anders’s mouth went dry. Starkhaven. It was his first panicked thought. Sebastian’s men must have tracked him… or the Chantry’s templars, relentless to the last, finally cornering their prey. Whoever it was, they would take him back to a cell, or to the gallows, if they didn’t simply kill him here outright. A wild, animal panic seized Anders. He would not—could not—go back to a cage. He would rather die a free man here and now than give any of his would-be oppressors the satisfaction of locking him up once last time.

With a hoarse cry, Anders thrust his hand out toward the silhouette. Primal magic flared at his fingertips, raw and unfocused. A jagged bolt of crackling lightning burst forth from his palm, fueled as much by terror as by any incantation. The makeshift spell illuminated the gloom in a strobe of white-hot light before it lanced toward his pursuer.

The figure barely had time to react. The lightning struck a tree just a few feet to their left, exploding the trunk in a shower of sparks and steam. Wood splinters flew. The stranger hurled themselves sideways from the blast, hitting the ground with a pained grunt. Anders’s vision dimmed after the flashed, darkness rushing back in. He panted, his arm still raised and fingers twisting with residual energy. That single spell had drained him thoroughly; he could feel his muscles weakening, his mind buzzing with impending unconsciousness. But he forced himself to remain upright, staggering forward. If he was to die, he would at least face his enemy on his feet.

Through the clearing smoke, Anders saw the person on the ground struggle onto their hands and knees. Moonlight caught their face—a youthful, olive-skinned face with wide eyes and black hair. Recognition struck Anders like a physical blow. Flynn. The young mage from Castra Muniti, the very one who had attended him in captivity. Anders blinked, swaying on his feet in confusion. What was Flynn doing here? And what was he doing here alone?

“Anders,” Flynn wheezed, one hand raised in a placating gesture as he rose unsteadily. His other arm hung limp, singed and bloodied by flying splinters. “Anders, it’s me. I-I’m not here to hurt you, I swear it.”

Anders stared, chest heaving. His mind struggled to catch up. Flynn, a gentle mage that had tended his wounds, brought his meals, and even offered kind words during Anders’s darkest days in the fortress. Of all the faces he expected in these woods, Flynn’s was the last. 

“Why are you following me?” Anders managed, his voice cracked and raw. “If Varric sent you, or Sebastian—”

“No! No, nothing like that,” Flynn interrupted, shaking his head. Rainwater trickled down his temples, mixing with sweat. “I came on my own. Maker’s truth, I’m trying to help you.”

He took a cautious step forward. Anders flinched, and Flynn halted, keeping his empty hands where they were visible. “Listen to me. What happened back there on the road—it wasn’t an accident.” Flynn’s voice trembled slightly. “I… I broke the spell on your cage.”

For a long moment, Anders just stared as the meaning of those words sank in. It felt as if the ground had dropped out from under him. “You… what?” he breathed. His thoughts careened wildly, trying to process. Flynn had been the one to service his prison, the mage who maintained the magical barrier that kept him contained. Anders remembered the young man’s shrewd gaze each time he’d checked the runes. That barrier had been flawless, meticulous even. None of this made sense.

Flynn swallowed hard. “I broke it,” he repeated in a rush. “I… I knew it would release all that pent-up magic, that it might… cause a blast. And I knew it was the only chance we’d have to get you out of there alive.” He gave a shaky, apologetic smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Turns out unstable magical energy makes for a pretty effective prison break.”

Anders’s legs finally gave out. He sagged back against the oak, hardly noticing the bark scraping his shoulders. A fresh wave of dizziness, born of revelation rather than exhaustion, threatened to pull him under. He stared at Flynn in disbelief. “You… you did that? To save me?” A pause. “All those people…” Anders’s voice died, his throat closing around a sudden lump of emotion. Images of the devastated convoy flashed in his mind: charred bodies, broken corpses, Aveline and Varric on the verge of death. The weight of it settled on him like a stone.

Flynn took a tentative step closer. “Anders, I’m sorry for the cost,” he said softly, as if reading the anguish and confusion on Anders’s face. “But we couldn’t just let them take your life. It was the only way.”

Rain continued to patter through the silence that fell between them. Anders opened his mouth, but no words came. He wanted to scream at Flynn for his foolishness, to weep with gratitude, to collapse into the mud and never rise again—all at once. His eyes burned with tears he was too exhausted to shed. Finally, a broken whisper escaped him, barely audible over the drizzle. 

“Why? I’m not… worth it.”

Anders’s vision blurred, darkness soaking the forest before him. The last thing he saw as his strength truly failed him was Flynn rushing toward him, arms outstretched. And the last thing he thought was that Hawke would have disagreed.

Chapter Text

Prince Sebastian Vael stood at the head of the long council table, fingers splayed on a map of Starkhaven and its borders. Sunlight slanted through the high arched windows of the chamber, illuminating motes of dust in the air. The faces of his advisory council watched him with open concern. Sebastian could feel the tension coiling in the room like a drawn bowstring. It was the same tension that had been growing for weeks as vile rumors swirled about the Chantry’s influence over Starkhaven’s own prince.

Sebastian’s jaw tightened as Lord Dafydd Rhees cleared his throat. “Your Highness,” Rhees began carefully, adjusting the lace cuff at his wrist. “We have always respected the Maker and His Chantry here in Starkhaven, but some fear that our governance is becoming…” He hesitated, searching for a diplomatic word. “Overly guided by the Chantry’s hand, rather than by the needs of Starkhaven’s people.” The lord’s tone was measured, but his furrowed brow betrayed his worry.

A few of the other council members shifted in their seats. The Grand Cleric of Starkhaven, Mother Bronach, folded her hands in her lap and fixed Rhees with a disapproving frown. Sebastian’s gaze flickered to her—a stout, older woman in simple Chantry robes—and she gave him a small nod of solidarity. He straightened to his full height, the rich blue doublet he wore catching the light. Guided by the Chantry’s hand and not the Maker Himself… Was that truly what they thought? Sebastian’s temper flared briefly, righteous and hot, but he beat it back down. He clasped his hands behind his back in a motion that also hid how they began to shake.

“And what exactly are you implying, my lord?” Sebastian asked, voice cool. His tone lent his words a deceptive calm, one that he didn’t feel. “That honoring the Maker’s teachings is somehow at odds with Starkhaven’s needs?” He let the question hang, hard-edged but quiet. A younger Sebastian might have barked in anger; now he wielded restraint like a blade. Still, there was an unmistakable steel beneath his words.

Lord Rhees exchanged a glance with Lady Genevieve Tudor, one of the more influential nobles present—and a progressive that often gently disagreed with Sebastian’s decisions. She folded her delicate hands atop the table as she began to speak. “No one here denies the Maker’s wisdom, Highness,” she said softly. “We are all Andrastian, after all.” A murmur of assent circled the table at that—even the more secular lords nodded, for in Starkhaven nearly everyone paid homage to the Maker. “But,” Genevieve continued, “there is concern about the balance of power. There are common folk who whisper that Starkhaven is becoming a theocracy. That decisions of state are being dictated by the Chantry’s will more than by practical need.”

Sebastian felt a muscle feather in his cheek as he forced himself to listen. In his mind’s eye he saw Kirkwall’s Chantry—his Chantry, the place he had once taken vows—engulfed in flame and ash and smoke. The sound of that blast still echoed in his nightmares; the roar of flame, the collapsing of stone, the screams. Grand Cleric Elthina’s gentle voice snuffed out in an instant of horror. He blinked the vision away and met Lady Genevieve’s eyes. “Practical need,” he repeated, with a faint curl of his lip. “You mean trade agreements? Harvest festivals? Coin?”

A flush crept up the Lady’s neck. “Among other things,” she replied. “Our devotion to the Chantry and our alliance with the Anderfels is spiritually meaningful, yes, but Starkhaven must stand on its own feet as well. Some fear we may become entangled in Chantry politics to our detriment. For instance, if we were perceived as defying Divine Victoria so openly—”

Mother Bronach’s voice cut through, gentle but firm. “Divine Victoria’s reforms are a subject of great debate even within the Chantry, my lords and ladies.” The Grand Cleric gestured with her hand, a gentle choir of beads clinking as she did. “Her Holiness certainly did not intend for Andrastians to abandon caution and throw open our city gates to every unknown mage who arrives claiming righteousness. The Maker’s law is unchanged: Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him. Need I remind the council that foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children?” The cleric’s quotation of the Chant fell like a stone in the silence. A few nobles shifted uncomfortably; they all knew to whom she alluded.

Sebastian inclined his head in appreciation at Mother Bronach’s words. Her recitation sent a cold thrill through him, one of grim agreement. He could almost hear Grand Cleric Elthina speaking that very line in her soft voice, in the days before Kirkwall burned. How often had Elthina cautioned him? Death is never justice, Sebastian, she’d said once. Yet death had found her nonetheless, at the hands of a mage who twisted the Maker’s gift into destruction. Never again, he vowed silently. He would not let Starkhaven suffer the same fate as Kirkwall. Compassion without vigilance was folly—a lesson written in Elthina’s blood.

“We have a practical need to ensure the safety of Starkhaven’s people,” Sebastian said, picking up where Mother Bronach left off. He let his gaze travel the length of the table, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. Some of those eyes were wary, others supportive. “And that is precisely what guides me. The Maker’s will and my people’s well-being are one and the same in my heart.” He placed a hand over his chest. The gesture was sincere, but the underneath of his glove was damp with sweat. “If the Chantry’s counsel aligns with protecting Starkhaven from chaos, am I wrong to heed it? The Maleficar Anders taught us all what tragedy comes from laxity.” Sebastian’s voice hardened on the name—Anders, the apostate who had murdered Elthina and so many others in Kirkwall’s Chantry. Every time he spoke that name it tasted of ash and bitterness. Across the table, he saw one of his advisors, Sir Nathaniel, bow his head and mutter a prayer at the mention of the infamous mage.

A stern-faced older man in heavy plate armor—Knight-Commander Bryland, commander of Starkhaven’s templars—cleared his throat next. “Kirkwall’s Chantry fell because it let a wolf in among the flock,” Bryland said, his gauntlet-clad hand curled into a fist on the table. “Grand Cleric Elthina welcomed apostates with open arms, gave them grace and trust.” He shook his head grimly. “And she paid for it with her life. The city paid for it in blood and fire.” There were nods from some of the other council members at this; the raw memory of Kirkwall’s near-ruin still struck fear in the hearts of many Free Marchers.

“Yes, Knight-Commander,” Lady Genevieve said, her tone sympathetic and gentle. “Kirkwall was a tragedy none of us will ever forget. But Starkhaven is not Kirkwall.” She offered Sebastian a cautious glance. “And Divine Victoria’s Circle reforms were meant to prevent another Kirkwall—by giving mages a place of dignity within the law, under Chantry guidance. Not by casting them out entirely.” She paused, then added gentler still, “Your Highness, the group of mages at our border… they haven’t shown any aggression. They came openly, without deception, and have been waiting peacefully for our answer. They claim loyalty to the Divine and her new Circle. Ought we not at least consider that they could be genuine?”

At the mention of the mages, Sebastian felt a dull ache pulse behind his temples. The mages at the border. This was the crisis that had prompted today’s council in the first place. A week ago, a ragged band of about twenty mages had arrived at Starkhaven’s eastern checkpoint, weary and travel-worn. They’d come with a petition bearing Divine Victoria’s seal—a plea for asylum and acceptance under the Circle’s new terms. They professed loyalty to the Chantry and the Maker, and begged to be allowed into Starkhaven where they might live safely away from war and rebel factions. On paper, they were exactly the sort of mages Divine Victoria wished to protect and reintegrate into society.

Yet Sebastian’s instincts churned with suspicion. He remembered the charred remains of Kirkwall’s Chantry and Elthina’s face turned to lifeless ash. He remembered the self-righteous fury that Anders had as he declared war on the world for the sake of “mage freedom.” Sebastian had been deceived once by outward pleas of peace and righteousness; he would not be deceived again. Death is never justice, Elthina’s voice ghosted through him once more. He closed his eyes briefly. I know, Mother. But can I risk my people on that belief?

He realized the council was waiting for his response. Slowly he exhaled and opened his eyes. “I have considered it,” he answered Lady Genevieve at last, his tone measured. “I have prayed on the matter each morning and each night since they arrived.” That at least was true—he had prayed fervently, though the answer that kept surfacing in his heart was not one the more liberal-minded would want to hear. “The Maker tests us with this. Will we uphold our duty to protect the innocent? Or will we invite potential danger within our walls out of misguided pity?”

“Is it pity to offer sanctuary to loyal mages?” piped up a thin, elderly man down the table—Councilor Arthur Hubert, the city’s treasurer. “They carry the Divine’s own writ recommending them. They could be an asset—skilled craftsmen, healers even. If we turn them away, Your Highness, we risk offending the Divine herself. And to be frank, Starkhaven’s relations with Orlais are already… delicate.” The little man winced apologetically as he spoke, as if fearing Sebastian’s wrath. “The Divine might see an expulsion as defiance of her authority.”

A taut silence followed those words. Everyone knew Divine Victoria held great moral authority across Thedas, despite her previous ties to the Inquisition. To be seen openly flouting her signature policy could indeed have diplomatic repercussions. Sebastian’s fingers drummed once on the table. He felt heat rising to his face, and carefully unclenched his jaw before speaking. “Her Holiness is a wise woman,” he said evenly, “but she does not rule Starkhaven. I do.” The final two words came out more sharply than he intended, cutting through the chamber.

Sir Nathaniel and Knight-Commander Bryland murmured approval at their prince’s assertiveness. But others looked concerned. Lord Rhees actually pinched the bridge of his nose as if staving off a headache of his own. Lady Genevieve cautiously ventured, “No one doubts your reign, Your Highness. We only caution that Starkhaven does not exist in a vacuum. We must navigate the Chantry’s politics shrewdly. The Seekers of Truth still roam, ferreting out abuse. The Templar Order is rebuilding under the Divine’s new reforms. If we appear too hardline, too stuck on the old ways—”

“What would you have me do?” Sebastian snapped, and at last his temper bled through. He stepped away from the table, pacing a few steps beneath the sunlight. His long shadow stretched across a mosaic of Andraste on the floor, the Bride of the Maker rendered in colored glass tile. He realized his fists were clenched at his sides and forced himself to relax them. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, but edged with pain. “Shall I fling wide the gates and embrace every mage who comes calling? Shall I forget Kirkwall’s lesson so soon? Divine Justinia herself tried to wait and see, to keep balance between mages and templars…” His breath caught, the grief still raw beneath his anger. “And it cost her—cost us all—dearly.”

A hush fell. Across from him, Mother Bronach bowed her head, lips moving in silent prayer for the departed Divine. Some of the nobles looked down at their hands, chastened by the prince’s words and the emotion flaring in them. Sebastian rarely spoke so freely in front of them like this; to hear the depth of his sorrow now was unsettling.

He watched as one of his older advisors, Lord Alaric Carroll, swallowed thickly and nodded. “We understand your reluctance, Your Highness,” Lord Carroll said in a grave tone. “Truly, none of us wishes to invite peril. But… perhaps a middle path exists.”

Sebastian arched a brow. “Go on.”

Lord Carroll spread his heads. “Accept the mages—but under strict conditions. If they claim loyalty to the Circle and the Maker, allow them to prove it. They could reside in the old Circle Tower outside the city walls, under guard of our templars. They would effectively be under house arrest until each is vetted. That may satisfy both the Divine’s expectations and our own concerns.”

Murmurs rippled around the table as council members considered this compromise. Knight-Commander Bryland looked thoughtful, though not opposed. Mother Bronach pursed her lips but didn’t immediately object. Lady Genevieve offered a tentative smile, clearly relieved at the idea of a solution. “It could work… a probation of sorts,” she said. “If they truly only seek asylum and education under Chantry supervision, they should not balk at a period of quarantine and observation.”

Sebastian drew a slow breath. The notion wasn’t entirely unreasonable. In fact, it was exactly how new mages used to be handled—taken to a Circle tower for evaluation and training, watched over by templars. It would demonstrate Starkhaven’s willingness to follow Chantry law without blindly trusting these strangers. His eyes drifted to the map spread on the table, to the symbol marking the old Starkhaven Circle—a tall, fort-like spire on a cliffside, abandoned since the rebellions began. It could be garrisoned again easily enough. And the people would likely accept that more readily than strange mages roaming freely inside the city.

He was on the verge of replying that yes, this might be acceptable, when the doors to the council chamber creaked open. A liverlied herald stepped in, looking breathless and vaguely excited. He bowed deeply as he stepped inside. “Your Highness, forgive the interruption.”

Sebastian turned toward the man, frowning slightly at the intrusion. “What is it?” he asked. Everyone could tell by the flicker in the herald’s eyes that this was no minor matter.

“Prince Sebastian, the Princess Lucia has arrived at the city gates,” the herald announced. “Her entourage is approaching the keep as we speak. They are slightly ahead of schedule.” A buzzing whisper passed through the council at that. Lady Genevieve’s eyebrows shot up; Lord Rhees hurriedly ran a hand over his hair to smooth it. Even Sebastian felt a swift jolt in his chest—an unexpected quickening of the heart. Lucia was here? Already? He realized he’d been so consumed by the council and the mage dilemma that the imminence of his fiancee’s arrival had drifted to the back of his mind. Now reality came crashing back in.

“Thank you, Marcellus,” Sebastian said to the herald, finding his voice after a stunned beat. “See that Princess Lucia and her party are given every honor. Escort them directly to the great hall.”

“At once, Your Highness!” The herald bowed again and withdrew, pulling shut the doors behind him.

Sebastian took a moment to compose himself. He smoothed a hand over the front of his doublet, straightened the embroidered Starkhaven crest on his breast. The council watched him, the mage debate abruptly suspended by the far more immediate matter of a royal visitor. Not just any visitor—the future Princess-Consort of Starkhaven, daughter of King Wilhelm of the Anderfels.

“Well,” Sir Nathaniel chuckled, breaking the silence with joviality, “we cannot keep a lady waiting, can we?” A few nervous laughs followed, and chairs scraped as the council members rose. The arrival of Lucia was both a respite from and a complication to their heated deliberations.

Sebastian raised a hand. “We’ll adjourn for now,” he said. “We shall resume our discussion after the Princess is received.” His tone made clear that resume was not dismiss—the mage question was far from settled. Several advisors nodded, while others already began gathering their papers and quills. The prince gave a curt nod to Knight-Commander Bryland. “Commander, have your templars keep watch on the refugees in the meantime. I want no… incidents while we welcome our guests. Ensure those mages remain at the border encampment until I send word.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Bryland replied, clapping a fist to his chest in salute. He was a hulking man with a scar down one cheek—the result of a scuffle with a band of rebel mages years ago. The Knight-Commander’s eyes gleamed with determination. “They won’t take a step inside the city without our leave.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode off, already barking orders to a pair of junior templars stationed outside the chamber doors.

Sebastian watched him go, then addressed the rest of the remaining council. “My lords and ladies, I expect you all in the great hall to greet Princess Lucia. Let us show the Anderfels delegation the pride and unity of Starkhaven.” A murmur of assent met this. The council began to file out, a sweep of colorful silks, armor, and robes moving toward the corridors that led to the great hall. Lady Genevieve paused by Sebastian as the others went ahead. She touched his arm lightly, drawing his attention. 

“Your Highness,” she said under her breath, “I hope that Princess Lucia’s arrival may bring… clarity. Perhaps an outside perspective will help us with the mage situation.” Her expression was polite, but there was a shadow of uncertainty in her eyes. Sebastian understood her unstated meaning. Lucia, like many of those in the Anderfels, was famously devout. Lady Genevieve clearly seemed to worry that she might only reinforce his stance, rather than temper it.

Sebastian offered a thin smile. “Clarity, yes,” he replied smoothly. “We shall see.” Internally, he felt a flicker of defensiveness—he did not need anyone else, not even his betrothed, to tell him what was right for Starkhaven. But outwardly he remained cordial, and nodded as Genevieve gave a polite curtsey before she took her leave.

Mother Bronach was the last to leave, walking slowly as her cane tapped lightly against the stone floor. “The Maker guides you, my prince,” she whispered as she passed, a benediction and a reassurance wrapped in one. Sebastian inclined his head in thanks. He could use the Maker’s guidance indeed, with all that lay ahead.

When the council chamber was finally empty save for himself, Sebastian allowed a single sigh to escape his lips. He rested his hands again on the table’s edge, leaning forward as if the weight of the crown pressed on him. The map spread out before him still showed the little figurines marking Starkhaven’s forces at the border, encircling the spot where the mages waited. Tiny wooden pieces representing soldiers and tents… and one representing a flame, to indicate a potential threat. He gently picked up the flame marker between thumb and forefinger, studying it. The paint was chipped; it had been used on many a map to denote dangers to the realm. Brigands, qunari raiders, darkspawn outbreaks… and now it marked a cluster of weary mages claiming to seek refuge. Danger, or plea for mercy?

Through the window, Sebastian could hear a distant trumpet sounding the fanfare for arriving nobility. That would be Lucia’s procession entering the castle courtyard. Maker, let this be the right path, he prayed silently. Let this alliance strengthen Starkhaven and Your will. Setting the flame piece down, he turned on his heel and left the chamber to welcome his bride-to-be.

Trumpets blared a bright, echoing salute through Starkhaven’s great hall. Sebastian took his place at the dais beneath the grand banner of the Vael house just as the doors at the far end swung open. A herald’s voice rang out, carrying over the assembled nobles and guards who lined the marble hall in expectant silence.

“Announcing Her Royal Highness, Princess Lucia of Anderfels, daughter of His Majesty King Wilhelm of the Anderfels! Protector of Weisshaupt, and Bride-Elect of Starkhaven!”

All eyes turned to the entry as Princess Lucia stepped inside. Sebastian felt his pulse thrum in his ears as he beheld his betrothed for the first time in person. Lucia paused on the threshold, framed by two of her armored escorts, and then proceeded forward with a measured grace. Her gown was simple by court standards—a deep blue with golden trim, modest and elegant—yet it only made her presence more striking. She wore no ostentatious gems save for a single ruby set in her circlet, and even that looked less like ornamentation and more like inheritance. Like something worn with reverence, not vanity. Around her neck hung a chantry amulet of Andraste’s flaming sword. Her auburn hair fell in soft waves past her shoulders, and when she lifted her warm brown eyes to meet his, Sebastian felt the moment settle into something heavy and unshakable. Everything about her appearance spoke of piety and nobility intertwined.

Sebastian descended the few steps from the dais to meet her halfway down the aisle. His boots clicked on the polished stone floor, and he found himself silently reciting a quick prayer to steady himself. Maker, grant me wisdom. At his approach, Lucia dropped into a deep curtsey. The movement was fluid and unhurried, a picture of practiced respect. Behind her, a retinue of Anderfels knights and chantry clerics entered in formation. They wore armor polished to mirror sheen, tabards bearing the crest of their Ander King alongside a symbol of the Chantry’s sunburst. Sebastian noted at least half a dozen templars among them by the distinct red symbols on their mantles and the way they carried themselves with disciplined alertness. A religious aligned escort indeed, he mused. They looked more like a holy guard than a mere bridal party. At their rear, servants maneuvered several heavy chests adorned with gilded steel bands, hefting them with care. The dowry, no doubt, filled with treasures and coin. The size of the chests and the strain on the servants’ faces attested to King Wilhelm’s generosity—or his desire to ensure this alliance took root firmly.

“Rise, Your Highness,” Sebastian said warmly, extending a hand toward Lucia. His voice carried through the hall, every bit the gracious prince, though inside he felt a knot of anticipation. “Be welcome in Starkhaven, as beloved as if you were born among us.”

Lucia lifted her head and placed her hand in Sebastian’s. Her hand was cool and smooth against his calloused palm. She stood, and as their eyes met, Sebastian was struck by the intensity in her gaze. Her eyes were a deep brown, like rich soil after rain, warm and grounding. Yet beneath that quiet stillness, there flickered something sharp and unrelenting. Hers was a magnetic gaze that made him feel momentarily laid bare, as if she could see the convictions and conflicts warring in his soul. But her smile was gentle, almost demure.

“Your Highness,” she said, inclining her head, “the honor is mine. I thank you for your gracious welcome.” Her voice was low and rich, carrying the slight rasp of the Ander accent—it lent a certain musical cadence to her words. “Maker’s blessings upon you and your people. I have long awaited the day I would step into the famed halls of Starkhaven.”

Sebastian couldn’t help but return her smile, a genuine warmth blooming in his chest. “And we have eagerly awaited your arrival,” he replied. He turned to gesture toward the dais. “Allow me to present the noble council of Starkhaven, who will be your advisors and allies as they are mine.”

Lucia’s gaze swept over the gathered nobles and officials. Each of them bowed or curtsied respectfully. She greeted them with a composed nod, but Sebastian did not miss how her fingers tightened ever so slightly in his grasp as she surveyed the room. Was she nervous? If so, it was well concealed. More likely, Sebastian thought, she was simply taking stock of her new court—weighing each face calmly, shrewdly. King Wilhelm’s court was known for its religious fervor and martial rigor; Starkhaven’s court, by contrast, had long held a reputation for trade, culture, and the occasional pomp. Lucia was stepping into a different world, yet she radiated self-possession.

Mother Bronach stepped forward from the line, drawing herself as straight as she could. “Princess Lucia, may I say what a joy it is to finally welcome you,” the Grand Cleric said. She bowed her head low. “We have prayed for your safe journey. To see you here now is an answer to those prayers.”

Lucia’s smile grew a touch wider at the Chantry mother. She released Sebastian’s hand gently and, to his slight astonishment, bowed her head deeply to the older woman. “Grand Cleric, your prayers must carry great weight with the Maker, for we indeed had a swift and safe voyage,” Lucia said reverently. “We were escorted by His light at every step. I am grateful for your blessing.” Her tone when addressing Bronach was filled with deference and a kind of earnest fervor that even Sebastian couldn’t miss. It was clear that Lucia’s piety was not merely for show; she genuinely revered the Maker’s servants.

The Grand Cleric’s smile widened, clearly charmed and reassured. “Truly the Maker has delivered unto Starkhaven a devout daughter,” she proclaimed for all to hear. “With such faith at Prince Sebastian’s side, our people’s souls are in good hands.” There was an undertone of satisfaction in her voice, but Sebastian noted a few of the more secular counsellors exchanging guarded glances. No doubt Lady Genevieve and Lord Rhees were already mentally girding themselves; any hope they might’ve had that Lucia would urge moderation likely dimmed at this display of mutual zeal.

Sebastian interceded smoothly, “Princess Lucia, you must be fatigued from your long journey. Please, come, sit.” He guided her toward the high table on the dais. Servants swiftly moved to pull out chairs for the prince and his betrothed. As they walked together, the rest of her entourage filtered to stand at ease along the walls or take refreshment as offered. The Anderfellian knights remained near the entrance, a disciplined phalanx protecting their charge even here in the heart of Starkhaven. Among them, Sebastian spotted one man who appeared to be a captain—a burly fellow with a black beard and a patriarchal flair. He wore both a sword and a Chantry amulet, signifying that he was likely a templar officer from the Anderfels. The captain caught Sebastian’s gaze and gave a curt, respectful nod. Sebastian returned it, and would make a point to thank the man later for the safe delivery of the princess.

At the table, Sebastian and Lucia took their seats side by side. The assembled courtiers and council took this as their cue to mingle quietly or approach with well-wishes as the formal welcome relaxed into reception. A platter of spiced wine was brought forth, and Sebastian personally poured a cup for Lucia before pouring his own. “To our union,” he said, lifting his cup in a toast that the hall respectfully echoed. Crystal and pewter cups clinked. Lucia met his eyes over the rim of her own.

“To the Maker’s will made manifest in partnership,” she replied softly, and sipped. Sebastian drank as well, the spiced wine rolling warm over his tongue. It occurred to him that this was the very first time he and Lucia had spoken without the filter of parchment or intermediary. They had exchanged letters, of course—polite, dutiful letters full of hopes for the future of their people. But hearing her voice in person, seeing the subtle play of emotion in her face, was entirely different. He realized with some surprise that the initial flutter of nervousness he felt was rapidly settling into a steady confidence. She was exactly as her letters and reputation had suggested: composed, devout, and keen of mind. And there was an aura about her—something commanding in her poise despite her outward modesty—that he found both magnetic and faintly disquieting.

“My Prince,” Lucia said under her breath, only for him to hear, “I must thank you again for arranging such a gracious welcome. I admit, I had butterflies in my stomach as we rode in. But seeing you and feeling the faith that permeates this hall…” She inhaled as if savoring a sweet aroma. “It feels like coming home.” She placed a hand lightly on top of Sebastian’s where it rested on the arm of his chair. The gesture was brief, gone in an instant as she turned to acknowledge a bowing nobleman who came to offer formal greetings. But in that moment, Sebastian had felt the slight tremble in her touch—those butterflies she mentioned, perhaps.

He smiled, finding the vulnerability endearing. “Starkhaven is your home now, Princess,” he replied, voice warm. “And there is no need for nerves. We are all your friends here.” As he said it, his eyes drifted over the crowd, landing on Lady Genevieve and Lord Rhees conversing quietly. They were stealing glances at the high table, clearly curious what impression Lucia was making on the Prince. He could guess the gist of their worries. Perhaps, he thought wryly, they were indeed nervous —that Lucia would encourage his stern stance rather than moderate it.

A few minutes of pleasantries passed. Several council members came forward to pay their respects to Lucia. Lord Carroll kissed her hand and welcomed her graciously, Lady Genevieve offered a kind word about how the city had prepared festivities in her honor, and Councilor Hubert muttered something about trade gifts from the Anderfels that would be accounted for, which drew a polite, quiet smile from Lucia. She handled each interaction with practiced grace and humility. Sebastian watched her closely throughout, noting the soft-spoken warmth she offered the older lords, and the kindness in her voice when she praised the younger lady who presented her with a bouquet of early-spring roses.

There was a natural gentleness to her presence, one that soothed rather than commanded. Her deference was not a submission but a strength of its own—measured, composed, unassuming. She did not seek to dominate the court, but rather to inhabit it with grace and serenity. Her hand remained lightly folded in her lap, her posture attentive but modest. There was no sign of calculation in her eyes, only a calm faith and the quiet awareness that her words could guide.

Sebastian felt an unfamiliar calm settle over him as they sat in companionable quiet. The burden of his decisions had not lessened, but something about Lucia’s presence made it feel less solitary. The murmur of the hall swelled again as the first course was presented. Spiced fish stew, dark bread, and baked squash. Servants moved deftly, placing platters along the high table, and Lucia thanked them with a quiet word before turning to Sebastian. He was about to offer her another toast when movement at the foot of the dais caught his attention. 

Lady Genevieve approached, flanked by Lord Carroll and Councilor Hubert. They stopped several paces from the high table, each bowing respectfully. “Your Highness. Princess,” Genevieve said with a courteous smile. “We hope the food is to your liking. The fish is a Starkhaven specialty.”

Lucia smiled softly. “It is most welcome. Your hospitality has been abundant, my lady. I am grateful.”

Genevieve inclined her head. “We are honored by your presence.” Then, with a glance toward Sebastian, she continued more carefully. “If we may be so bold… might we speak further on the matter we discussed earlier, at your convenience? Perhaps after you’ve dined and had a chance to rest, Princess Lucia.” By her tone, she was trying to be considerate, but Sebastian recognized the eagerness beneath. Genevieve and her faction clearly wished to seize the moment before decisions were made in private that they couldn’t influence.

Sebastian set down his spoon and his brow furrowed, but before he could respond, Lucia turned to the councilors with gentle composure. “Is it about the mages?” she asked softly. “I have heard a little, in passing.”

Genevieve nodded, though she seemed to hesitate. “Yes, Your Grace. Their arrival and the Divine’s letter have caused… some division among us. Some urge caution. Others see opportunity for mercy. We do not all agree on how to proceed.”

“It is a most delicate issue,” Lucia said. “The Divine’s wishes and Starkhaven’s safety must both be given their due weight.” She glanced to Sebastian as if to ensure he did not mind her speaking. He gave her a slight nod, curious how she would handle them. Lucia smiled pleasantly as she regarded the small knot of councilors before her. “I am but newly arrived, yet I can already see the prince’s burden. Truly, this decision will shape Starkhaven’s future stance throughout Thedas.”

“Yes, indeed, Your Highness,” Councilor Hubert piped up, clutching his ledger to his chest. “We hoped perhaps a fresh perspective—yours—might help guide us to an amenable solution for all.” The treasurer offered a hopeful smile, no doubt praying that she might lean toward a merciful compromise to benefit the mages.

For a long moment, Lucia remained quietly thoughtful. Her poise at this very first test was admirable, but Sebastian found himself silently urging her to tread softly; he needed his council united, or at least compliant, in what was to come.

At last Lucia spoke, and though her tone remained gentle, her words had an edge to it that hadn’t been there before. “In the Anderfels, we have faced mage uprisings and worse for centuries. Darkspawn, invaders of all sorts… Our people have learned that safety is the highest mercy we might grant the innocent.” She looked at Lady Genevieve with a steady gaze. “If there is even a chance these refugee mages could bring unrest or harm, is it mercy that we invite them into a city that fears them? Would that not risk violence when inevitably there is an incident or a misunderstanding? Perhaps, my lady, the more merciful path is to guide them elsewhere—somewhere better suited to handle their… particular needs.”

Genevieve’s face paled slightly. “Guide them elsewhere,” she echoed. “You mean to refuse them outright.”

“The Maker teaches us to act with wisdom,” Lucia said quietly. She folded her hands in her lap, her gaze drifting momentarily to the table before lifting to meet theirs. “And mercy, when it can be safely given. But it is not for me to decide what is best for Starkhaven. That is the charge the Maker has given to Prince Sebastian. I can only pray that He guides us all through these trials.”

Her voice was calm, free of judgment. She offered no bold solution, no hidden intent—only faith. It was clear that though she made her stance known, she had no desire to sway them. Sebastian watched the exchange with a faint stir of emotion—admiration, yes, but something deeper too.

Lord Carroll interjected, brow knitted. “Princess, if I may—Starkhaven could accommodate them in our old Circle tower, under guard. We were just considering that very possibility before you arrived.” He glanced to Sebastian for support. “A compromise, as it were. It would demonstrate compassion without sacrificing caution.”

Lucia glanced briefly at Sebastian, her expression unreadable but composed. She waited for the smallest of nods from him before she spoke again, and when she did, her voice was quiet—more a suggestion than a stance. “Forgive me if I speak out of turn,” she began softly. “I do not mean to question your wisdom or knowledge of this city. I am still a guest here, and there is much I do not understand.” She paused, her lips thinning slightly as she considered. “But I wonder… if we place these mages in confinement, even under the guise of caution, might they feel punished for seeking sanctuary? The fear that already drives them may only deepen if met with bars and suspicion.”

A hush fell among the group, with Lord Carroll and Lady Genevieve exchanging nervous glances to one another. It was Councilor Hubert who spoke first, clearing his throat slightly. “Princess, these mages come bearing the Divine’s seal,” he said carefully. “If we turn them away, I fear we might be disrespecting Her Holiness directly.”

At the mention of the Divine, Sebastian found that his gaze was locked onto Lucia’s face, searching for any change in her expression. She bowed her head slightly, and when she spoke, her tone did not waver from its gentle suggestion. “Of course, it is not my place to question Her Holiness. Only to wonder aloud if the message we send might one day echo louder than we intend. Magic is a powerful gift from the Maker, but it is a heavy burden. Even the kindest soul can be seduced into darkness when they wield such power and are provoked to anger.” She raised her gaze again, this time to settle upon Sir Nathaniel, the scarred old knight who had fought in several mage uprisings. “Ser Knight, might you tell us what happened in Kirkwall when the Circle mages were overcome with fear and anger?”

Sir Nathaniel’s eyes clouded at the memory. He had been one of the few Starkhaven-born men in the city the very same day that Kirkwall’s Chantry fell and the city fell into chaos. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said hoarsely. “The mages… many lost control when the fighting started. Blood magic, abominations—it was a terrible nightmare.” His gaze shifted to Sebastian, then back to Lucia. “I would never wish to see such horror in Starkhaven. Never.”

A solemn hush fell on that corner of the high table. Lady Genevieve bit her lip and lowered her eyes; she had no counter for the visceral recollection of Kirkwall’s darkest hour. Lord Carroll, however, was not so easily cowed. “Kirkwall’s situation was an extreme case. Perhaps—”

“Enough.” Sebastian’s voice cut through, softly authoritative. He had let Lucia speak for him until now, but seeing the lines drawn and the effect of her words, he was ready to assert his will. He rose from his chair, and Lucia gracefully followed suit, standing beside him in quiet solidarity. The councilors all straightened, awaiting the prince’s judgment. Sebastian looked at each of them in turn—at the worry in Hubert’s eyes, the resignation in Genevieve’s, and the lingering protest in Carroll’s tightened jaw. They would all obey him, he knew; the question was whether they would give their faith or merely their compliance.

“We will speak more of this on the morrow,” Sebastian declared. He did not raise his voice, but carried firmly. “For now, our honored guest deserves a respite, and a celebration of her arrival. I will not have this hall further darkened by debate today.” He managed a courteous smile for the group, though it did not entirely reach his eyes. “Lady Genevieve, Lord Carroll, Councilor Hubert—I value your counsel deeply. And I have heard it. Trust that I will weigh every option carefully.” His gaze flicked to Lucia, and a subtle warmth entered his tone. “Princess Lucia has also offered much wisdom in a few short minutes. I intend to reflect on all of it tonight, with the Maker’s guidance.”

The council members bowed or nodded, murmuring deferential assent. They knew a royal dismissal when they heard one. “Of course, Your Highness,” Lady Genevieve said softly. “We thank you for your patience.” Lord Carroll and Councilor Hubert bowed, keeping whatever arguments they still nursed behind pressed lips. One by one, they retreated to let the prince and princess dine in peace.

When they had gone, Sebastian sat once more. Lucia settled beside him, primly unfolding her napkin. For a moment, neither spoke. The hall around them was lively with the sounds of feasting; silverware clinking, hearty laughter from some of the lords, the strings of a lute being plucked by a bard in the corner. Yet at the high table, a curious bubble of quiet hung between the betrothed. Sebastian stared down at the steaming stew in his bowl, thoughts churning. Unresolved. That’s how the matter stood—purposely so, deferred until tomorrow. But his gut turned with the sense that the decision had already been made in practice, if not in public decree.

Lucia was the first to break the silence. “Did I overstep, my prince?” she asked softly, not looking at him but instead busying herself cutting a piece of the stewed fish with delicate precision. The question was phrased gently, but Sebastian heard the underlying intent: she was checking if he was displeased.

“No,” Sebastian answered, and the honesty of his own voice almost surprised him. “No, Princess. You were… magnificent.” At that, she glanced up, meeting his eyes. He went on, earnest and low, “You spoke with grace and conviction. You said what needed saying. Some of those lords would dance around the truth until doom comes. You struck at the heart of it.”

A slight blush colored Lucia’s cheeks at his praise, and she ducked her head modestly. “Not all are meant to sit the throne,” she murmured, “but we may still help shape the path it follows. With compassion, with faith, and with care enough to urge peace over bloodshed. I merely offered my perspective.” She hesitated, then offered in a near-whisper, “They may not all thank me for it, though.”

Sebastian let out a dry chuckle. “They won’t, not openly. But they will accept it. They must.” He picked up his spoon and idly stirred his stew. “I will give them tonight to make their peace with what must be done. In council tomorrow… I will declare Starkhaven’s answer.” As he said it, he felt a heaviness and a clarity both settle over him. In truth, his mind was already decided—had been, perhaps, from the moment he heard of the mages’ approach. The small part of him that had entertained compromise had been steadily eroded by his own conviction, by the memory of Kirkwall’s flames, and now by Lucia’s support.

There would be no Circle of mercy in Starkhaven’s walls, not now. The risk was too great, the principle too important. Sebastian closed his eyes briefly, picturing Grand Cleric Elthina’s kind eyes. Forgive me, Mother, he thought, I cannot walk your path of soft-hearted patience and forgiveness. His path was duty, harsh and unyielding if need be—the oathkeeper of justice.

Lucia lightly touched his forearm, recalling him from his thoughts. “Whatever you decide, I stand with you,” she said quietly. Her earlier fervor was banked now into a steady glow of loyalty. She looked for a moment as if she might say more, something more personal perhaps, but instead she simply offered another gentle smile and withdrew her hand to finally taste her meal.

Sebastian watched her a moment, then he too took a spoonful of stew, though he scarcely tasted it. He had gained an ally today in more ways than a political marriage. Lucia’s presence at his side would fortify him in the trials to come—and trials surely were coming. The mage question was only one piece of the growing storm, and the Maleficar’s escape was still fresh on his mind. Whispers of unrest were also spreading beyond Starkhaven’s borders. The Divine in Orlais would certainly hear of whatever decision he made and might respond. The alliances he’d forged with the Anderfels, with certain Orlesian nobles, even with the shadows of the former Inquisition, all hinged on firm resolve. Starkhaven itself would need careful tending; there could be those among the populace sympathetic to the refugees or fearful of the prince’s increasingly hard line, if what his councilors said was any indication.

For an instant, Sebastian felt the weight of it all pressing on him. The war to avenge Kirkwall and Elthina, the mantle of rulership, the delicate balance of faith and fear. It was almost overwhelming. But then he looked at Lucia—calmly eating beside him, the picture of devout nobility—and he found his resolve buttressed. The Maker had sent him a partner who understood the load he bore and was willing to carry it with uncompromising strength. At last, he was not alone.

Across the hall, tall glass windows showed the sky outside paling toward dusk. The city beyond would be preparing for the evening—lamplighters making their rounds, the Chantry bells soon to ring vespers. Somewhere out near the eastern road, twenty-odd mages huddled in uncertainty, awaiting Starkhaven’s verdict on their fates. Sebastian pictured their camp; tattered tents, the nervous fire flickering as the sun set. He wondered if any of them realized how tenuous their hope truly was here. Did they know that inside these walls a prince who had once been a Chantry brother—a man with a bleeding heart turned to stone by grief—weighed their lives against a memory of fire and found them wanting?

He set down his spoon, appetite gone. Lucia noticed and quietly slipped her hand into his once more under the table, offering silent comfort. Sebastian did not look at her, but he turned his hand palm-up to entwine his fingers with hers. He felt the gold of her betrothal ring press cool against his skin—a physical reminder of the promises and plans tying them together.

A servant approached to light the candelabra on the table, as the daylight continued to wane. In the growing dimness, Sebastian allowed himself a final moment of honest uncertainty, shared only in the quiet chambers of his soul. Maker, am I doing right? It was not doubt in his cause—that remained righteous and clear—but a prayer for guidance on the path. The Maker’s reply did not come in words, but Sebastian felt a steadiness fill him as he squeezed Lucia’s hand. He looked to the window, where beyond the glass the first star of evening emerged, cold and bright.

Tomorrow, he would face the full council and deliver Starkhaven’s choice regarding the mages. The nobles might argue, the Divine might bristle, and the mages themselves might lash out in desperation. But Prince Sebastian knew what he would say. The decision loomed, and with it, Starkhaven’s future teetered on a precipice—compassion on one side, security on the other.

Sebastian felt the path harden beneath his feet. Surrounded by the warmth of his court and the fervent devotion of his bride-to-be, he understood that the moment of judgment would not be delayed much longer. The tension coiled in the air tonight would either break in mercy or in righteous fury come dawn.

Chapter Text

Garrett Hawke stepped cautiously through the crumbling archway of an ancient elven ruin suspended in the twilight of the Fade. Jagged silhouettes of broken columns clawed at a sky of swirling blue-gray mist. Everything was eerily hushed; even Hawke’s boots on the mossy stone floor made only muffled thuds, as if sound itself was reluctant to disturb this place. Beside him glided Valtaeva, the desire demon whose presence was both alluring and ominous—an otherworldly predator in the shape of a statuesque woman. Her eyes glowed faintly like chips of azure fire in the gloom, and the corners of her lips curved into a perpetual knowing smirk.

Hawke cast a sidelong glance at his companion. He was sure to keep his tone light whenever he spoke to her, masking his nerves with sarcasm. Now was no different. “Lovely décor. I give it two stars for ambience,” he quipped quietly, nodding toward a toppled statue of an elven goddess half-buried in rubble. “Though the interior decorator might be a little dead.”

Valtaeva’s laugh was a low, velvety sound that slid through the air. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, trailing a claw-tipped finger along an ancient carved wall as she walked. “I find it rather cozy. A touch bleak, perhaps—” her gaze flicked to Hawke, and she smiled in a way that revealed a hint of fangs, “—but I’ve always had a taste for ruins and lost things.” 

The way she said lost things made Hawke’s neck prickle, as if the demon were referring to more than just the architecture.

They ventured deeper between rows of cracked pillars entwined with ghostly vines. Wisps of pale light danced at the edges of Hawke’s vision, darting away when he tried to focus on them. The Fade was alive with half-formed thoughts and memories, any of which could spring forth as illusion. Hawke gripped the hilt of his belt knife a little tighter. He trusted Valtaeva about as far as he could throw her, but right now she was his only ally in this nightmare realm.

The silence between them stretched, until Hawke cleared his throat. “So, remind me,” he began casually, “what do you expect to find? Ancient elven treasure? The secret to a long and happy life?”

Valtaeva was a few steps ahead, her hips swaying with unnerving confidence. She paused and glanced over her shoulder at him. In the faint light, her silhouette was both sensual and fearsome—curved horns sweeping back from her brow, pale blue skin glistening with a subtle inner glow. “If we are fortunate, something even more valuable,” she answered cryptically. “Knowledge… power… Perhaps a mirror that can pierce the Veil, or an artifact left by the elves.” Her voice caressed each possibility. “Something I desire.”

Hawke rolled his eyes at the dramatic emphasis. “Of course. And here I thought you were just tagging along for my winning personality.” He made a grand, sarcastic flourish with his free hand. “Lead on, then. I’m just dying to see which one of us gets betrayed first when you find your prize.”

Valtaeva watched him with a predatory calm. “Darling, if I decide to betray you,” she said, moving closer in a single fluid motion, “you’ll see it coming far too late.” She lifted a hand as if to brush an invisible speck of dust from Hawke’s shoulder—an overly familiar gesture that made him tense. Her fingernail, sharp and black as obsidian, barely grazed the reinforced leather of his coat. “But do keep entertaining me with that wit. It’s the second most useful thing about you.” Her lips curved sweetly, but Hawke caught the iron edge beneath the sugar.

He swallowed and mustered a grin. “Good to know I’m at least amusing.” He stepped back from her touch and gestured ahead. “Shall we carry on before something even less charming than you shows up?”

Valtaeva arched a fine eyebrow at his impertinence, yet simply turned and continued forward. “By all means,” she said. “Stay close, now. I’d hate for you to get lost.” The lilt in her voice made it clear that it was more thinly veiled warning than sincere concern.

Eventually, the corridor of columns opened into a vast chamber, its ceiling lost in swirling Fade mists. The air here was considerably colder. Hawke felt a shiver roll down his spine that had little to do with the chill, and his hand once again found the knife at his belt. At the far end of the hall, faint light pooled around an elaborate mosaic set into the floor. He took a few steps toward it, squinting. The pattern looked like a great tree intertwined with lyrium veins, glowing a soft blue. For a moment, he could almost feel something—sadness, perhaps. An ancient, deep sadness that emanated from the design.

“Garrett…”

The voice was gentle, familiar—so achingly familiar that Hawke’s heart lurched. He froze. That name, in that voice… he hadn’t heard it in years. “Who’s there?” he called out, voice echoing off distant stone. His eyes searched the gloom. Valtaeva had moved off to inspect a cracked mirror set into the wall, her attention seemingly elsewhere. Hawke took another hesitant step forward. “Hello?”

From behind a broken pillar stepped a figure draped in pale light. A woman, her form flickering at the edges. Hawke’s breath caught in his throat. It was Leandra Hawke—his mother, just as he remembered her before her gruesome death. Her gray hair was pinned up neatly, and she wore the simple gown she’d often worn at home in Kirkwall. She smiled, eyes soft and warm the way only a mother’s could be.

“Mother…?” Hawke whispered. His grip slackened on his knife, the blade forgotten as a swirl of emotions began to overwhelm him. This has to be a trick, some part of him thought. But the rest of him was already stepping forward, drawn by the impossible sight. “How—? You can’t be here.”

Leandra tilted her head, expression gentle but sorrowful. “Garrett, my sweet boy,” she said softly, opening her arms to him. “What are you doing in a dreadful place like this?”

Hawke felt a lump form in his throat. The sound of her voice threatened to unravel him. “I… I could ask you the same, but—” He took another step. Her arms… he remembered how safe they’d felt around him when he was young, after his father died and he didn’t have to pretend to be strong in front of Carver and Bethany. “Is it really you? This doesn’t make sense…” His rational mind wavered, assaulted by a wave of longing and grief.

“Oh, my sweet boy, I’ve missed you,” she said, and her eyes glistened as if with tears. “It’s been so lonely, Garrett. Since that night…” Her voice shook lightly, and Hawke heard the unspoken echo: the night I died. His chest constricted with a sharp but familiar pain.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke’s voice cracked. He reached out as though to touch her, then stopped, his hand trembling in the air. Memories of that horrible day surged up. Racing through dark streets, anxiety gnawing away at him until it nearly became too much. Then finding her—finding what had been done to her. The blood, the emptiness in her eyes… He squeezed his own eyes shut, willing the images away. “I should have been there sooner. I should have saved you.”

At that, Leandra’s face crumpled in grief. “Why didn’t you save me?” she whispered. A tear rolled down her cheek. “I needed you, but you weren’t there when it mattered.” Her voice, though hushed, struck Hawke like a dagger of ice.

Hawke staggered forward, guilt and anguish twisting in his gut. “I… I tried. Maker, I tried everything—” His vision blurred. He realized his face was wet; he was crying now. “Mother, I’m so sorry…”

She took a step closer, still just out of reach. Her tears fell freely now. “It hurt, Garrett,” she said, voice breaking. “Dying hurt so much… and I was all alone. Do you know how that feels?”

He sank to his knees without even thinking, as if to beg forgiveness that would never come. Shame and despair crashed over him in waves. “Forgive me,” he choked out. “Please, Mother, I’m—” Hawke’s world narrowed to the ghostly figure of his mother. The rest of the Fade, the ruins, even the fact that this couldn’t truly be Leandra Hawke—all of it faded to nothing. There was only her pain and his failure.

“Yes, kneel… you should beg for forgiveness.” Leandra’s tone was no longer gentle, a faint distortion creeping into each word. Hawke was too distraught to notice the subtle wrongness in her voice. “You failed me, my son. You left me to die horrifically. What kind of son does that?” Her loving gaze darkened, lips curling into a brittle, cold smile. “Perhaps you were never the hero you think you are. You couldn’t save your mother… you couldn’t save your city… you’ve abandoned everyone.”

Hawke bowed his head as each accusation struck, tears dripping onto the dusty mosaic beneath him. An awful numbness was spreading through his limbs, an unseen weight pressing him down. Maybe she’s right, whispered a cruel voice at the back of his mind. I’m no hero. I failed everyone I love. Despair coiled tighter around his heart. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to curl up and vanish into the dark.

The figure that looked like Leandra loomed over Hawke, eyes now shining with a cruel, inhuman light. Her voice distorted further, overlapping with a harsh rasp beneath the familiar tones. “Yes… give up. There is nothing left for you but sorrow. Stay here with me, forever…”

A clawed hand—no longer the soft hand of his mother—stretched toward Hawke’s bowed head. Black talons extended, poised to sink into him and drain away the last of his will. He couldn’t bring himself to even try to stop it.

“Enough.”

Valtaeva’s voice rang out, clear and commanding, slicing through the haze of despair like a blade. In an instant, she was there—interposed between Hawke and the false Leandra. Hawke blinked, disoriented, as a sudden gale of heat burst through the hall.

Valtaeva seized the outstretched, taloned arm with an iron grip. For the first time, the illusion of Leandra faltered—flickering between the beloved face of his mother and the twisted, spidery form of a despair demon. Its hollow eyes were pits of darkness; its mouth stretched into a snarl of surprise and rage.

“This one is mine, parasite,” Valtaeva hissed, each word dripping with menace. A pulsing aura of scarlet energy rippled off her form now, the full power of a desire demon laid bare. She towered over Hawke protectively, though her smile as she glared at the despair demon was wicked. “How dare you toy with what belongs to me? ”

The despair demon shrieked, an ear-splitting sound like shattering glass, and lunged at Valtaeva with its free limb. In response, Valtaeva’s eyes flared. She unleashed a burst of raw magic—violet flame mixed with crackling emerald lightning—that struck the demon point-blank.

There was a soundless flash. Hawke, still kneeling, threw an arm up to shield his face from the brilliant light. When he lowered it, blinking spots from his vision, the false Leandra was gone. Only a withered husk of a shade remained, impaled on the end of Valtaeva’s clawed arm. With a look of disgust, she flung the husk aside, where it disintegrated into wisps of black smoke.

Hawke knelt there gasping, as if he’d nearly drowned and only now remembered how to breathe. His mind reeled, grief and confusion warping into a hollow shame. It wasn’t real, he told himself, a bit forcefully. It was never her. But the emotional wounds felt as raw as ever.

Before him, Valtaeva stood triumphant, barely winded from the confrontation. She dusted her hands off in a blasé gesture—more for show than necessity, he was sure. “Pathetic little wretch,” she muttered. “It thought to steal from me.”

As the last curls of darkness evaporated in the air, Valtaeva turned her attention to Hawke. He was still on one knee amid the dust and faintly glowing lyrium lines of the mosaic. Valtaeva’s lips curved into a slow smile as she regarded him, tilting her head lightly. “No need to kneel before me,” she said, voice silken with dark humor. “Unless you’re that grateful, of course.”

Hawke grimaced and forced himself upright, legs unsteady. His cheeks burned with embarrassment atop the lingering anguish. He hastily wiped his face with the back of his hand, angry at himself for shedding tears in front of her. “I’m not—I didn’t…” he stammered, then clenched his jaw. He refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing him so broken. Drawing a shuddering breath, he straightened to his full height. His heart still ached, but he mustered a feeble smirk. “Well. That was thoroughly awful,” he managed, his voice rough. “Not exactly the reunion I’d hoped for. I’d give that experience… no stars. I would not recommend.”

Valtaeva watched as he tried to compose himself, amusement dancing in her eyes. She moved closer, slowly closing the distance until Hawke could feel the unnatural warmth radiating from her skin. With a surprisingly gentle touch, she caught a lone tear that had escaped down his cheek. Hawke flinched at the contact, but she only held up her fingertip, examining the tear glistening there like a jewel.

“Such potent sorrow,” Valtaeva mused. Her voice was almost a purr, though a hard satisfaction lurked beneath. “All over a memory.” She flicked the tear away carelessly. “You mortals truly are fragile things.”

A spark of anger cut through Hawke’s shame. He tore his gaze away to ensure his belt knife was still tucked in its sheath, though it was more an excuse to distract himself momentarily. “Fragile? Maybe,” he snapped, bitterness sharpening his tone. “But we’re not playthings for demons to use and break at a whim.”

The desire demon’s laughter was low and rich as honeyed wine. “Oh, aren’t you?” she answered, arching an eyebrow. “You practically served yourself up just now, did you not?” Her tail flicked in mild irritation. “So eager to wallow in despair at the mere visage of a loved one… It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long on your own.”

Hawke bristled, knuckles turning white on the handle of his knife. Shame and residual grief warred with indignation. “I survived because I learned to fight back,” he said, voice low and angry. “That—” he gestured roughly toward the space where the demon had been, “—was a cheap shot. Anyone would’ve faltered.”

Valtaeva tutted softly and began to circle Hawke, her movements lazy and sinuous, like a great cat toying with prey. He turned warily to keep her in view, even as his head still pounded from the emotional onslaught. “Do you really believe that?” she cooed. “I’ve seen into the hearts of many. Loss and regret are powerful chains, yes… but a strong will can break free. You, my dear, were ready to let yourself be bound forever.” She stopped behind him, and Hawke stiffened as he felt the whisper of her claws trailing lightly across his shoulders—a mockery of comfort. “Tell me, was the memory of her voice truly so sweet that you’d sink into oblivion just to hold it a moment longer?”

Hawke shut his eyes, anger and pain twisting inside him. “Stop it,” he said through gritted teeth. It came out far weaker than he intended. Valtaeva’s presence behind him was unnerving; he could feel her breath at his ear as she leaned in.

“Did it feel good to see her?” Valtaeva murmured, each word deliberate and poisonous. “Or did it hurt more, knowing you could never really have her back?”

“I said stop,” Hawke whipped around, wrenching himself away from her touch. He drew the small knife halfway—unsure if it was meant as a warning, or if he simply needed something solid between them. “I get it. It was an illusion, and it nearly broke me. You got your little show of human weakness.” His attempt at a sardonic grin faltered. “Can we drop it now?”

Valtaeva’s expression shifted subtly. The triumphant smugness eased, and for a moment she regarded Hawke with an inscrutable look—something akin to curiosity, perhaps even a trace of respect. “As you wish,” she said, inclining her head ever so slightly.

She sauntered over to a fallen pillar and leaned against it in a casual pose. The fiery aura around her dimmed; her form appeared a touch more human again, though no less unnaturally beautiful. “Consider this a lesson, Hawke.” Her tone was smooth, almost conversational, yet edged with condescension. “The Fade preys on what you feel most deeply. And you, it seems, carry a very deep wound.” She inspected her clawed nails idly, as if she were almost bored by the topic at hand. “Any two-bit wraith can sniff that out and make sport of you. I cannot have that.”

Hawke exhaled slowly and sheathed the knife with a sharp shove. His anger was ebbing into exhaustion, leaving behind a raw ache where the despair demon had torn open old grief. “Right. You ‘can’t have’ your current favorite tool going dull, is that it?” he said bitterly. He met her gaze with a mix of resentment and reluctant acknowledgment. “Fine. I’ll admit… if you hadn’t stepped in when you did, I’d be in a far worse place.” He hated to concede to her, but the truth tasted less bitter than he’d expected. “So, thank you. For that.”

Valtaeva’s lips sharpened into a catlike grin. “When I did? Darling, I was watching the whole time.” She tapped a finger against her temple as if sharing a playful secret. “I was curious how long you would last against that little nightmare. A bit of research, if you will. And I must say, you almost disappointed me.”

Hawke felt a chill unrelated to the Fade’s ambience. He stared at her, the realization of what she implied sinking in like a stone. “You… could have helped sooner,” he said quietly. It was not a question, just a sickened understanding.

She lifted one elegant shoulder in a half-shrug. “Perhaps. But then I wouldn’t have learned so much about you.” Valtaeva pushed off the pillar and began to close the distance between them again, each step unhurried and graceful. Her voice turned almost fond, even as her words remained cruel. “Now I know, for instance, the face of the one you cherish most… and how easily that love could be turned against you.”

Hawke’s throat tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “If you even think of using my mother against me—” he began, a dangerous edge in his voice.

In a blur of motion, Valtaeva was suddenly in front of him. One moment she was a few yards away; the next, she stood toe-to-toe with Hawke, pressing a finger to his lips. The sharp tip of her black claw hovered a hair’s breadth from his skin. Hawke froze, his threat cut off mid-breath.

“Hush.” Valtaeva’s voice was a silky whisper, perversely gentle and deadly all at once. Her eyes bored into his, unblinking. “Don’t be rude. I did just save you, after all.” She smiled sweetly, though the pressure of her finger at his lips reminded him how easily that claw could pierce flesh. “I have no intention of giving you that particular nightmare again—” her smile widened into something wolfish, “—not unless you give me reason to, of course.”

Hawke inhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to remain still. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. After a taut moment, he gave a small nod to signal his compliance.

Satisfied, Valtaeva let her hand fall away from his lips, but not before trailing the tip of her claw lightly along his jawline as she withdrew. Hawke suppressed a shiver as she released him.

“Good boy,” she crooned slightly, a mocking lilt in her voice that made his cheeks burn hot—whether from humiliation, anger, or some confusing mixture of both. Valtaeva chuckled and turned away from him. “Let me be very clear about this, Hawke,” she said, almost idly, as if discussing the weather. “I didn’t save you out of the kindness of my heart. I saved you because you are mine.” She glanced at him, and something ancient and terrible flickered in her beautiful face. “My investment. My property, if you will. I won’t have some piddling despair demon ruining my plans by breaking what belongs to me.”

Hawke bristled at the word property, but he held his tongue. There was no denying the power imbalance here—Valtaeva had just proven that thorough. Slowly, he bent to retrieve a small pouch that had fallen from his belt (mostly to have an excuse to break eye contact with her). He cinched the pouch strings tight, focusing on the mundane task to steady himself. “Believe me, I’m not keen on being anybody’s plaything,” he muttered. “But I understand. You need me alive and kicking until you get what you want.”

“Exactly,” Valtaeva said, clearly pleased that he grasped the situation. “Now you’re thinking clearly.” She folded her arms, tapping one claw against her forearm in a slow rhythm. “Keep that in mind, won’t you? All it takes is one moment of weakness—” her eyes flicked to the place where he’d collapsed in despair moments ago, “—and poof. All our hard-earned progress, gone. I’d hate to see you fall apart before our little adventure is complete.”

Hawke flexed his fingers, then forced himself to relax  his tense stance. “I don’t intend to fall apart,” he said quietly. He lifted his chin, trying to reclaim a shred of dignity. “Next time, I’ll fight it. I won’t let something like that… happen again.”

Valtaeva studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she inclined her head in a slight nod. “There’s the resolve I was looking for. Good.” With that, she swept a hand toward a dark archway at the far end of the chamber—a jagged gap in the ruin’s wall leading into the unknown beyond. “Shall we continue? Unless you’d prefer to linger here with the echoes of your dear mother a while longer.” The tease in her voice was light, but it made Hawke’s jaw tighten nonetheless.

He shook his head firmly. His emotions were still raw beneath the surface, but he ruthlessly tamped them down. “No. I’ve had enough quality time with family ghosts for one day.” He managed a wry, if weary, smile. “After you, Val. This time, I promise I won’t wander off.”

Valtaeva laughed under her breath. “See that you don’t.” With an almost-affectionate pat against his cheek—more patronizing than comforting—she sauntered past him, taking the lead once more.

Hawke let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He adjusted the sleeve of his partially-destroyed shirt beneath his armor, keeping a step or two behind her. His eyes stayed fixed on Valtaeva’s back as they departed the chamber. Her every movement radiated confidence and command in equal measure; the sway of her form was both mesmerizing and menacing. He couldn’t shake the turbulent mix of gratitude and resentment churning inside him. Yes, Valtaeva had saved him from the despair demon’s trap—but she’d also let him suffer until the brink of ruin, just to satisfy her own curiosity and assert her dominance. The thought made his stomach twist.

As they ventured into another dim corridor of the Fade’s endless maze, Hawke set his jaw, his expression hardening with resolve. This alliance was growing more precarious with each passing moment. And if this most recent encounter was any indication, then he’d have to stay on his guard—against the Fade’s tricks, and against Valtaeva’s. Because while she may be an ally of convenience now, she was still a demon: selfish, capricious, and powerful. Hawke knew, with an uneasy certainty, that if it ever served her interests to turn on him, she would do so without hesitation.

The corridor curved into a spiraling descent. Stone became root, root became mist, and mist became stone again. The Fade’s logic twisted beneath Hawke’s feet, and with every step deeper into the structure, the world shifted in subtle ways. Shadows pulsed with aware, distant whispers murmured in language Hawke didn’t know but almost understood. He tried not to think about how many times the path behind them had vanished when he looked back.

Valtaeva walked ahead, unbothered by the shifting terrain. The glow of her body cast long, sinuous shadows on the walls, making her presence feel even larger than it already was. She moved like a creature completely at ease—because she was. This was her domain, after all. Hawke was just the visitor.

“Tell me something, Val,” he said, voice breaking the tense quiet. “Is it always like this? The Fade. I mean, do the laws of physics always just sort of… shrug and give up?”

Valtaeva hummed thoughtfully. “The Fade has no need for your mortal logic,” she replied, idly tracing a claw along the wall, where moss turned to marble beneath her touch. “It reflects will—desire, fear, memory. The stronger your mind, the louder your echo here.”

“Terrific,” Hawke muttered. “So you’re saying the terrain could be made of screaming regrets if I think about them hard enough?”

Valtaeva’s laugh drifted like smoke in the darkness. “That depends entirely on you.”

He looked down at the platform they walked upon, one that overlooked a chasm of dark water. The reflection on its surface was not of the chamber, but of a distant seashore bathed in moonlight. Hawke frowned as he moved slightly closer, peering down.

He saw himself on that shore—standing beside Anders.

It was a memory. A real one. Their last night before fleeing Kirkwall. Hawke could almost hear the waves, smell the salt on Anders’s coat, feel the weight of the decision pressing on both of them. He watched as Anders placed a hand on his cheek, murmuring something Hawke couldn’t hear but remembered anyway.

Hawke stepped back abruptly, as if burned. Valtaeva tilted her head, studying him. “The Fade remembers what you do,” she said. “And sometimes, it offers a taste to see how far you’ll chase it.”

“I’m not interested in living in the past,” Hawke said. His voice was rougher than he wanted it to be. “Especially when it’s weaponized.”

“No,” Valtaeva agreed. “But the past is useful.” She turned toward the next passageway, beckoning. “Come. There’s something I want to show you.”

Hawke followed, more out of distrust than obedience. He knew better than to let a demon lead without keeping a hand near his weapon. But despite his fears, Valtaeva didn’t take them to another illusion. Instead, they emerged into what looked like a cathedral open to the sky. The architecture was impossible—parts elven, parts Tevinter, parts Orlesian. Stained glass windows floated in midair, casting light patterns on the floor through there was no visible sun. Shapes moved beyond the windows—memories or spirits or demons, he couldn’t say. On the far wall, carved into massive stone doors, was a map of Thedas—but wrong. Fractured, fluid. The landmasses bent like soft clay, the seas rippled like fabric in the wind.

Hawke approached it slowly, something heavy settling in his chest as he looked upon the distorted version of the world he knew. The colors on the map shimmered unnaturally, like oil on water. Cities were marked where they shouldn’t be. Mountain ranges twisted like coiled serpents. The outline of Kirkwall pulsed faintly, flickering between stone and blood.

“The Fade isn’t one singular place,” Valtaeva said behind him, her voice low and velvet. “It’s infinite. Fragmented. Each piece drawn from a mortal mind, stitched together into a great patchwork.”

Hawke traced his finger over Kirkwall’s outline, which shivered beneath his touch like a living thing. “But this one…” he said slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “This piece we’re in now—it’s mine, isn’t it?”

She gave a satisfied little sigh, stepping closer. “Such a clever boy.”

He turned to face her fully, disregarding the patronizing tone in her voice. “So I’ve been shaping this place?”

“To a degree. Not consciously, of course—but you’ve lingered here long enough, poured enough raw feeling into this corner of the Fade that it’s begun to twist around you.” She paused, her eyes narrowing with something like appreciation. “You’re making a home, even if you don’t mean to.”

The thought made Hawke go cold. His hands dropped to his sides, fingers twitching. “Well, shame I don’t plan on staying.” He glanced around, squinting up at the windows floating lazily in the air above. “Otherwise I’d start with the lack of roof.”

Valtaeva moved again, slowly beginning to circle him as her lips curved into a smile that sent a chill down his spine. “That, my clever mage, depends on how much longer you remain lost.”

Something in her tone set every instinct screaming. His breath hitched, but he steadied himself, forcing calm into his voice. “What do you mean, ‘how much longer’? It’s been… What, a few weeks? At most.”

Valtaeva let out a silvery laugh, the kind that dripped with knowing malice. “Oh, Hawke.” She reached out, cupping his chin between clawed fingers in mock affection. “You should know better. Time here is merely a suggestion. It doesn’t match the rhythm of your world.”

He froze. “...How long has it been, Val?” There was no use in dancing around what he wanted to know, and the longer he played at being unbothered, the more bothered he became.

She leaned in close, lips brushing near his ear. Her breath was warm, and he resisted the urge to pull away. “Four hundred and twenty-two days. Give or take.”

The words hit like a hammer. Hawke staggered back as if struck, the blood draining from his face. “A year,” he breathed. “More than a bloody year?”

Valtaeva stepped back, unconcerned, her expression cool. “Do you think anyone is still waiting for you? That they haven’t written your epitaph already?”

Her words sliced through him, sharp and merciless. Hawke’s thoughts spiraled. A year. He’d wasted a year—more than a damn year. The world could be burning, his friends lost or worse, and he had been here—chasing shadows, speaking to demons, wandering a landscape shaped by grief and guilt. He felt bile rise in his throat.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he snapped, voice raw.

Valtaeva lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “You didn’t ask.”

He turned away from her, fists clenched, jaw tight, thoughts racing. Everyone thought he was dead. Varric, Aveline, Carver… Anders. Everyone. The weight of it pressed on his chest until he could barely breathe. What had they gone through, thinking he was gone? What had Anders gone through without him? What choices had he made, alone, with only that damnable spirit in his head?

No. Hawke shoved the thought aside. He took a deep breath, grounding himself. He remembered the promise he’d made when he first stepped into the Fade—to find a way back, no matter the cost. That resolve flared now, burning away the fog of despair.

“Then we move faster,” he said, mostly to himself. “We find a way out. Eluvian, Veil tear, demonic waterslide, something. I’m done wasting time.”

Valtaeva’s expression didn’t shift, but her eyes narrowed, taking him in with a new sort of calculation. “Such passion,” she murmured. “I like that.”

“Good for you,” Hawke snapped. “Because I’m not wasting another damn day playing tour guide through my regrets and failures.”

And with that, he turned and marched toward the next corridor, the sound of his footsteps echoing like a war drum. The flame of purpose lit his path now, scorching away the fear. Behind him, Valtaeva followed, a sharp smile curling at her lips—and perhaps, just perhaps, the flicker of something else. Something more human.

Chapter Text

The office in the corner of the Viscount’s Keep was a frigid monument to bad decisions. Even with a fire behind him, Varric could feel the stone floor biting up through his boots like a disapproving aunt. The table was too long, the chairs too formal, and the air smelled faintly of wet wool, old parchment, and the kind of pompous self-importance that clung to politics like mildew. Appropriate, really—most of the people in the room had been in power long enough to match the décor. They sat in a semi-circle of posturing and polite dread, their expressions more severe than the storm lashing against the Keep’s windows. Kirkwall’s elite, or what passed for it these days, gathered to gnaw on the bones of another looming crisis.

With Seren standing at his left and Aveline sitting at his right, Varric’s eyes swept over the faces in the room as they conversed amongst themselves. Lady Meriel, twice widowed and still the sharpest tongue, had been a friend to Leandra Hawke—or so she often liked to tell Varric. Caeleb Torfair sat beside her, scribbling like he could transcribe his way out of insignificance. Across from them, Lord Renval fiddled with the embroidered edge of his sleeve with all the grace of a man who’d never worked a day in his life but had strong opinions about those who did. And tucked quietly at the end was Neris Arenberg, who’d inherited her seat after her uncle was removed for suspected blood magic dealings—a stain she tried to bleach through sheer administrative brutality.

It wasn’t the worst room Varric had ever sat in. But it was damn close.

As for him, Varric sat with his elbow propped on the chair’s armrest, one finger lightly tapping the wood. The seat of the Viscount still didn’t feel quite right—too high-backed, too stiff, like it had been made for someone taller, colder or dead. And nothing anyone was saying seemed particularly important just yet, which had given him far too much time to get lost in his own thoughts.

Aveline’s voice broke through his muddled thoughts, dragging him back into the matters at hand. “Starkhaven patrols have reached as far as the Vimmark Pass,” she said, clipped and direct. From the set of her jaw, Varric could tell she’d already argued this point at least twice. “They’re lightly armed, but frequent. I don’t like the pattern.”

Renval sniffed, unconvinced. “Patrols aren’t armies, Guard-Captain.”

“And armies don’t knock politely before they invade,” Aveline shot back. “They’re testing the borders.”

“It’s a bluff,” Renval insisted, waving a bejeweled hand as if swatting away a gnat. “Starkhaven wouldn’t dare risk such a brazen attack, not so close to a royal wedding.”

“Which is exactly why they would,” Meriel interjected, voice like gravel in dry parchment. “Nothing says divine sanction like marching under the Maker’s eyes, hand-in-hand with a bride on one arm and Andraste’s flames at your back. If the prince wants to make a play for Kirkwall, now is the time. And if Grand Enchanter Vivienne is truly involved, Maker help us all. That woman could orchestrate a coup with nothing but a smile and a wine glass.”

That name sent a hush through the room. Around the table, uneasy glances were exchanged at the implication. Grand Enchanter Vivienne was one of the most politically decorated mages in all of Thedas. If she’d thrown in with Starkhaven, it meant Sebastian’s ambitions might have the blessing of powerful allies indeed.

Neris looked up from her folded hands. “Is there confirmation she’s supporting Starkhaven?”

“Not formally, serah. But…” Seren said. Their voice was measured and calm, but when Varric looked at them, he noticed their hands were clasped tighter than usual. “Two separate informants have corroborated reports of Orlesian agents moving through the Free Marches with the Grand Enchanter’s seal. Word is, she’s drafting proposals for Circle reformation—to be ratified across the Free Marches. Starkhaven is the first to accept.”

Renval looked bewildered. “That can’t be right. The Grand Enchanter’s Circle is loyal to the College of Enchanters, not to any princeling with a vendetta. Why would she involve herself here?.”

Meriel scoffed openly at his rebuke. “She’s loyal to her own interests, which currently align with Starkhaven’s.” She raised a thin eyebrow at Renval’s naivete. “Sebastian’s positioning this as a righteous cause. If the Grand Enchanter sees an opportunity to push her reforms and gain Chantry favor by backing him, she’ll take it.”

Varric exhaled slowly and leaned forward, bracing his chin on his hand. “So, the most politically savvy mage in Thedas is whispering sweet nothings into Sebastian Vael’s ear now?” His tone was light, nearly flippant, but a muscle in his jaw tightened. “I take it she’s not just sending him ‘best wishes’ on the wedding.”

Seren shook their head. “It’s more than whispers, I’m afraid.” They glanced at Aveline, as if seeking permission. “We… intercepted a communique addressed to certain Chantry delegates in Orlais. The Grand Enchanter has been legitimizing his claim on Kirkwall as part of a ‘divinely ordained reclamation to restore order.’”

A collective inhale circled the table. Aveline muttered a quiet curse. “Wonderful,” she said, grimacing. “If Sebastian’s got the Grand Enchanter’s backing, then this isn’t just one city’s wounded pride. It looks like a cause—a holy crusade.”

Varric couldn’t help a mordant smirk. “Oh, that’s good. And here I was worried we might have a quiet week.” His quip earned a few strained chuckles around the table. Nothing like adding salt to a wound with humor; sometimes it was all that kept the panic at bay.

“The Chantry will support them,” Neris murmured. “Starkhaven’s making sure of that—turning this into a show of faith and righteousness. The prince won’t just be ‘avenging’ Grand Cleric Elthina or whatever he’s claiming. He’ll be sending a message to every Andrastian watching: Kirkwall brought this on itself by harboring a dangerous apostate, and he’s the Maker’s sword to set it right.

An uneasy silence fell. The rain beat against the window glass in a steady drone. For a moment, only the crackle of the fire and the distant rumble of thunder spoke into the silence. Varric could see the fear creeping into a few faces at the table. Starkhaven’s righteous fury was one thing—Starkhaven backed by Orlesian influence and Chantry blessing was quite another.

Renval cleared his throat, voice wavering between bluster and worry. “And what would you have us do about it?” he demanded, a bit more sharply than he seemed to have intended. “Kirkwall can’t stand against Starkhaven in open battle. We barely have enough guards to keep order in Lowtown these days! Our coffers are drained rebuilding after the last disaster, refugees are still huddling in warehouses, the docks are overstrained… And half the guard are green recruits at best!” He shook his head, gray hair bobbing. “We’re in no state for a war.”

“Then we find allies,” Aveline said immediately, her tone firm.

“Who?” Renval challenged. “Orlais won’t act against one of their own—certainly not on behalf of Kirkwall’s mage-harboring reputation. Ferelden is still licking its wounds. And the Inquisition…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely. “The Inquisition’s gone. Disbanded. There’s no one coming to save Kirkwall. Face it—we are alone.”

A brief hush followed his bleak assessment. Varric’s jaw tightened. Alone or not, he wasn’t going to just roll over and bare Kirkwall’s throat.

Lady Meriel tapped a finger thoughtfully on the table. “Alone but not entirely without options,” she said, almost too casually. “There is one gesture that may slow Sebastian’s momentum. Perhaps even bring him to the negotiating table instead of the battlefield.” All eyes turned to her. She smiled thinly. “The Hawke estate.”

Varric frowned at the mention. Across the table, Neris raised an eyebrow, and Aveline’s brows knit in concern.

It was Renval’s turn to scoff now. “You think a house will stop an army?”

“It’s not just a house,” Meriel said crisply. “It’s the Hawke estate—unclaimed, unresolved. For years it’s been left to stand as a silent monument to the Champion. To the Kirkwall he defended, to the apostate he sheltered. So long as it stands empty, it’s a ghost Sebastian is only too happy to chase. Take it from him, and you take his myth.” She turned to Varric more directly. “Viscount Tethras, we must reclaim the estate, sell it, and use the funds to fortify the gates, hire more guards, and reestablish patrol routes. We must show that we are investing in the future, not clinging to the ashes of the past.”

It took Varric a moment to find his voice, and when he did, it was low and tight. “In other words,” he said, barely hiding the bitterness, “you propose we sell out Hawke’s memory to buy time. Hand over his home as… what? An apology? Hope that it’s enough to call off Sebastian’s dogs?”

Meriel met his gaze without flinching. “I’m proposing we demonstrate that Kirkwall’s leadership does not endorse what the Champion did by sheltering Anders. The estate is a silent provocation as things stand. Clear the board, and perhaps Starkhaven loses one excuse to march in here claiming moral high ground.”

Renval made a noise of approval, nodding. “It’s a sensible concession. The Champion’s home is little more than a relic now. A house is certainly a small price to avoid open war.”

Neris shook her head. “The Champion saved this city more times than I can count,” she said, her voice tight with disapproval. “Are we to repay our Champion by turning his ancestral home into a bargaining chip?”

Meriel’s polite smile faded. “The Champion also abandoned this city to chaos when he fled with Anders,” she replied coolly. “Kirkwall bled for it. The Hawke name isn’t sacred, and the Amells have long since faded into irrelevance. He left us to clean up the mess he helped create. And symbols, Viscount,” she added, looking squarely at Varric, “can be more dangerous than armies. Right now that empty mansion stands for Kirkwall’s unresolved past. If we’re wise, we’ll resolve it on our terms before someone else does it for us.”

A hot spike of anger lanced through Varric’s chest. His hands curled into fists on the table. “You think I don’t see that?” he said, voice low and rough. “You think I don’t walk past that dark, empty house and wonder how long before someone tries to twist what it means?” His composure slipped, anger sharpening each word. “I’ll rebuild Kirkwall’s walls stone by stone, I’ll scrape together every coin, call in every favor and pull every string I have ‘til my fingers snap—whatever it takes to protect this city. But I am not selling even a brick of that estate just to make Sebastian Vael hesitate for a few damned minutes before he declares his own Exalted March anyway.”

Silence. The crack and thunder of Varric’s tone echoed off the stone for a heartbeat after he fell quiet. Lady Meriel sat back, lips pressed together in a thin line, but if she had a retort, she swallowed it. Renval looked away, shaking his head like a disappointed grandfather. Caeleb’s quill had stilled, hovering above the page. Even Seren held their breath, wide-eyed at the uncharacteristic fury in Varric’s voice.

Aveline cleared her throat gently, breaking the tension. “The Hawke estate is off the table,” she said, casting a brief, warning glance around to forestall any further argument. “And we move forward with strategies we do have.” She straightened in her seat, sliding back into the practical mindset that had carried her through more than one crisis. “First, we need information and goodwill. I’ll open formal channels to Ferelden. King Alistair may not send troops, but he might send warnings if he catches wind of Starkhaven mustering support across the Waking Sea. We could use eyes and ears in Denerim. He owes Kirkwall at least that much.”

Neris gave a quick nod. “Agreed. In fact, Your Excellency—” she addressed Varric respectfully, unfolding a pair of letters from a stack at her elbow, “—I anticipated as much. I’ve drafted letters to the rulers of Wycome and Ostwick as well. If we can’t get soldiers, perhaps we can secure supplies—steel, grain, coin. Ostwick’s always been rather practical; they might deal if the price or promise is right. And Wycome…” She managed a tiny smirk. “Wycome will remember what happened the last time a neighbor tried to annex territory waving a righteous flag. They’ll quietly back any effort to prevent a repeat scenario, even if just with material support.”

“Good thinking,” Aveline said, accepting the folded letters Neris passed down. “We’ll need supplies regardless of how far this escalates. Maker forbid we end up with another flood of refugees if Starkhaven’s zeal sparks panic in the Marches.”

The others began to chime in now, the flurry of concrete planning breaking the dark spell. Numbers were proposed, names of potential allies floated. Aveline offered to draw up new guard rotation schedules to cover any sudden attack or influx. Seren promised to update the coastal watchtower patrols and double-check the alert system at the docks. Someone down the table—Varric wasn’t even sure who—muttered about reaching out to Nevarra for a discreet mutual defense understanding. Bit by bit, tasks were assigned and the outline of a response took shape.

Varric heard it all, and yet he didn’t. As the plans and voices swirled around him, his gaze drifted unfocused toward the rain-lashed windows. The room grew muffled, distant, each speaker’s voice sounding like it came from underwater. A crusade. Sebastian Vael invoking the Maker’s name and sharpening his righteous sword, ready to march on Varric’s city. Vivienne and the Chantry fanning his zeal. And at the heart of it all, the apostate who had lit the spark years ago—Anders.

Anders. The name itself felt like a weight in Varric’s chest, heavy with old grief and anger. The man who had once been their friend… a healer with a cheeky smile and too many kitten metaphors. The man Hawke had loved enough to damn near burn his own life down in the name of justice. The same man was now a monster from the shadows, a figure of vengeance that Sebastian used to justify war and that Kirkwall itself had sworn to stop. Hawke’s lost love, Kirkwall’s nightmare. How many more lives would Anders claim, directly or indirectly, before this was over?

“Your Excellency?” Seren’s gentle, uncertain voice cut through the fog of Varric’s mind like a dagger through bad silk. The young seneschal was peering at him with open concern. Around the table, the others had fallen quiet one by one, noticing that their Viscount’s mind was elsewhere.

Varric blinked and shook his head, forcing himself back to the present. The immediate problem. The letter—Sebastian’s letter still lay on the table, its contents demanding an official response even as his men prowled the borders. One crisis at a time.

He cleared his throat. “Sounds like we have a plan,” he said, attempting a reassuring smile for the assembled councilors. “Shore up allies, tighten defenses, keep eyes open. That’ll do for now.” He rested a hand on the parchment bearing Starkhaven’s seal. “But before any of that, we need to answer our dear prince.” His tone made it clear how little warmth he felt for Starkhaven’s ruler. “Sebastian’s letter called for our ‘full cooperation’ in apprehending Anders—and oh-so-generously offered Sebastian’s help with our wounded and our memorials.” Varric’s mouth twisted. “In short, he implied Kirkwall bungled the job and can’t handle its own mess.”

Renval bristled at that, and Meriel’s scowl deepened. Exactly the reaction Sebastian must have intended, Varric thought. The man was poking at Kirkwall’s pride while dangling aid like he was its savior.

“Our answer ought to be careful,” Neris said. “Firm, but diplomatic. We can’t afford to show weakness, and we certainly can’t invite him in.”

“Agreed,” Varric said. “In fact, we’ve already got a response. Seren?”

Seren’s half-elven ears tinged pink at the attention, but they squared their shoulders and hurried forward, letter in hand. “Of course, messere—” they began, then caught themself and corrected, “I mean, Your Excellency.” Varric waved off the title with a good-natured roll of his eyes, and Seren pressed on. “Prince Vael’s letter, as you said, implied that Kirkwall failed to do its part. This letter states that we did our duty, up until unforeseen events intervened.” They passed the folded parchment to Neris, who carefully opened it and began to read silently. “The Prince offered help with treating our wounded and even with funerary rites for the fallen. We declined, of course—but politely, and with enough flattery to soothe his pride.”

Neris gave an approving nod as she passed the letter to Meriel. “It is, perhaps, a tad thick on the flattery, but I’m sure the prince will eat it up.”

Seren’s grin widened, but they pressed on. “When dealing with nobles, say ‘no’ in a way that sounds like ‘thank you.’”

Aveline snorted. “We should embroider that on a pillow for the Viscount’s office.”

When it was Renval’s turn for the letter, even he looked mildly impressed. “Yes… If he wants cooperation, then he can’t object to sharing intelligence. And if he does object—well, he’ll look uncooperative himself.” He let out a low whistle of appreciation. “This is very clever, Your Excellency.”

For the first time in days, a tiny knot of tension in Varric’s chest eased. It wasn’t a complete solution—nothing so simple would make this crisis vanish—but it was something. A damn good letter that would keep Starkhaven appeased and out of Kirkwall’s hair for a little while longer. Time. That was what they needed above all else: time to regroup, to hunt down Anders, to prevent Sebastian’s holy war from igniting.

With the letter formally sealed, it was passed to a waiting page to be prepared for courier dispatch. “Make sure that goes out tonight,” Varric instructed the young runner, who bowed and hurried off.

“Hopefully that keeps the good prince happy for a few weeks,” Neris said, though her tone remained grim. “If the Grand Enchanter is truly behind him, Sebastian’s confidence won’t falter for long. He’ll bide his time until he’s mustered enough support. The next letter we get might not be so polite.”

“We’ll be ready,” Varric said, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt.

Within the hour, the council meeting began to wind down. One by one, Kirkwall’s caretakers gathered their notes and stood, some more stiffly than others. Renval departed with a weary sigh, muttering about the sheer audacity of princelings and mages these days. Meriel offered Varric a curt, perfunctory bow—pointedly omitting any mention of their disagreement—and swept out in a cloud of expensive perfume. Young Lord Torfair scurried after her, still scribbling away. Neris lingered just long enough to stack a few reports neatly on Varric’s desk. “The letters to Ostwick and Wycome will go out with the evening dispatch, Your Excellency,” she said. “I’ll see to it personally.” He thanked her, and with a tight smile and a bob of skirts, she too was gone.

At last, only Aveline and Seren remained. The flames in the hearth had burned low, casting the room in a wavering orange glow. Outside, the storm still lashed Kirkwall’s spires, rain drumming on the leaded glass.

Seren gathered a bundle of ledgers under one arm, clearly preparing to take their leave as well. They paused by Varric’s chair, youthful face creased with concern. “Is there anything else you need tonight, Your Excellency? Er—Varric,” they asked softly. 

Varric managed a tired smile for his seneschal. “You’ve done more than enough, Seren. Get some rest. We’ve all got a long road ahead.”

Seren nodded, hesitating a moment as if debating whether to say more. In the end, they simply said, “We’ll get through this, messere.” Though the words were formal, the earnest determination in Seren’s voice was genuine, almost touching. With them, Seren excused themself and slipped out, closing the heavy office door behind them.

Varric slumped back in his oversized chair the moment the latch clicked. “Andraste’s flaming tits,” he muttered, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “What a sodding mess.”

“At least everyone’s on the same page now,” Aveline offered. She’d remained seated, exhaustion showing in the slump of her shoulders now that the others were gone. In the dim light her freckled face looked older, worry carving new lines around her eyes. “More or less.”

Silence settled between them now, comfortable yet taut with unspoken worries. Varric stared at the scattered maps and correspondence on his desk—petitions from frightened merchants, reports of the ambush in the Vimmarks, casualty lists from that night… the night they’d lost Anders. No, he corrected himself, the night Anders had escaped.

He heard Aveline take a slow breath. When he glanced over, she was watching him with a troubled frown. Clearly something weighed on her mind, something beyond the official business they’d just dispatched.

“What is it, Aveline?” Varric prompted gently. 

Aveline pursed her lips, as if choosing her words carefully. “There’s one detail we haven’t discussed with the council,” she said. “Something about that ambush on the prison convoy.”

Varric felt a stab of pain at the memory. The convoy through the mountains had been carrying Anders, bound in chains, en route back to Kirkwall’s justice, before it’d all gone straight to the Void. Arrows from the cliff, strange magic, an explosion that left a smoking crater in the road… He still smelled the ash and lightning when he thought of it.

“What detail?” he asked quietly. In truth, he could guess. It was the same detail gnawing at his own conscience in the small hours of the night.

Aveline leaned forward, elbows on the table. Her gauntlets were off, and she rubbed her palms together slowly, anxiously. “When things went sideways in the pass… I was knocked out pretty early.” She gave a humorless huff. “A Guard-Captain flattened in the first few seconds—embarrassing, I know. But as I was coming to, just before our reinforcements arrived…” Her voice grew even quieter. “I could have sworn I saw Anders.”

Varric straightened, the breath stilling in his lungs.

Aveline’s gaze fixed on the table, reliving it. “I was on my back in the mud. My ears were ringing, everything was blurry. There was smoke everywhere, and bodies… I heard someone coughing, felt the rain on my face. I thought I was dreaming at first, but… Varric, I saw him. He was… standing over us.” She looked up at him, eyes searching. “Just for an instant. He looked… I don’t know. Scared, maybe. Then there was this light—gentle and warm… I thought it was the sun. And then I blacked out again. Next I knew, Donnic was pulling me up from the wreckage and Anders was gone.”

Varric let out the breath he’d been holding. His heart thudded a little faster now. Warm light—Anders’s healing magic had always been so gentle. He’d seen it a hundred times back in the day, mending scrapes and burns during their travels with Hawke. If Aveline really saw Anders casting healing spells…

“Anders survived the ambush,” Varric said, voice rough. “And… it sounds like he didn’t finish us off when he had the chance.” He tried to keep his tone neutral, but an old, half-buried emotion crept in around the edges of his words.

Aveline nodded slowly. “That’s what’s been eating at me.” She clenched her jaw, clearly struggling with the implications. “If he wanted us dead, he could have left us to bleed out in that pass. Maker knows, after how we—” She stopped herself, but Varric knew what she meant. Dragging him in chains, treating him like a rabid dog. “Why would he… why spare us?” she finished in a strained whisper.

For a long moment, Varric didn’t reply. He felt an uncomfortable tightness behind his ribs. Anders’s face flashed in his memory: not the wild-eyed killer from the Chantry explosion, but Blondie, his friend who used to lounge in the Hanged Man, griping about templars and grinning when Varric insulted his diamondback skills. Hawke’s lover, who once wept in relief when they found him alive under a pile of rubble. That Anders hadn’t been a monster.

“Maybe…” Varric began, then stopped. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut as he gathered his thoughts. “He didn’t want us dead. Not us, specifically.”

Aveline’s throat worked as she swallowed. “When I was lying there… Varric, I had an arrowhead in my thigh, saw it when the fight started. By the time Donnic found me, that wound was closed. Scarred, as if weeks old.” She let out a shaky breath. “And you—aside from that nasty bump on your head—you were intact. Others weren’t as lucky.” She didn’t need to elaborate; they’d lost good men and women in that ambush. “It’s like… he healed us, and then vanished.”

Varric felt a complicated swirl of relief, guilt, and anger. Anders saving them—it made perfect sense. Of course the man Hawke loved would rather vanish than finish them off. But it didn’t absolve him of everything else, Varric reminded himself. It didn’t bring back Elthina, or Bran… or Hawke. It didn’t undo the countless lives that had been lost in the chaos after the explosion.

“When I visited him at Castra Muniti,” Varric began, voice low and tight, “I kept wondering… hoping, maybe… that deep down, maybe he wasn’t as far gone as we thought.” The confession sat heavy between them, with a lingering sorrow too deep to be named. 

Aveline reached out and laid a callused hand over his. The gesture was brief, but enough to share the weight between them. “It doesn’t change what he’s done,” she said softly. “I haven’t forgotten who he was. But I can’t forget what he’s become, either.” She withdrew her hand, raking it through her short-cropped copper hair. “You saw Kirkwall after the Chantry blew. The way people tore each other apart in the streets. Anders lit the flame that burned this city. We can’t let him do it again—here or anywhere.”

Varric nodded. It hurt, Maker it hurt, to speak of Anders like this. But it was the truth they had to live in. “If we ever truly cared about the man Anders used to be,” he murmured, “we owe it to him to stop the monster he’s become. Put an end to this, one way or another. Before any more people die because of him.”

Aveline let out a slow breath, as if releasing the last of her doubts. “We’ll do what needs to be done,” she said. She met Varric’s eyes, her gaze steady and somber. “I just… I pray it’s quick when the time comes. For all our sakes.”

“Quick and clean,” Varric agreed quietly. In his mind, he silently added: and by our hands, not Sebastian’s. However this ended, Varric refused to let Kirkwall’s fate—Anders’s fate—be dictated by Sebastian and his zealotry. Kirkwall would see this through on its own terms.

Aveline rose from her chair with a soft creak of leather. She looked exhausted, but composed once more—the Captain of the Guard ready to carry the burden of duty. “I should get back to the barracks,” she said. “My people will need direction come morning. And I should be with Donnic… we lost some of our own in that ambush. Letters to write, funerals to arrange.” Her voice wavered just a touch—Aveline never liked showing that side, but Varric knew every death under her command wounded her deeply.

“Give the guard my thanks,” Varric said. “And take care of yourself, Captain. Kirkwall still needs you now more than ever.”

She managed a faint smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. You, on the other hand—” She eyed him. “Try to get some sleep, Varric. You look like you’re about to keel over. Viscount or not, you’re no good to anyone dead on your feet.”

He huffed a weak laugh. “Yes ma’am,” he said in a mock-penitent tone.

Aveline moved to the door, then hesitated. “Varric… about Hawke’s estate,” she said softly over her shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re right. Hawke… Hawke would’ve laughed at us fighting over his house like it’s a damned trophy.” Pain flickered across her face. “But it’s all we’ve got left. We’ll find another way.”

Varric felt gratitude swell in his chest. “We’d never hear the end of it,” he said roughly. She gave him one final nod—the unspoken trust between them clear—then squared her shoulders and stepped out into the hall.

When the door closed, Varric allowed himself to sage forward, elbows on the desk and face in his hands for just a moment. What a day, he thought wearily. And what was coming might be far worse.

After a few breaths, he straightened and reached for a fresh sheet of parchment. The lantern on his desk guttered, its oil nearly spent, but he didn’t bother to refill it. The low fire and occasional lightning outside provided enough light for what he needed to do. He uncapped his inkwell and stared down at the blank page, tapping his quill against the edge of the desk. He had letters of his own to write now—letters beyond the official parchment and fancy seals.

Kirkwall needed help, even if Renval choked to admit it. And Varric Tethras still had friends in far places.

Names came to mind instantly. Josephine Montilyet, master of turning the tide of politics. If anyone could sniff out what strings Vivienne and the Chantry were pulling in Orlais—or gently tug a few of those strings in Kirkwall’s favor—it would be Josie. Varric began addressing it, addressing it, “Dear Josie,” before scratching that out for a more formal greeting. Even now, he defaulted to friendly familiarity. Truth was, he trusted her. And Kirkwall could dearly use an ally with her diplomatic chops. He explained the situation in broad strokes: Sebastian’s posturing, the threat of a march on Kirkwall, Vivienne’s involvement. He appealed to Josephine’s discretion and influence, asking if she might glean the mood among the Chantry and Orlesian nobility, perhaps even slow any declaration of support for Sebastian. He kept his tone light—he couldn’t resist adding a wry line about how he’d trade her an exclusive serialized publishing of Hard in Hightown: The Orlesian Masquerade Edition for a bit of political insight. Josephine would appreciate the humor, he hoped.

Once satisfied, he set that letter aside and reached for another blank page. This one he addressed to Cullen Rutherford. The former Commander of the Inquisition’s forces had retired to Orlais after the Inquisition drew down, or so Varric had heard. Perhaps living quietly on a small farm, enjoying some hard-earned peace in-between his work with the lyrium addicted former templars. Varric grimaced at the thought of disturbing that peace, but if anyone understood the threat of a zealous Chantry-backed campaign, it was Cullen. He inquired about Cullen’s well-being (and that of a certain healer he was sweet on, subtly checking if Cullen still had connections to the wider world). Then Varric laid out Kirkwall’s plight plainly: Anders was at large, Sebastian was on a warpath, and Kirkwall’s resources were stretched thin. He asked Cullen for any counsel or aid he could spare, even if only advice on handling the Chantry or bolstering Kirkwall’s defenses against both internal and external threats. Cullen had led armies; the chances he knew a commander or two who could quietly lend expertise was great. Varric stopped short of asking for men—Kirkwall wasn’t begging for mercenaries, not yet anyway.

Two letters done. Two rays of hope, however faint. Varric sanded the ink on those pages and folded them carefully, sealing each with his personal crest rather than the Viscount’s seal. These weren’t official correspondence—just pleas from a friend.

Finally, Varric drew out one last sheet and sat tapping the quill for a long, long time as the candle guttered. This one he didn’t address immediately. In his mind he saw another name, one he hadn’t spoken in a long while.

Carver Hawke.

Carver the Grey Warden, stationed somewhere in the distant Anderfels as far as Varric knew. After the disaster with Corypheus and the Fade, Carver had retreated into duty and perhaps bitterness. Varric had written to him after it became clear Hawke was well and truly gone—lost in the Fade, almost certainly dead. Carver never answered. Varric couldn’t blame him; what comfort could he possibly have offered Leandra Hawke’s last living child? Sorry your big brother sacrificed himself fighting some demon in a nightmare realm, wish I’d been able to stop him? There were no words for that.

But now… Varric wondered. If Carver knew what was happening—how Sebastian was using Hawke’s memory as a pawn, how Anders was probably out fanning flames across the Free Marches again—would he care enough to act? The Wardens typically stayed out of politics, even in the wake of the Inquisition’s fight against Corypheus. And Carver was likely bound by their duty, possibly unreachable in distant Weisshaupt Fortress. Even if Varric’s letter got to him, what then? Carver might not forgive any of them for what happened to his brother. And the Wardens certainly wouldn’t march to save Kirkwall; they had their own wars in the dark.

Varric’s quill hovered over the page, indecision gnawing at him. The room was silent now but for the patter of rain. He dipped the quill, then hesitated so long that a fat drop of ink blotched the blank page. With a frustrated sigh, he set the quill down. Not tonight. He couldn’t find the right words for Carver—hell, he didn’t even know if reaching out was the right move. Perhaps in the morning, when his head was clearer and the ghosts of the past were at bay, he’d know what to say to the kid brother who’d already lost too much.

Varric pushed back from the desk and stood, stretching out the stiffness in his back. He wandered over to the window and drew aside the heavy drapes. Hightown sprawled beyond, silvered by moonlight and streaked with rain. Near the center of the district, illuminated faintly by street torches, stood the Hawke estate—its tall windows dark, its proud façade streaked with decades of soot and neglect. It looked like a mausoleum, Varric thought, a grave marker for the Champion who’d saved the city and then vanished from the world itself.

“Dammit, Hawke,” Varric murmured to the empty room. “You picked a fine time to be gone.” Lightning flickered, and in that moment the estate’s shadow loomed long over Kirkwall’s streets, like a watchful guardian without a soul. Varric closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the cool glass. What would you do, Hawke, if you were here? he wondered. Probably something brash and heroic—and fundamentally stupid, he answered himself with a tired laugh. Hawke would have infiltrated Starkhaven’s court disguised as a minstrel, or confronted Sebastian face-to-face, damn the consequences. But Hawke was not here. That responsibility, foolish or not, fell on those who remained.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as Varric turned away from the window. On his desk lay the two finished letters, ready for allies who might or might not answer. Nearby sat the ink-splotched, unaddressed page that would remain empty, at least for now. Varric took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, feeling the weight of the Viscount’s chain of office around his neck. He would carry that weight a little longer. Kirkwall’s future—and Hawke’s legacy—demanded nothing less.

Tomorrow, the game would continue. Letters to send, forces to rally, a city to brace for whatever storm Prince Sebastian Vael was preparing to unleash. And somewhere out there in the night, Anders was still breathing, still running, a man who had once been their friend and was now key to all of this.

Varric extinguished the last sputtering lantern and left the office, his footsteps echoing down the dark corridor of the Keep. Outside, the storm raged on, but inside the Viscount’s Keep, Varric Tethras’s resolve burned steady against the encroaching dark. The oath he carried—to protect Kirkwall and all who called it home—would not be broken. Not by a prince, not by a fanatic, and not by the ghosts of the past.

Chapter Text

Anders stood in the center of a ruin, surrounded by swirling ash and embers. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and burnt incense. Charred pews lay scattered like broken bones across the stone floor. Flames licked at the edges of tapestries depicting Andraste’s martyrdom, the firelight distorting her serene face into a rictus of pain. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled frantically—an alarm, or a death knell.

He took a step forward. Beneath his boot, glass from a shattered stained-glass window crunched, pieces glittering like fallen stars in the gloom. Each step echoed. At the front of the chantry, where the altar should have been, there was only a yawning crater. Anders’s heart pounded as he approached it. The edges of the creator glowed orange, molten, as if the stone itself wept fire.

A figure lay at the center of the destruction. Through the haze, Anders recognized the charred remains of Grand Cleric Elthina’s robes, the once-rich reds and golds now blackened and smoldering. His stomach lurched. He knew this scene—Maker, he’d made this scene—but some part of him refused to accept it.

Anders opened his mouth, though he didn’t know what he intended to say. Whatever it was, it died in his throat, swallowed by the crackle of flames and distant screams.

Suddenly, the corpse on the ground wasn’t Elthina at all—it was Garrett Hawke.

Anders’s breath seized in his chest. Hawke lay motionless amid the rubble, his broad shoulders slack, his arms flung wide as if still trying to shield someone. His brown eyes, once alive with wit and fire and all the stubborn devotion Anders had fallen in love with, stared lifelessly at a smoky sky above. Ash dusted his black hair, clung to his lashes, softened the sharp lines of his face until he looked almost peaceful.

Anders fell to his knees, the ash still warm through his robes as he crumpled beside the man he loved.

“Hawke,” he whispered, reaching out with shaking hands. His fingers hovered over the bloodied tunic, too afraid to touch, as if the weight of that contact would confirm what he already knew. He tried to summon the Fade’s warmth, tried to pour his magic into the air between them—anything to call him back.

But nothing came. No power. No spirit. No Justice.

Only silence. A dead, echoing silence in his mind where once there had been constant fury, constant purpose. 

Just Anders now. Just despair as he stared at the ruined body of his love.

Then—Hawke’s face turned toward him. Slowly. Unnaturally. Eyes locked on his, burning with clarity despite the shadow of death across his features. 

Anders’s breath caught again.

That face—he had kissed it a thousand times. Had traced that scarred lip with reverent fingers in the dark, had buried his confessions in the hollow of that throat, had clung to that body as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the world. Hawke had promised to return. Had held him the night before the Inquisition took him away. Strong fingers had been splayed against his spine, voice low and shaking as he swore he’d come back. That they’d finish what they started. That nothing—not gods, not demons, not duty—would keep them apart for long.

But now, Hawke looked at him like a stranger. And when he spoke, his mouth never moved.

“Why did you do this?”

The voice that came was Hawke’s and also not Hawke’s—tones overlapping, one accusatory and anguished, the other a deep, echoing timbre that vibrated in Anders’s chest. Justice’s voice, layered beneath. Why? it demanded. Was it worth it?

Anders recoiled, scrambling back on the sooty floor. His heart hammered against his ribs. “I… I had to,” he stammered, though no sound passed his lips. He could feel the words tearing at his throat, desperate and silent. He wanted to explain, to beg Hawke to understand. Sparks rained down around them like burning confetti from above.

Hawke’s body began to rise, lifted by some unseen force. His eyes glowed a searing blue now, the same ghostly hue that Anders knew shone in his own when Justice overtook him. Hawke’s eyes found him again, and Elthina’s gentle voice emerged, eerily calm amidst the chaos. “All those innocents… dead for your freedom. Is this justice, Anders?”

“No…!” Anders gasped. He covered his ears, but the voices were inside him, reverberating in his skull. Elthina’s voice warped into another. Righteous, implacable. Familiar. Sebastian Vael’s voice intoned a prayer of vengeance: “Andraste, guide me… Make me an instrument of the Maker’s justice. Of Your justice.” The princely archer’s silhouette appeared behind Hawke’s levitating body, bow drawn, an arrow of fire aimed at Anders’s heart.

Anders could not breathe. The smoke was too thick, coiling into his lungs. His eyes burned with tears that would not fall. And Hawke… Hawke was looking at him with a sorrow worse than hatred. Behind him, Sebastian loosed the arrow.

Anders screamed.

He jolted awake, the scream echoing in his ears as he bolted upright. His chest heaved, sweat slick on his skin despite the chill in the room. For a heartbeat, he didn’t know where he was. The aftermath of the dream clung to him; the scent of smoke, the accusing voices. Hawke’s dead eyes. The phantom pain in his chest throbbed in time with his racing pulse.

But as reality settled, those horrors faded to memory. He was not in a chantry at all, nor in a cage or a dungeon as he’d expected. Anders found himself in a small wooden room, dimly lit by early dawn light filtering through a single window. Pale morning sun painted a rectangle on the plank floor, dust motes dancing in the still air. The tang of smoke in his nostrils was replaced by scents of straw and dried herbs, and beneath that the faint pungency of livestock.

A coarse wool blanket had fallen to his waist when he sat up. Anders’s hands were trembling as he pushed sweat-damp blond hair back from his face. His fingers brushed the edge of a bandage wrapped tight around his middle, under his tattered shirt. The pain in his left side was real enough—hot and aching, though dulled from what he dimly remembered before. He pressed the heel of his palm gently against the wound and winced. At least it felt clean, maybe even treated with a poultice. Someone had seen to it.

His sudden movement and cry must have alerted someone. A chair scraped across the wooden floorboards nearby, startling Anders. He twisted toward the sound—too quickly. The room spun, a wave of dizziness washing over him as his vision blurred. He swayed, and a pair of hands quickly but gently grasped his shoulders, steadying him before he could pitch forward.

“Anders! Thank the Maker,” came a hushed voice. “Easy, please.” As the world refocused, Anders saw the face of Flynn hovering close, wide brown eyes flooded with concern. The young man looked drawn and tired, shadows smudged beneath his eyes, and a reddish scrape ran along his jawline. His black hair was a messy halo around his face, and Anders realized he must’ve been sleeping hunched in that chair until moments ago.

Flynn released Anders’s shoulders once he was sure Anders wasn’t about to collapse. He held his hands up placatingly, a familiar gesture that sparked a memory of rain and lightning in a moonlit forest. Flynn had approached him with those same empty, open hands. I’m not here to hurt you. The memory of his voice in the storm echoed in Anders’s mind.

Anders exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Flynn…” he managed, his own voice scarcely above a whisper. His throat felt raw, as if he really had been screaming out loud. Maybe he had. Embarrassed heat crept up his neck at the thought.

The younger mage offered a tentative smile. “It’s alright. You’re safe. It was just a dream,” Flynn said softly. He hovered at Anders’s side, unsure if he should do more. “You were… thrashing and crying out. I didn’t want to wake you too roughly.”

Anders closed his eyes, willing his pounding heart to slow. He could still see afterimages of fire when he blinked. “How long…?” he croaked, swallowing to wet his dry throat. His tongue felt thick and tasted of stale bile.

“Near a week,” Flynn answered gently. “It’s morning now—dawn, actually. You’ve been asleep most of the time since we got here. Fever came and went. We were worried for a bit…” He trailed off, then quickly added, “But you’ll be alright. You just need rest.”

Near a week. Anders let that sink in. It felt like only moments ago he was stumbling through that forest, drenched and bleeding, aimless but impossibly alive with freedom. He had a fractured recollection of that night beyond what his dreams twisted: collapsing into someone’s arms—Flynn’s arms—and later the jostling sensation of being carried on a wagon, hearing low voices argue in the dark. He remembered brief flashes of a lantern’s glow on a stranger’s face, the bite of a needle stitching his side, and Flynn’s hand gripping his when pain threatened to drag him under again. 

“Hambleton,” Anders rasped as another memory surface—Flynn telling him where they were headed. “This… this is Hambleton?”

Flynn nodded. “Yes. A village not far from Markham. We’re safe here, for now at least.” He placed a hand on Anders’s shoulder lightly, as if afraid Anders might shy away. “Lie back, you shouldn’t push yourself yet.”

But Anders was already scanning the small room. It looked to be a farm dwelling’s spare room or perhaps a makeshift infirmary of sorts. Bundles of dried sage and lavender hung from the low rafters, giving the air a medicinal, calming scent. A single rickety chair and a tiny bedside table were the only furnishings besides the cot Anders lay upon. Through the cracked door Anders glimpsed a corridor and the flicker of a hearth fire beyond.

His instincts were still caught between fight and flight, the remnants of panic from his nightmare slow to recede. “Whose house is this?” he asked quietly. Any refuge could become a trap in an instant, he knew too well. A safe house could be a betrayal waiting to spring.

“It belongs to a friend,” Flynn assured. “Her name is Jemma. She’s—well, she’s one of us. An ally.”

One of us. The words piqued Anders’s curiosity and wariness in equal measure. How many people had Flynn involved in aiding a wanted man? How many risks had been taken? Anders’s gaze dropped, guilt coiling in his gut. He had not wanted anyone else caught up in his doomed saga of rebellion and retribution, yet here they were.

Flynn misread the silence and hurried on, talking gently as one might to calm a skittish cat. “Jemma is out tending the goats right now, but she’ll be glad to see you awake. She’s a healer by trade. Used to serve as an alchemist for the Circle in Markham before…” He paused, choosing his words carefully, “...before everything changed.”

Before the mage rebellion, he meant. Before the Circles fell apart and the world turned upside for every mage in Thedas. Anders simply nodded. His head was throbbing lightly, either from the vestiges of fever or the onslaught of memories.

Flynn reached for a clay pitcher on the small table. “Here, you must be thirsty.” He poured water into a wooden cup. Anders noticed his hand trembled slightly as he offered it.

Anders accepted the cup, fingers brushing Flynn’s briefly. The water was cool, faintly flavored with something herbal. He drank greedily, surprising himself with how parched he was. The water soothed his dry throat, and he hadn’t realized until now just how hungry and thirsty his body had become.

“Thank you,” he murmured, handing the cup back after draining it. He eyed Flynn, who still hovered as if ready to catch him should he fall over. Anders managed a wry, tired smile. “I’m alright. I won’t break.”

Flynn flushed and ducked his head. “Sorry. I just… after what you’ve been through, I didn’t want to take any chances.” He set the cup aside and clasped his hands together to stop their slight shaking. “I wasn’t sure you’d ever wake up, to be honest.”

A beat of silence passed. Anders let his eyes roam to the window, where dawn’s light grew stronger. The sky beyond was turning from gray to a pale gold. He could make out part of a fenced field outside and, further, the silhouettes of gently rolling hills. It looked peaceful. Deceptively so. How long since he’d woken to a peaceful morning like this, not fearing immediate pursuit or imprisonment?

Too long, his mind whispered.

He became aware of something he hadn’t felt in a long while: the absence of a presence in his mind. That constant other consciousness that had been twined with his own for years… was still strangely quiet. In the forest, he’d noticed Justice’s silence. Now, as he sat in this sunlit room, Anders reached inward cautiously. The Fade brushed against his thoughts—his connection to magic was there, a low steady thrum—but the familiar weight of a spirit was faint. Dormant, perhaps, slumbering after the ordeals of their escape.

Or hiding, a darker thought suggested. Hiding from the pain, just as part of Anders wished he could. He couldn’t tell where he ended and the spirit began anymore; they were a tangled knot of anger, remorse, and purpose. Inseparable. And yet, in moments like this, Anders felt achingly alone in his own head.

“Anders?” Flynn’s gentle prompt snapped him back. “Are you in pain? I can fetch more elfroot tonic if you need it.”

Anders realized his hand had drifted to the bandage at his side again, fingers absently tracing the edge where dried blood stained the cloth. He pulled his hand away. “I’m fine,” he lied softly. Physically, that wasn’t true—his wound throbbed and his body felt like a collection of bruises—but those were tolerable. The pain inside, the one that came from the memory of Hawke’s corpse amid a smoldering crater, was another creature entirely. He wasn’t about to burden this earnest young man with that.

Flynn didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead, he stood up straighter, trying for a smile that came off a bit nervous. “We didn’t get much chance to talk… after you, uh, nearly blew me up and then collapsed.” He gave a short laugh, likely meant as a joke to lighten the mood. Anders winced, guilt flaring.

“I’m sorry,” Anders said quietly. He remembered the wild panic when he thought he was being chased, how he’d flung a bolt of lightning at the unknown pursuer. “I could have killed you. I… Maker, I’m so sorry, Flynn.”

Flynn quickly shook his head. “You were defending yourself. Honestly, I should have called out sooner or approached differently. The last thing I wanted was to startle you.” His eyes darted to Anders’ bandaged side. “I’m just glad I found you before your condition got worse.”

A question had been nagging at Anders since the forest, one his fevered dreams and the haze of exhaustion hadn’t let him fully consider until now. “Why?” he asked, voice hoarse but earnest. “Why did you follow me at all? Back there, you said you broke the spell on my cage… that you came on your own to help.” Anders searched the younger man’s face, confusion etched on his own. “You barely know me. You owe me nothing. Why risk everything to set me free?”

Flynn’s cheeks colored, and he glanced down at his boots for a moment. He took a deep, steadying breath, then met Anders’s gaze with a resolve that took him by surprise. “Because it was the right thing to do,” Flynn said, simple and firm. “Because I couldn’t watch them drag you away to be executed for what you did—what we all might have done if we’d had the courage.”

Anders opened his mouth, but no words came. Shock, and something else—shame or pride or both—rendered him mute. Flynn pressed on, words tumbling out in a rush now that he’d begun. “In Castra Muniti, I heard the templars—the guards all talk about you. They called you a murderer, a monster… but I remembered the man I saw tending the wounded back in the Circle, and the stories of you risking your life to help Ferelden refugees in Darktown.” Anders’s eyes widened; he had never known Flynn had heard of him before Kirkwall’s incident. Flynn managed a faint grin. “You didn’t realize I was in the Ferelden Circle too, did you? I was just a child then, but I remember you. You escaped the tower so many times they used to say you were a legend.”

He shook his head, nostalgia and admiration shifting in his expression. “After the Blight, when we came to the Free Marches, I heard stories about a mage helping the sick in Kirkwall’s undercity. It inspired a lot of us, honestly… to think one of us could make a difference. Then the Chantry…” Flynn’s voice faltered for a heartbeat. “Kirkwall changed everything for mages. It changed the world. Some say it started the war—others say it saved us from annihilation. I don’t know which is more true, maybe both. But I know you were at the center of it. And I couldn’t just stand by and watch them kill you, like you meant nothing, like what you sacrificed meant nothing.”

Anders’s throat tightened, unable to bear the earnest reverence in Flynn’s eyes. On the wall, dust motes spiraled lazily in a sunbeam, oblivious to the storm of emotions raging in the small room. “I’m not a hero,” he whispered.

“I know,” Flynn said, surprising him. Anders glanced back; Flynn was watching him with a sad, understanding smile. “Heroes are something the Chantry preaches about in tales of Andraste and the Maker’s chosen. You’re a man, Anders. A man who did something extraordinary and terrible because no one else would. Because it was necessary.” Flynn inhaled shakily. “And because of that, people like me—we have a chance. Real freedom, not the leash the Chantry would have us believe is freedom.”

A bitter taste coated Anders’s tongue. Necessary. He’d told himself that so many times. Hearing it from this young man both uplifted and unsettled him. He hadn’t expected validation—didn’t think he deserved it. He thought of his nightmare, of Hawke’s corpse accusing him, Sebastian’s arrow aimed at his heart. “Most people would call it murder,” he said, voice low. “An act of evil.”

“Perhaps it was.” Flynn’s reply was soft but unflinching. “Sometimes… sometimes justice and evil wear the same face. At least to those who never needed to change the world like you did.” He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, and Anders saw tears glinting at the corners of the younger man’s eyes. “The Grand Cleric and those people in the Chantry—what happened to them was… horrible. Unforgivable to most. But if it hadn’t happened, the mage rebellion might never have spread. I’d still be a prisoner in a Circle tower, or dead. Countless mages would. The world needed a fire to wake it up.” Flynn gave a shaky laugh, wiping at one eye with the heel of his palm. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot of time to think about this.”

Anders felt an unexpected wetness on his own face. He lifted a hand and found tears had slipped down his cheeks at some point. He hadn’t cried in years; the sensation was both foreign and cathartic. He quickly scrubbed them away, ashamed and yet relieved all at once. “Flynn… thank you,” he managed to say, his voice thick. “I don’t know that I can agree with you—Maker knows I’ve wrestled with the cost of what I’ve done every single day since—but hearing that it helped someone… it means more than I can say.”

Flynn smiled a bit wider, and the solemn mood eased just a fraction. “I’m not the only one who feels that way. Actually, that’s something I need to talk to you about.” He glanced toward the doorway, as if to ensure no one lingered there. Satisfied, he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “As I said, Jemma is one of us. There are others. We’ve been working quietly for the past couple of years—ever since the Inquisition ended the worst of the fighting—to ensure mages don’t lose what we gained.”

Anders frowned, wiping the last dampness from his bearded chin. “What do you mean? The Circles were dissolved when the war began. The Lord Seeker was dead, the templars scattered… The new Divine, she’s a sympathizer, isn’t she?” He had only heard fragments of news while imprisoned and on the run. “With the way people talked about her, I assumed she wouldn’t let things go back to the old ways.”

At the mention of the Divine, Flynn’s expression darkened. “Divine Victoria—yes, she was named Divine a few years ago,” he said, almost spitting the title like it tasted bad. “Many people say she’s a sympathizer, but she was a Seeker, and she worked with the Inquisition. She supposedly promised reforms. At first, things looked hopeful; mages were recognized as equals at the peace talks, the Circles remained disbanded in Ferelden and here in the Free Marches at least. But…” He sighed. “We’ve heard whispers. Seen the signs. The Chantry hardliners and the Grand Enchanter have been pushing back. And Divine Victoria has been making compromises. Dangerous ones.”

Anders swung his legs slowly over the side of the cot, needing to feel his feet on solid ground as he absorbed Flynn’s words. His boots were gone—likely taken off to make him comfortable—and his bare feet touched the cold wooden floor. It helped ground him. “What kind of compromises?” he asked, wary.

Flynn ticked them off on his fingers, voice hushed but intense. “Circles are being reinstated, quietly. Not everywhere, not all at once. But Grand Enchanter Vivienne—that Orlesian mage who took charge after… after Fiona—she’s been organizing the mages who remained loyal to the Chantry. They’re calling it the ‘Reformed Circle’, a voluntary institution, supposedly. One opened in Montsimmard in Orlais. Another is opening in Starkhaven.” Flynn’s lip curled slightly at the mention of Starkhaven. “They say these are different from the old Circles: mages governing themselves, templars merely as guards under the Chantry’s command, not as jailers. But it’s a lie. New collars on the same chains, if you ask me.”

Anders felt a flare of anger kindle in his chest. A spark of outrage he’d nursed for so long. “And the Divine… allows this?”

Flynn nodded grimly. “Divine Victoria preaches unity, healing the wounds of war. She says if mages and Chantry can cooperate in these new circles, it’ll ease fear on both sides. Maybe she believes it truly, or maybe she just wants to appease the southern nobles and remaining templars. Either way, if she and the Grand Enchanter have their way, we’ll be back in towers before long. Maybe with more freedoms on paper, but who holds the swords? The templars again. I hear the Seekers have been reformed too, to oversee it all. It’s all falling back into the old pattern piece by piece.”

Anders listened, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. It was a sickeningly familiar tale: those in power offering gilded cages and calling it mercy, while the masses thanked them for it. He had hoped—fervently, foolishly while languishing in his cell—that at least the world outside had changed for good, that no matter what became of him, mages would never again submit to the yoke. To hear that dream dying… it made his blood boil and cold dread coalesce in his gut.

“Many mages are tired of war, of running,” Flynn said softly. “After the fighting stopped, a lot just… went along with it. They went back rather than live as apostates on the run. I can’t blame them entirely—not everyone wants to keep fighting. But some of us can’t stomach watching everything we fought for be signed away by the same people who once left us to slaughter.” A hardness had entered Flynn’s voice, a steady passion that Anders recognized all too well. “Divine Victoria and the Grand Enchanter—they think they know what’s best for us. They didn’t live in a cage their whole lives. They think a compromise will satisfy us. But freedom that can be taken away so easily was never freedom at all.”

Anders’s head swam with the implications. He pressed a hand over his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts. Anger warred with a grim sense of vindication—his worst fears after Kirkwall had always been that it might all be for nothing, that the world would try to reset to its old equilibrium no matter the cost. And here it was happening.

“You said you and others have been working to prevent this,” Anders said after a moment, lowering his hand. “What exactly are you doing?”

Flynn hesitated, then moved to sit on the edge of the cot, facing Anders. He kept his voice low. “Gathering resources, for one. Books, lyrium, safe havens. Reaching out to like-minded mages across the Free Marches and Ferelden. We’ve small cells in a few cities—Markham, Hercinia, Ansburg, as far as Tantervale. We share information secretly, track the Chantry’s moves. If they try to formally bring back the Circles everywhere, or Maker forbid, the Rite of Tranquility for dissenters, we plan to resist. To make sure the world doesn’t forget that we never agreed to this.”

Flynn clasped his hands, knuckles white. “We’re not trying to start another war, not if we don’t have to. But we won’t be taken quietly. Protests, political pressure where possible… and evacuation of allies who might be in danger. We’ve smuggled a few mages out of territories where nobles were clamping down. It’s not much, but it’s something. We just… we lack a clear leader. Someone with experience.”

Anders absorbed that silently. A clandestine network of free mages, trying to hold onto the gains of the rebellion. It was both reassuring—knowing the fire he lit hadn’t been completely extinguished—and daunting. He had long resigned himself to being a pariah, not someone anyone would work with. “Why are you telling me all this?” he asked, though the answer was already forming in his mind.

Flynn gave him a meaningful look, equal parts hopeful and anxious. “Because they’ll want to meet you. The others. Some of them helped arrange my position at Castra Muniti, and Jemma arranged our escape route. Honestly, we never dreamed that you’d… that you’d join us. But having you here changes things.” He licked his lips, leaning forward. “You’re a symbol, Anders. To mages who still dream of true freedom, you’re living proof that the Chantry can be defied. That someone struck a blow for us that the world can’t ignore. If you stand with us, even just in spirit, it could inspire so many who are losing hope.”

Anders stared at the young man, incredulous. “Stand with you? Flynn, I can barely stand at all right now.” He gestured vaguely at himself, the worn bandages and thin frame that told of hardship and neglect. “You know what I am, what I’ve done. Being a symbol is one thing, but in the flesh… I’m an apostate abomination with a death sentence on his head in half of Thedas. Anyone who harbors me is in danger. The Grey Wardens don’t even want me back. If your network is secret, me being here puts you all at risk. The best thing I could do for you is leave, draw the heat away—”

“No!” Flynn’s objection was so sharp that Anders broke off, surprised by the force of it. Flynn flushed but his eyes were fierce. “Don’t talk about leaving. We didn’t save you just to watch you throw yourself to the wolves again. And stop calling yourself…” He lowered his voice, realizing he’d nearly shouted. “Stop calling yourself an abomination. You think we care that you have a spirit? We’ve got two hedge mages in our ranks possessed by spirits of Fervor and Hope respectively. They’re fine. The only people who use the word abomination are those who want to dehumanize us.”

Anders was taken aback by Flynn’s vehemence. He hadn’t expected such staunch defense from someone who had seen firsthand what Justice could do. In the past, even friends—Varric, Aveline, Isabela—all looked at him with wariness once they knew what he was. To be met instead with defiance on his behalf, and even a casual mention that others like him existed among these rebels, was startling.

Flynn gentled his tone. “Look, I won’t pretend it’s not dangerous. But these are dangerous times. We stick our necks out because we must. Hiding and hoping was never going to be enough. You taught us that.” He placed a hand over his heart. “If you truly don’t want any part of it after you’ve healed and heard us out, that’s your choice. I won’t force you. Maker knows you’ve earned the right to choose your own path. But at least meet the others. Hear what they have to say. They’ve been dying to meet you—well, not dying literally, I hope.” He grimaced at his poor choice of words. “What I mean is, it would raise spirits. And perhaps… perhaps it might help you too, to see that what you didn’t wasn’t all for nothing.”

Anders found himself unable to respond immediately. Emotions warred inside him; doubt, fear, reluctance, but also a flicker of something he’d thought long extinguished. Hope. Hope that maybe he still had a place in this fight, broken as he was. Hope that maybe he hadn’t simply destroyed—that maybe he had also created the opportunity for something better, and that better was still within reach.

He looked down at his hands, noting how they still shook faintly. Blood under the nails, scars on the knuckles, the hands of a healer turned destroyer. Could these same hands still do good? Could he find a way to reconcile the two halves of himself even now?

“I’ll meet them,” Anders heard himself say, softly. “He lifted his gaze to Flynn, whose expression blossomed into relief and excitement. Anders tempered it with a raised hand. “Just to meet and talk, nothing more promised. I… I don’t know yet what I can do for your friends. Or if I should. But I’ll listen.”

“That’s all I ask,” Flynn said, practically glowing now. He stood, an eager energy about him that made him seem younger for a moment. “I need to let the others know you’re awake. We haven’t gathered everyone in Hambleton yet, only a few of us, but we can call a meeting soon. For now, for the ones who are here, maybe you can meet them tonight. In the barn across the field—Jemma’s barn. It’s private.”

Tonight. Anders’s stomach fluttered with nerves. So soon, facing more strangers who saw him as… What, a mentor? A figurehead? He wasn’t sure he was ready. Part of him wanted to insist on more time, but another part—the part that had lived with righteous fire in his belly for so many years—was curious and, truth be told, yearning to know more, to do something again beyond running and hiding.

“Alright,” he agreed quietly. “If I’m on my feet, tonight.”

Flynn beamed. “We’ll make sure you are. I’ll go tell Jemma and see who else is in town.” He moved toward the door, then paused and looked back at Anders, a sudden hesitation in his posture. “You’ll be okay by yourself for a bit? I can help you lie back down first—”

Anders almost laughed. Truly, the urge bubbled up to think that this young man had become so solicitous over him. He bit it back into a crooked smile. “I’ll manage. Go on. I promise I won’t vanish.”

Flynn nodded, seeming reassured. “If you need anything, just call out. I’ll be nearby. And Anders… I’m glad you’re with us.” The sincerity in his voice hung in the air even after he slipped out the door, footsteps creaking down the hall before fading. 

In the newfound quiet, Anders eased himself back against the wall at the head of the cot, instead of lying flat. The room felt emptier without Flynn’s earnest energy. He drew the wool blanket up around his shoulders, suddenly chilled in the absence of the other mage’s warm presence. He closed his eyes, taking slow breaths.

The conversation replayed in his mind almost too fast to grasp. Mages banding together still, fighting a second, subtler rebellion. Divine Victoria and the Grand Enchanter plotting a return to the old order. It was a lot to digest. He should have felt despair, perhaps, that even after all the bloodshed it wasn’t truly over. But strangely, he didn’t. Instead, he found that the initial surge of anger and indignation still smoldered inside him, providing a counterweight to the fear that always lurked in his heart.

A bitter smirk twitched at his lips. How ironic that the Chantry’s new powers spoke of justice even as they plotted to rebuild the system that had oppressed mages for centuries. He remembered Sebastian’s declarations in his nightmares—It is justice. How easily they all claimed that word. Yet it was Anders who had borne the spirit named Justice and knew its visage better than most. What Sebastian and the Chantry sought was not justice. It was control, it was stability for themselves, vengeance thinly veiled as holy duty. And the Divine and the Grand Enchanter’s acquiescence was simply the old guard reasserting itself under a new banner.

His heart ached thinking of all the things Hawke could have said in this moment. All the jokes he’d have made just to distract Anders from his fury. Anders pressed his head back against the wall, the ache in his chest a wound he had long since stopped trying to close. His gaze drifted again to the window, on that slice of the outside world. Golden light now streamed more fully, and he could have out a few figures moving in the field. Beyond them, a copse of trees and further still, the outline of distant spires against the morning sky. He wondered idly if those were the famed spires of Markham’s university. He wondered if within those halls the debates raged about the mage question, or if it was being politely ignored by scholars who had the luxury to overlook such inequality.

A sudden weariness tugged at him, but he resisted the urge to sleep again. Instead, he carefully swung his legs back up and laid down, this time just to rest his still-feeble body, not to retreat from the day. His mind would not quiet anyway.

The nightmare lingered at the edges of his consciousness. Hawke’s lifeless eyes, Sebastian’s arrow of judgment. These were ghosts he would always carry, he knew. “I’m sorry, Hawke,” he whispered to the rafters, voice trembling. It felt like a prayer or a plea. “I’m still here… but I can’t keep waiting.”

It hurt to say the words, but it also steeled him. Hawke may not have been as overt in his support for the cause, but ultimately, he’d believed in it. So had so many others. If they thought he was worth saving—if these young mages risked themselves to shelter him—then Anders knew he owed them more than a broken man wallowing in remorse. He owed them whatever strength he had left.

Somewhere deep inside, he felt a faint pulse in response to his resolve, like the echo of a heartbeat not entirely his own. It was subtle, but he recognized it: Justice stirring, drawn by purpose. Fed by the prospect of that renewed purpose, that presence warmed within his chest once more, giving him a measure of clarity. The line between where Anders ended and Justice began blurred a little further, as it always had when he committed himself to action. It no longer alarmed him. It was comforting, in fact. Like an old friend’s hand finding his in the dark.

“Not done yet,” Anders murmured, echoing what he imagined Justice might say—or was it his own thought? It hardly mattered. Both parts of him were aligned in that moment.

He drifted into a light sleep then, not the fevered unconsciousness of before but a gentler doze, gathering his strength. This time, no nightmares plagued him—only a dim sensation of blue flame flickering steadily in his heart, and the sound of a calm voice whispering that the fight was not yet over.

Chapter Text

Dawn’s light spilled through the stained-glass windows of Starkhaven’s chantry, painting the stone floors in hues of gold and deep red. Prince Sebastian knelt alone in the front pew, head bowed in fervent prayer. The early hour meant the grand nave was empty save for flickering candles and the towering statue of Andraste, her marble face serene in the glow. Sebastian inhaled the familiar scent of incense still clinging to the air from last night’s vespers. It calmed him, if only for a moment. He had come here, as he often did before a day of momentous decisions, to seek the Maker’s guidance.

His fingers tightened around the gold chain wound between them. In the silence, he could almost hear the echo of Revered Mother Neilina’s gentle benediction from the previous evening. “The Maker guides you, my prince.” It was the very same thing Grand Cleric Bronach had said to him. He closed his eyes, letting the words wash over the tumult of his thoughts. So many burdens lay on his shoulders now—his city’s security, the fate of desperate souls at Starkhaven’s doorstep, the ever-fraying bonds with Kirkwall to the south. And soon, the vows of marriage that would bind Starkhaven to the Anderfels. Each duty was sacred, but they were beginning to collide in perilous ways.

Maker, am I doing right? Sebastian prayed silently. In the dim morning hush, his prayer was both a plea and a resolve. He had knelt in these very halls so many times before since he returned, a humbled sinner-turned-brother, content to let the Maker’s will guide his quiet life. Now he was prince, and the Maker’s work demanded action in the world. Grant me clarity to see Your path. I am Your sword and shield. I am Your faithful servant. He lifted his head and gazed up at Andraste’s carved figure, the rising sun igniting a halo around it. In that holy light, Sebastian felt his doubts ease. Not vanish entirely—he suspected they never would—but tempered by purpose. The Maker had set him on this road for a reason. He would walk it without flinching.

With a creak of armor, Captain Fletcher stepped quietly into the nave, having waited patiently by the doors so as not to disturb her prince’s devotion. Sebastian recognized the soft footfall of Starkhaven’s loyal captain of the guard and offered a final brief prayer before standing. As he rose, the first rays of sunlight caught on the jeweled Starkhaven crest over his doublet, glinting fiercely—an emblem of the responsibilities he bore.

Fletcher approached and bowed. “Your Highness, forgive the interruption. The council has gathered. They await your word.”

Sebastian nodded, straightening his shoulders. “Thank you, Captain.” He glanced once more toward Andraste’s statue and then turned to leave the chantry. “Has there been any change overnight?”

“None, Your Highness,” Captain Fletcher replied, falling into step beside him as they exited into the courtyard. The morning was cool and bright, the sky an unmarred blue. “The refugee camp remains just beyond the eastern border, under watch. No new movement.” She hesitated, then added in a lower voice, “My men report the mages kept their campfires burning till dawn. No signs of aggression… just waiting.”

“Waiting for our answer,” Sebastian said quietly. He kept his tone neutral, but inside his heart clenched. Twenty-odd mages and their fellows huddled out on Starkhaven’s border, hoping the prince of Starkhaven would grant them sanctuary. How long had it been since Kirkwall’s refugees once beseeched the mercy of Starkhaven’s ruler? His parents, years ago, had turned away Fereldans fleeing the Blight; he remembered that shame well. Yet here he was, poised to deny those seeking refuge once again.

Captain Fletcher studied his face, perhaps sensing the conflict beneath his composed exterior. “Your orders, my prince?” she prompted gently. Ever loyal, Fletcher would enforce whatever decree he gave, even if it sat ill with some of her guardsmen. She, like so many of his people, trusted his judgment and faith. Sebastian drew strength from that trust, and from the knowledge that in this, at least, Fletcher’s convictions derived from her faith. She was a true protector of Starkhaven. And she would not see her city endangered, even if a part of her might also pity those souls outside the walls.

“Send the knight-commander and Ser Venier to join us in the council chamber,” Sebastian said, resuming his stride. “We’ll deliver our decision first to the council and then to the mages.” The words came out more firmly than he felt, but saying them solidified his resolve. By the Maker’s will, he would do what must be done for Starkhaven.

They passed through the palace halls, where servants hurried to and fro preparing for the day. A pair of elven footmen bowed as Sebastian and Fletcher walked by. Fresh rushes had been laid along the marble floors since last night, and the scent of herbs mingled pleasantly with the morning air. As they ascended the stairs toward the council wing, Sebastian caught sight of banners being hung around the gallery railings—deep red silks emblazoned with the Starkhaven crest and, interspersed between them, the sigil of the Anderfels’ royal family: a silver griffon on black. Wedding banners. Even in the midst of all this turmoil, Starkhaven was making ready for celebration. In just a week’s time, Princess Lucia would become his wife and Starkhaven’s Princess-Consort.

The thought should have filled him with joy or at least anticipation. And yet, Sebastian realized with a pang that he’d scarcely had time to consider the wedding at all these past few days. The Maker had sent him a devout partner to share his burdens—he truly believed that—but duty had kept him from giving her his full attention. Lucia… He allowed himself a small, fond exhale. She’d arrived slightly ahead of schedule, but Starkhaven had welcomed King Wilhelm’s daughter with open arms and open hearts. The memory of seeing Lucia for the first time was vivid: her warm brunette hair bound in an elegant coif, her smile composed but eyes shining with a light that rivaled the sun itself. She’d knelt to pray with him the evening before, and in that moment, Sebastian had thanked the Maker for delivering such a woman to stand by his side.

“Captain,” Sebastian said as they neared the council doors, “see that Princess Lucia is comfortably occupied while we handle this morning’s matter. I’d rather not trouble her to attend the council in person. There’s no need to burden her.”

Fletcher nodded briskly. “I shall… but if I may, Her Highness made mention to spend the morning in the Chantry, to offer prayers.” A faint smile touched the captain’s lips. “She took one of the castle’s seamstresses with her—apparently to consult on new altar cloths as a donation. I’m told the princess has quite the eye for fine embroidery.”

Despite everything, Sebastian felt the corner of his mouth lift. The image of Lucia already immersing herself in Starkhaven’s chantry life, improving the altar adornments of all things, charmed him. The common folk would no doubt adore her for such gestures of piety and generosity. And indeed, such acts would only further bind Starkhaven’s people to their prince and future princess. The Maker truly worked through her.

“Excellent,” Sebastian replied. “Then let her pray in peace. We will present her with good news after.” Good news. Was that how he should think of what was to come? Perhaps not for those poor souls outside the walls. But for Starkhaven—for the safety of all within—it would be the right outcome. The only outcome.

He drew a breath and pushed open the council chamber doors. Within, the murmur of low conversation hushed at once. All eyes turned toward him; some expectant, some anxious. Sunlight flooded in from the high arched windows, illuminating motes of dust in the air around the long council table. At that table sat a dozen of Starkhaven’s key advisors and nobles. Lord Dafydd Rhees and Lady Genevieve Tudor, prominent among the more secular voices of the council, straightened in their seats. Grand Cleric Bronach, swathed in her simple Chantry robes, offered Sebastian a serene nod from her place at the table’s end. Next to Bronach sat Knight-Commander Bryland, the broad-shouldered templar leader of Starkhaven, his expression stoic beneath his scar-slashed cheek. And standing off to one side, arms folded, was Ser Lucrezia Venier, representative of the Sunbrand warriors who had pledged themselves to the Maker’s service. Lucrezia’s burnished armor gleamed, the emblem of the radiant sun etched on her breastplate catching the morning light. She inclined her head respectfully to Sebastian, a few amber curls escaping the edge of her helmet. 

The doors closed behind Sebastian as he moved to the head of the table. He did not sit today; he needed to stand as he spoke. Fletcher had quietly peeled off to take up position by the door, her duty more martial than political now. Clearing his throat softly, Sebastian swept his gaze over those assembled. These men and women were his trusted circle, in their ways. Some of them had been present before, at the urgent meeting of allies that set all of this in motion: Marcel Renou, Duke of Hercinia, and Giano de Silva of Wycome were, of course, absent. They’d returned to their lands after that gathering, to muster resources and keep watch on wider events. But their influence was felt even now. Others in this room had not been at that secret council but were no less crucial to Starkhaven’s course—people like Lord Rhees and Lady Genevieve, who managed the city’s day-to-day prosperity and whose cooperation Sebastian still needed. If only they could fully share in the righteous certainty he felt this morning.

He offered a polite smile to the assembly. “Good morning. Let us begin.” His voice carried quietly, yet with the steel of authority that he’d learned to wield over the years. The tension in the chamber coiled like a drawn bowstring; everyone knew the importance of today’s decision. 

“Your Highness,” ventured Lord Rhees first, dabbing at his brow with a lace handkerchief, “I trust you have had time to… reflect upon the matter of the refugees?” There was a wavering hope in his tone. Rhees had been one of the most unsettled by the prospect of turning the mages away outright—less out of sympathy, Sebastian suspected, and more out of fear of political repercussions. Still, Sebastian would address his concerns seriously. Rhees and those like him needed to understand the necessity of this path.

“I have, my lord,” Sebastian answered. He rested his fingertips on the tabletop, standing tall. “I spent the night in prayer and consideration. I have also consulted with those whose counsel I value. I am prepared to render Starkhaven’s answer.”

Lady Genevieve leaned forward slightly, her expression earnest and a touch pleading. “Your Highness, before you announce your decision, might we revisit the proposal Sir Carroll suggested?” She glanced toward an empty chair—Sir Carroll was notably absent today, his duties taking him to oversee fortifications on the west road. “The compromise of allowing those mages shelter under guard, in the old Circle tower. It could satisfy both the Divine’s expectations and our own concerns for safety. As we discussed… a probationary asylum.”

A few council members murmured assent or at least interest. Sir Carroll’s plan had struck a chord yesterday, before Princess Lucia’s arrival interrupted the debate. It was, on paper, a reasonable middle ground. Even Sebastian had admitted as much to himself at the time. Clearly some here clung to the hope that their prince might have been swayed toward this gentler course overnight.

Sebastian let silence fall for a moment. Through the tall windows behind him, the mid-morning sun cast a warm halo around his form, stretching his shadow long across the table. He clasped his hands behind his back, and when he spoke, it was in an even, clear timbre that brooked no interruption.

“I have not forgotten Sir Carroll’s suggestion,” he began. “Indeed, I turned it over in my mind many times last night. The notion of allowing these… petitioners to occupy the old Circle tower, under vigilant guard, has merits. It shows a modicum of mercy and adheres to the forms of Chantry law. It signals to all of the Free Marches, to Thedas itself, that Starkhaven is a place of second chances.”

He saw relief bloom on Lady Genevieve’s face, but Sebastian drew a slow breath and continued, his tone hardening. “And yet, I must weigh appearances against realities. The reality is this: once such people are within our territory, even if confined to a tower, they become Starkhaven’s responsibility and Starkhaven’s potential danger.” He inclined his head toward Knight-Commander Bryland. “Commander, you know better than any of us the risks of containing a group of unknown mages, even with templars on watch. The Circle of old functioned with a robust system and the full backing of the Chantry and Seekers. We have only just begun to rebuild such systems after the recent rebellions, with even less support from both. Do we truly have the resources to effectively secure a new Circle here, overnight, with even just twenty mages?”

Bryland sat forward, heavy gauntlets settled atop the table. He cleared his throat. “Your Highness, my men are prepared to do whatever is required of them. That said… setting up a functional Circle on short notice, with no formally trained First Enchanter in residence and no clarity on these mages’ backgrounds—” He paused, brow furrowing. “It would be… difficult. We could guard them, yes. But all it takes is one incident. One moment of lapsed judgment. Magic unchecked.” The scar down his cheek seemed to tug as he frowned. “We remember Kirkwall.”

The mention of Kirkwall hung in the air, a specter that needed no elaboration. Everyone remembered Kirkwall and the fiery doom of its Chantry at the hands of a single mad mage. Sebastian’s jaw tightened. In his mind’s eye he saw again the Chantry collapsing in flame, heard the phantom screams and the roar of the explosion that still haunted his nightmares. The room was quiet, all present sharing that unspoken memory. Even Lady Genevieve’s gaze dropped; however sympathetic she was to the refugees, she too had heard the tales of what happened in the Gallows and the madness that followed.

Sebastian exhaled and continued, measured and somber. “I will not allow Starkhaven to become another Kirkwall.” His blue eyes swept over the council, resolute. “These mages at the border may profess peaceful intentions and a willingness to submit. But we do not truly know them. We know only that they arrived unbidden, in defiance of Divine Victoria’s guidance that all apostates should return to sanctioned Circles. They did not go to Montsimmard or Cumberland to petition the Grand Enchanter. They came here, to Starkhaven—perhaps thinking that the presence of the Grand Enchanter in our city meant we would fling open our gates freely.” He shook his head once. “If they are mistaken in that assumption, let it be known sooner rather than later.”

At the mention of Grand Enchanter Vivienne, Mother Bronach stirred. The elderly cleric fixed her clear, patient eyes on Lady Genevieve. “Divine Victoria’s reforms never intended for us to abandon caution, my child,” Bronach said gently. Her voice carried despite its softness; decades of giving Chantry sermons lent weight to each word. “The Maker’s law is unchanged: magic must serve and not rule. Those who genuinely seek Chantry-sanctioned asylum would surely accept being turned over to established Circles, not demand Starkhaven itself accommodate them on their terms.” She folded her hands neatly on the table. “If these particular apostates refused even the Divine’s guidance or bypassed proper channels, one must question their true motives.”

Genevieve looked as if she might object, but Bronach’s calm, unassailable logic and the invocation of the Maker’s law stilled her tongue. Instead, it was Lord Rhees who ventured, “Your Highness, since they bear the Divine’s seal, perhaps we could coordinate with the Grand Enchanter to have them escorted to one of these proper channels rather than simply turning them away? Might that not be a more charitable solution—one that avoids complications and spares Starkhaven any appearance of cruelty? We could defer this matter to the Orlesians.”

Sebastian considered this a moment. It was, on the surface, an appealing way to deflect responsibility, and one that might mollify Divine Victoria if handled diplomatically. Despite everything, a part of him truly did pity those mages; many might be faithful servants of the Maker, frightened survivors of chaos rather than maleficar bent on harm. To send them to Orlais instead… 

But Fletcher, from her place by the door, politely cleared her throat as she stepped forward. “My lords, begging pardon, but escorting two dozen potentially unwilling mages across Thedas to Orlais is no simple task. I cannot help but wonder who might undertake it? I can spare few guardsmen, and Knight-Commander Bryland’s templars have their hands full maintaining order here. The Grand Enchanter departed for Montsimmard yesterday; she left two of her apprentices to aid our local Chantry, but not an entire force. We have no assurance that these refugees would even consent to such an escort without incident.”

Sebastian gave his captain an approving nod. “Thank you, Captain. You voice a logistical issue plainly. We cannot commit to shepherding these people safely halfway across the continent. We do not have the manpower or certainty for that, especially not while our alliances must be guarded and our eyes kept on Kirkwall’s… troubles.” He nearly said ‘Kirkwall’s failures’ but caught himself. Even here, even now, Sebastian was conscious of how his words might carry beyond this room. He knew he must appear resolute and righteous, not vengeful.

A silence fell, heavy but for the distant caw of gulls beyond the windows and the shuffle of a councilor adjusting in his seat. Lady Genevieve’s shoulders slumped subtly; she must have realized the tide had turned firmly against the compromise. Lord Rhees pursed his lips, looking down at his folded hands. Neither wished to openly oppose their prince, not when he was so clearly decided. And indeed, beyond those two, Sebastian saw agreement or at least acceptance in the faces of the others. The Knight-Commander and Grand Cleric, of course, had both been in favor of refusal from the start. The rest of the secular nobles, even if uneasy, were unlikely to voice dissent now.

It was time. Sebastian drew himself up to his full height. “Starkhaven’s answer is thus,” he pronounced. “We shall not permit these mages to enter our city. Nor shall we establish a new Circle within our walls at this time. The risks to our people are too great, and the principle at stake too important.” He let his gaze rest a moment on each person present, ensuring the weight of it settled in. “Instead, an ultimatum will be delivered. They must leave Starkhaven’s borderlands immediately and peacefully. If they wish to prove their goodwill, they may travel under watch to the nearest Chantry sanctuary outside our domain—but they will not find harbor here.”

No one spoke. A few nods, a few resigned sighs, but mostly an uneasy quiet. Sebastian could almost sense the collective question: What now? Declaring was one thing; enforcing was another. Enforcing without incident, nearly impossible.

He allowed a softer note into his voice. “This has not been a light decision, my friends. I know some of you fear it will make Starkhaven appear heartless or at odds with Divine Victoria’s wishes. But understand—” and here his tone deepened with conviction, “—the Divine did not witness the last moments of Kirkwall’s Chantry as it burned. The Divine did not hear Grand Cleric Elthina’s screams as I did.” He pressed a hand to the polished tabletop, as if feeling the tremor of that long-ago blast. “I did hear it. I carry it with me every day. I swore an oath in the ashes of Kirkwall that such evil would never go unanswered. I will not allow that injustice to prevail.”

A hush cloaked the room. Even Lady Genevieve looked moved by the fervor in Sebastian’s words. He rarely spoke so nakedly of Kirkwall’s tragedy; when he did, it was with the gravity of a survivor and a witness.

“Divine Victoria understands the necessity of justice as well as mercy,” Sebastian continued more calmly. “When word reaches her, I will explain our reasoning. Starkhaven stands with the Chantry and with the Maker’s law above all. The Anderfels remain our staunch allies in that cause, and they have never wavered in caution toward apostates. If the Divine in Val Royeaux takes further issue…” He lifted his chin. “Then let her come to me, and we shall discuss whose memory is shorter—ours, or the Maker’s.”

That earned a few low murmurs of approval. It was a subtle barb; Divine Victoria, Cassandra Pentaghast, was a Seeker and a former member of the Inquisition. She may have been known for progressive reforms, but she was no fool either, and pressing Starkhaven too hard could drive them further into the Anderfels’ embrace. A political stalemate that Sebastian was more than happy to gamble on.

Grand Cleric Bronach smiled in quiet pride. “The Maker’s will be done,” she intoned. Her support signaled the effective end of the debate. Who among the council would dare contradict the city’s spiritual leader and its prince consort now?

“Here, here,” Knight-Commander Bryland added, striking a gauntlet to his breastplate in salute. “Your Highness, my templars are ready to carry out your commands.”

“And the city guard stands ready as well,” Captain Fletcher put in from the doorway, straightening to attention. She shot a glance at Lady Genevieve and Lord Rhees—a respectful but clear reminder that Starkhaven’s protectors sided with the prince.

Sebastian allowed himself a small breath of relief, tempered by what must come next. “Very good. Knight-Commander, you will lead a contingent to deliver the ultimatum at once. Ser Venier—” he turned to the Sunbrand knight “—I bid your men to accompany as reinforcement.”

Lucrezia Venier, who had listened in disciplined silence throughout the meeting, gave a satisfied half-smile. “It will be our honor, Prince Sebastian. The Sunbrands are ever eager to serve the Maker’s justice.” She rested one hand on the pommel of her longsword and inclined her head. “I shall dispatch my twenty at the Commander’s command.”

Sebastian nodded. “Go with the grace of the Maker. Make it clear to them that Starkhaven will not harm those who depart peacefully. But any who defy the order must understand the consequences.” He fixed Knight-Commander Bryland with a firm look. “I want no excessive cruelty. Offer them a chance to leave with their dignity, but do whatever is necessary to protect our people.”

Bryland bowed from the neck. “As you say, Your Highness. We will give them the chance.” A wry grimness crossed his face. “Though if they refuse to take it, they’ll find my templars are not gentle a second time.”

“That goes without saying,” Lucrezia added. There was a barely restrained fervor in her voice now. “Have no doubt, my prince, the Sunbrands stand ready to do what the Chantry’s true templars must. We remember our vows.”

“Yes, Ser Venier.” Sebastian met her gaze. He did not doubt her zeal—if anything, he occasionally worried it might burn too hot. The Sunbrands were, after all, the selfsame templars who had refused to abandon their cause when others faltered or turned corrupt during the Mage Rebellion. They were disciplined, but they were also utterly uncompromising. It was why he’d welcomed the faction into his service; they embodied the pure, untarnished spirit of the Order. He prayed the Maker guide them to restraint as well as resolve today.

Without further ado, Bryland and Lucrezia moved to carry out their orders. The knight-commander barked for his lieutenant to gather a standard bearer and his ten men in full armor. A Sunbrand who had been waiting just outside the chamber saluted Ser Venier smartly and hurried off to rally their specialized troops. The council room briefly bustled as chairs scraped and several lesser nobility murmured about watching the procession from the battlements. Some looked uneasy, others grimly approving.

Sebastian raised a hand, calling for brief stillness. “Before we adjourn, I have one more request.” The departing advisors paused. Sebastian’s gaze landed on Lady Genevieve, who had risen partway from her seat, her eyes downcast in surrender to the decision. “My lady.”

Genevieve startled slightly. “Y-yes, Your Highness?”

“You voiced understandable concern about Starkhaven’s reputation and our people’s morale,” Sebastian said. “I ask that you see to it that a statement is prepared for the public. Something to reassure our people that the Maker’s justice and mercy are in harmony here.”

Genevieve blinked, clearly not expecting to be tasked rather than chastised. “Of… of course, my prince. I shall draft something with the city clerk at once.” Being a well-spoken progressive made her a fitting choice to frame this in terms softer for common folk to hear. If she spun it as Starkhaven guiding the refugees to proper Chantry care elsewhere, perhaps it would soothe any rumors of coldness. And it also made her complicit in the policy’s presentation, a fact that she became aware of as a flicker of realization crossed her face, along with grudging acceptance.

The rest of the council took their leave then, with bows and curtsies. Most filtered out to attend to their domains. Lord Rhees departed swiftly, perhaps eager to avoid further debate. Only Grand Cleric Bronach remained a moment, reaching to pat Sebastian’s hand with maternal reassurance. “You have chosen wisely, my prince,” she whispered. “The Maker’s light shines on Starkhaven today.” Sebastian pressed the aged Grand Cleric’s hand in thanks, then she too shuffled out, cane tapping, accompanied by a young sister of the Chantry.

Within minutes, the council chamber emptied, save for the prince himself and a pair of royal guards at the door. The decision had been made; the machinery set into motion. Sebastian stood alone at the head of the table, both hands braced on the polished wood. The tension drained from him in a long exhale. He had projected confidence and righteousness, and he was confident in the righteousness of this act—yet only the Maker knew how this morning’s work would truly play out. He closed his eyes, offering one more silent entreaty: Guide my people to safety. Let no innocent come to harm.

“Your Highness?” came a low voice from the doorway. It was Ser Dietrich Keller, one of Lucia’s foremost retainers from the Anderfels. A grizzled knight with graying temples and the air of a man used to battlefield command, Dietrich had been sent by King Wilhelm ahead of his daughter’s arrival, both to ensure the princess’s well-being and to represent the Anderfels’ interests. In truth, Sebastian suspected the man also served as an informal mouthpiece of King Wilhelm—and perhaps as a reassuring presence for Sebastian too, a reminder that an entire nation of the faithful stood behind him now. Dietrich stepped inside and bowed. “I wished to inquire if you would like the Anderfels’ honor guard to accompany our templars as well. It might underscore our alliance’s solidarity in this action.”

Sebastian regarded the knight. Dietrich’s tone was measured, but there was a spark of respect—even pride—in his flint-blue eyes. The Ander felt the prince had done the right thing, and Sebastian was certain of it. “That’s very generous, Ser Keller,” Sebastian replied. “But let’s keep the Anderfel guard here at the palace. There is no need to involve Princess Lucia’s escort in what might yet be a minor confrontation.” He allowed himself a small smile. “I would not have our wedding festivities dampened by an unfortunate skirmish.”

Dietrich chuckled, the sound like grinding stones. “As you say, Your Highness. Though it came to a skirmish, my men would be glad to shed mage blood alongside Starkhaven for the cause. The King himself would commend you—your resolve today is what he hoped to see when he agreed to this union.”

“I appreciate your words,” Sebastian said sincerely. He knew that in the Anderfels, where the Chantry’s authority was iron-strong and the blight of maleficarum as constant a threat as darkspawn, a ruler who showed any leniency to apostates would be looked at askance. King Wilhelm Augustin was, by all accounts, as pious and hard-line as they came. It relieved Sebastian to know that his new family would find no fault in his actions; on the contrary, they could count it as further proof that Starkhaven’s prince was one of them in spirit. “Please convey to Princess Lucia that the matter is in hand and there is no cause for worry,” he added. “In fact, once this is done, I hope she might join me for midday prayers. We have much to give thanks for.”

Dietrich thumped a fist to his chest in salute. “At once, Your Highness. Maker watch over you.” With that he departed, leaving Sebastian in quiet solitude at last.

The prince lingered a moment in the chamber. Sunlight fell across the large map still spread on the table—the map of Starkhaven and its surrounding lands and rivers. Small wooden figurines marked troop positions; here a cluster representing Bryland’s templars and city guard, there another denoting the refugees’ encampment. Once again Sebastian’s eyes fell on the tiny painted flame that had been placed to signify a potential threat. Where it normally represented bandit raids and darkspawn incursions, now it marked a group of weary mages who claimed only a desire for shelter. Yet to Sebastian’s mind, it still burned as brightly as any warning beacon. Danger, or plea for mercy? He’d wondered before. In this moment, the answer in his heart was clear. Both, perhaps. They were pleading for mercy, yes—but if mercy led to another Chantry in flames, another city in ruin? He would not gamble Starkhaven’s future on that chance.

Sebastian shifted the flame piece down over the figurine representing the refugees’ camp. A symbolic gesture—danger overtaking them should they remain. Then he turned and left the council room, determined to see things through.

High atop Starkhaven’s eastern gatehouse, Sebastian stood flanked by two guardsmen as he watched the column of templars and guards march out along the winding road. The morning had worn on to late morning, and from this vantage he could see the distant shimmer of heat beginning to rise off the cobbles. It would be a warm day. A good day for travel, he thought ironically, praying those mages would see wisdom and depart under the sun’s light without delay.

A heavy banner fluttered from the gatehouse tower above him—the sunburst sigil of the Chantry, bright against a field of deep crimson. Far below, the city had begun to bustle with its usual life; citizens moved about the marketplace, heads occasionally turning towards the sight of their prince upon the battlements. Sebastian typically would have made some show of acknowledgement—a wave, a nod. Today, however, his attention was fixed eastward.

He could just make out the gleam of armor as Knight-Commander Bryland’s contingent neared the encampment at the border, perhaps half a mile beyond the vineyards and gentle hills. The surface of the Minanter River glimmered brightly, reflecting the bright sky above. A Starkhaven city banner accompanied them, as well as a smaller flag bearing the symbol of the Sunbrand knights. Even at a distance, when the breeze picked up, Sebastian could hear a faint echo of the Knight-Commander’s voice amplified by a simple spell—a trick likely learned from incidents past with other mages, to ensure the ultimatum would be clearly heard by the refugees. The words themselves were lost to the wind, but Sebastian could imagine them: formal, authoritative, but giving hope of safe passage if obeyed. A final chance at clemency.

The gatehouse door creaked open behind him, followed by light footfalls and the subtle scent of jasmine and myrrh perfume. Princess Lucia stepped up onto the battlement platform, guided by Captain Fletcher. Lucia had traded her traveling attire for a gown of Starkhaven red accented with Anderfels white—a symbolic joining of colors—though she wore a practical short cloak over it to shield from the sun. At her waist hung a delicate golden Chantry sunburst on a chain, gleaming with each movement. She was, as always, the picture of composed piety and noble grace.

“My lady,” Sebastian greeted her softly, reaching to take her hand and help her with the last step. Even now, a quiet thrill went through him at calling her “my lady” and knowing she would soon be his wife. He raised her hand to his lips in a polite kiss. “I trust the Chantry was peaceful this morning?”

Lucia smiled—a small, serene smile that nevertheless warmed her deep brown eyes. “It was, my prince. Revered Mother Neilina and I lit candles for guidance. And I had a lovely conversation with some of the sisters about Andraste’s trials. It seems even here, so far from home, the faithful share one heart.” Her gaze drifted past him then, toward the horizon. “Is that them?” she asked, nodding to the barely distinguishable cluster that was the refugee encampment.

Sebastian turned, still lightly clasping her hand as they both looked east. “Yes. Knight-Commander Bryland is delivering our answer as we speak.”

Lucia was quiet for a moment. She stepped closer to the battlement wall, close enough that he could see the morning light picking out gold strands in her rich auburn hair. Her expression as she regarded the distant scene was hard to read—compassion tinged with something else, something perhaps lacking empathy. “Poor fools,” she said at last, a sigh in her voice. “They should have known better than to think Starkhaven would break faith with the Chantry for them.”

Sebastian studied her profile. There was no malice in her tone, only a kind of pitying disappointment. “We’ll pray they accept the escort and leave without incident,” he replied. Below, a breeze rustled the banners and carried with it faint shouting from afar. It was hard to tell, but a few tiny figures appeared to be moving frantically around the encampment. Perhaps some were panicked at the approach of armed templars. “If they truly mean no harm, they will go in peace.”

Lucia’s jaw set delicately. “And if they do not truly mean peace?”

“Then the Maker’s justice will be done,” Sebastian answered. He felt Lucia’s fingers squeeze his, and he intertwined them, grateful for her steadiness. “I have given strict orders for restraint,” he added, half to reassure her, half to reassure himself. “No one is to be harmed unless they raise arms or spells in defiance. I pray none are so foolish.”

Lucia nodded, eyes never leaving the distant encampment. “To raise arms against the righteous is folly. These people have been given far more consideration than most would offer.” She glanced at him, and Sebastian caught a fierce sincerity in her gaze now. “In the Anderfels, apostates who refused a direct order from a knight-commander would not be afforded a second chance to comply. They would be cut down as an example, in the Maker’s name.”

Her words were matter-of-fact, but Sebastian did not doubt their truth. The Anderfels had endured such strife and horror over the centuries that their measures were often harsh. By comparison, his approach truly was merciful. “This is Starkhaven,” he said gently. “We make our own example—one of measured justice. If blood need not be spilled, then it shall not be.”

Lucia’s expression softened as she regarded him. “Your mercy does you credit, Your Grace.” She leaned in a little, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. “Though I suspect if any among those refugees plot treachery, they will mistake kindness for weakness. One must be prepared to show strength.”

Sebastian managed a thin smile. “Strength I have never lacked, my lady.” He shifted his gaze back to the east. They could see the Templar contingent fanning out in a semicircle at what must’ve been the edge of the refugee camp. Tiny glints of steel in the sun indicated swords drawn or shields raised. A tense pause. Then a larger figure—Bryland on horseback, it seemed—advanced a few paces. It looked as if at least some of the mages and their companions were beginning to move, shuffling back toward their makeshift carts and bundles. Even from here, Sebastian could spot one person gesticulating wildly at the knight-commander’s group—an older man, robes flapping, perhaps remonstrating or pleading.

He felt Lucia’s hand tighten on his as she too watched. “They’re delaying,” she murmured. “They should be packing and going, not arguing. What are they thinking?”

As if in answer to her question, a sudden brief flash of light erupted near the cluster. A muffled pop reached their ears a second later. Sebastian straightened, heart lurching. He recognized that telltale flaring, and had seen Hawke and his companions cast spells countless times during their travels together. A warning shot? An unwise display? He couldn’t tell who had done it, but he saw the armed Starkhaven party react at once, closing ranks.

Captain Fletcher, who had remained discreetly a few steps behind with another guard, stepped forward now, squinting into the distance. “Spellfire, Your Highness. Did they attack?”

“It didn’t strike anyone from what I see,” Sebastian said. He silently willed the situation to calm. Perhaps it was a frustrated mage venting magic into the air, not an actual assault. Or perhaps an illusion dispelled? He hoped Bryland’s templars would keep their own tempers in check. The prince held his breath, watching.

At first it looked as though calm was holding. The Templars maintained their formation. A lone figure—wearing the white and red of a Chantry sister—moved between the sides. Was that Revered Mother Neilina’s young assistant, sent to offer final Chantry sanctuary if they obeyed? It must be. The sister carried a symbol of Andraste held aloft, no doubt reciting a last appeal.

Then, chaos. One of the refugees, maybe the same one who had cast the earlier flash, suddenly thrust a staff upward. A lance of fire burst from its tip, arcing toward the sky in an orange streak. In an instant, two Starkhaven archers loosed arrows in response—Sebastian saw the tiny shafts slice through the air. Shouts echoed, or perhaps it was his imagination furnishing the shouts where distance stole the sound. The figure with the staff crumpled. Another bolt of energy crackled from the refugees’ cluster, only to sizzle harmlessly against a templar’s raised shield. Now the formation surged forward a few steps, Sunbrand knights at the fore.

“You fools,” Sebastian whispered, knuckles whitening on the stone merlon before him. It was happening—the confrontation he’d tried to avoid. He felt Lucia suck in a breath beside him. He half-expected her to cry out in dismay at the violence. Instead, when he glanced at her, her lips were pressed thin and her eyes narrowed, fixed on the ensuing struggle with an intensity that was almost fiery.

One of the covered wagons in the camp was now ablaze, likely caught by the mage’s errant firebolt. Figures scattered away from the burning cart. Sebastian could see some dropping to their knees or raising their hands. Surrendering, Maker willing. Bryland’s men were advancing carefully, rounding up those who yielded. A few shapes still resisted—there was a glint of ice as another rogue spell was cast, and one Sunbrand knight went down to a knee, struck by something. But immediately, a half dozen Starkhaven arrows answered, streaking into the source of the spell. The resistance was swiftly and brutally ended.

Within a minute or two, the skirmish was over. A column of dark smoke rose from the smoldering wagon, marring the blue sky. Even at this distance, the tableau was clear enough: the few surviving refugees were surrendering and being corralled. A few bodies lay sprawled on the ground, motionless. Sebastian closed his eyes briefly, a heaviness descending on his heart. He’d prayed to avoid bloodshed, but blood had been spilled nonetheless. Perhaps only a little—a small handful of lives. It was hard to tell, but even one felt like an unnecessary waste. If only they had listened…

“It is not your doing that led to this end,” Lucia said, as if hearing his unspoken lament. Her voice was cool, but not unkind. “My prince, you gave them every chance. But many apostates cannot be saved from their own rashness.” She turned toward him, releasing his hand to instead wrap both of hers around his arm in a comforting gesture. “The Maker tried their faith and intentions, and those with corrupt hearts revealed their nature.”

Sebastian looked down at her, searching her face. Lucia’s expression was earnest, radiating conviction. She truly believed that this was the righteous outcome. He envied her stark clarity in this moment. Where his soul felt a mixture of relief, sorrow, and grim resolve, Lucia seemed undisturbed by any shred of doubt. In her worldview, he imagined, this was simply the order of things: the faithful stood firm, and the rebellious reaped the wages of their defiance.

“I only wish it needn’t have come to violence,” Sebastian said softly. His gaze drifted back to the camp. The templars were beginning to march the disarmed refugees away from the camp now, likely to escort them out of Starkhaven’s territory toward the Free Marches road. Two Sunbrand knights were kicking dirt over the wagon fire to quench it; another was lifting a fallen comrade (injured or dead, he could not tell). A memory surfaced unbidden: years ago, on the Wounded Coast near Kirkwall, Sebastian had accompanied Hawke to confront a crazed zealot. There had been fire then too, and death, all in Andraste’s name. He’d hated it. And he hated that it had come to this now. But unlike the youthful idealist he’d been, he understood now the necessity.

Lucia’s arm tightened around his. “Every life lost today is on the conscience of those who forced your hand, not on you,” she murmured. “You offered mercy—they refused it. Take comfort, my prince, that you did what was needed to protect the many.”

He looked at her again. The breeze tousled a few strands of hair loose from beneath her veil. Her gaze was on the departing templars, but she seemed to be speaking from some personal well of experience. As a princess of the Anderfels, she had likely witnessed harsh judgments carried out in her father’s kingdom on apostates and maleficar. Perhaps even friends or servants taken by the templars if magic manifested—Anderfels did not suffer even minor deviations. Yet she seemed unshaken in her faith even now.

Sebastian placed his free hand over hers on his arm. “Your faith strengthens mine, my lady,” he said quietly. “I fear I’ll need that strength for what comes next.”

Lucia tilted her head, questioning.

“Kirkwall,” Sebastian clarified, though he could not hide the bitterness from his tone. “Even as we contend with troubles here, there is the matter of Kirkwall’s response.” The morning’s tense focus on the refugees had momentarily pushed aside the simmering frustration he carried about Kirkwall, but it all came flooding back now in the aftermath of witnessing yet another out-of-control mage’s foolish outburst. He knew that a letter from Viscount Tethras had arrived at dawn. It awaited him in his study, and he had little hope that it contained anything but diplomatic derision. Kirkwall had failed calamitously in their attempts to deal with Anders—Sebastian’s networks had confirmed that the Maleficar had indeed escaped in the chaos of the ambush. Starkhaven’s own offer of aid in the aftermath had been gracious, just, even necessary in Sebastian’s eyes. Surely Kirkwall would welcome Starkhaven’s help in tracking down the criminal and tending the wounded. Any good man would.

But Varric Tethras was not, to Sebastian’s mind, a particularly good man—at least not in the matters of Chantry justice. He was a sinful, secular dwarf with no love for Starkhaven or the Chantry’s authority. And worse, he’d been an enabler of Anders once.

Lucia lowered her gaze, her hands resting lightly against his arm. “If it pleases you to say so, Your Highness,” she began carefully, “I’ve only ever heard of Kirkwall in whispers—how its leaders let chaos fester in their streets, and how little was done to stop it.” Her voice was quiet, almost wistful with regret. “We are all taught that mages are to be guided, shielded from temptation. Not encouraged to believe themselves above sacred law. Yet did they not name a mage Champion of their city?”

Sebastian nodded his head, a frown tugging at his lips. “Aye, that they did.”

“Such acts could be seen as an endorsement,” she said. Her eyes flicked up briefly, searching his. “It saddens me to think that such a grievous act might still be met with hesitation. But I’m certain you will judge the situation far more wisely than I could, my prince.”

Sebastian leaned forward on the battlement, feeling the coarse stone under his fingers as a grounding sensation. The Starkhaven templars and guards were a distant speck now, the camp mostly cleared save for a few dark shapes left behind under the noon sun’s gaze. He would have those unfortunate fools retrieved and given proper rites, he resolved, even if they were maleficar. He would not leave bodies to rot on Starkhaven’s soil. All men are the work of our Maker’s hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings. He believed that still, and would honor it. But the living were waiting for him to deal with Kirkwall’s message.

“Come,” he said to Lucia, offering his arm. “Let’s retire from this view. We’ve done what we must here. Now I have letters to read.”

She dipped her head at once, slipping her hand lightly into the crook of his arm. “As you wish, Your Highness.” As they made their way down from the gatehouse, she added, “Forgive the presumption, but—Lord Dietrich mentioned a letter from Kirkwall arrived this morning. If it would not be an intrusion, might I remain with you while you read it? Only as Princess of the Anderfels. I take great interest in how Kirkwall conducts itself in matters regarding our family’s alliance.”

Sebastian nearly smiled at the phrasing—our family’s alliance. It was heartening that she already considered Starkhaven’s concerns to be her own. “I would value your insight, Lucia. By all means.” He paused, then with a rueful lift of his brow added, “Though I suspect reading Viscount Tethras’s missive may try our patience more than test our insight.”

Lucia’s expression remained composed, though her eyes flickered with quiet conviction. “Then I hope the Viscount has written with the dignity your station deserves,” she said gently. “It would be… regrettable if he failed to recognize the honor and generosity of your efforts.” She hesitated, then added, just above a whisper, “I do not believe it reflects well on any house to show discourtesy. Especially toward a future ally.”

There was an undercurrent to her words that pleased Sebastian—subtle but firm. Still, he patted her hand lightly. “Let us see what the dwarf has to say first, shall we?”

Once inside the solar, Sebastian dismissed the two guards at the door so he and Lucia could speak in private. The room was comfortably appointed with bookshelves, a writing desk, and cushioned chairs near an open balcony that overlooked the city. Normally, daylight spilled in cheerfully, but now the sunlight felt harsh and the air stagnant. A single sealed letter lay on the desk, bearing Starkhaven’s crest alongside Kirkwall’s, hand-delivered by Kirkwall’s messenger. Sebastian was almost surprised Varric hadn’t sent the letter by courier pigeon, but it seemed even the Viscount of Kirkwall had to use standard couriers for formal replies.

He broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment. Lucia stood close by, waiting patiently as his eyes traveled over the text. It didn’t take long for him to feel heat rising in his face and a familiar anger coiling in his chest. The letter was… clever. He could admit that through gritted teeth. It was laced with flattery to florid it nearly dripped off the page, but beyond that honeyed veneer, the message was unmistakably a rebuke. Kirkwall declined Starkhaven’s offer of aid, refuted any implication of their failures, and in a masterstroke of political maneuvering, even suggested that any “cooperation” between their cities should consist of sharing intelligence, and nothing more.

By the time he finished reading the final lines, Sebastian’s hands were trembling with barely contained fury. He tossed the parchment onto the desk as if it were something foul. “By the Maker,” he muttered, voice tight, “the gall of that dwarf.”

Lucia kept her hands folded neatly at her waist. She remained composed, though her fingers laced tightly around one another, betraying a quiet tension.

“He flatters you to dull the edge of his refusal,” she said calmly, but with a note of unmistakable judgment. “To cloak disregard in courtesy is not diplomacy—it is deceit. And deceit does not serve the Maker’s light.”

Sebastian let out a sharp exhale. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed her voice—a voice of faith, unwavering, as his own fury threatened to boil over. Her measured disapproval grounded him, her words reinforcing his instincts. “The Viscount has always thought himself cunning,” Sebastian said bitterly. “Playing the gracious statesman while telling us to mind our own business.” He turned to face her, gripping the back of his chair. “Kirkwall failed to bring the Maleficar to justice. They failed utterly, and people died for it—Kirkwall’s own people! And here he writes as if it were a minor setback, to be handled within their walls.” He almost laughed, a humorless sound. “‘Unforeseen events intervened.’ That’s what he calls an explosion that freed the very man who destroyed a Chantry! Unforeseen? I call it incompetence. Or perhaps Maker’s judgment on their incompetence.”

Lucia stepped closer, her chin tilted slightly as she rested a hand lightly on his forearm. Not to still his anger, but to share in it. “It is a mercy that the Maker’s judgment has not fallen more harshly upon Kirkwall already,” she said, quiet but resolute. “That city has strayed far from righteousness, and still they bristle at the idea of guidance.” Her gaze flicked down toward the discarded letter. “They fear Starkhaven’s presence not because we threaten them with force, but because we remind them of what they’ve chosen to abandon.”

“Interfering,” Sebastian repeated, nearly spitting the word. He could see it plainly: Varric most likely feared that accepting Starkhaven’s help would invite Sebastian’s influence or even his presence in Kirkwall. And the dwarf could not stomach that. Better to box Sebastian out politely, even if it meant losing the chance to join forces and apprehend the Maleficar. Perhaps Varric was too proud to admit he needed help, or too blinded by loyalty to Kirkwall’s independence. Or worse, maybe he harbored some soft spot for the Maleficar even now. Whatever the case, Kirkwall’s reply was a slap in the face to Sebastian’s goodwill.

“He insults the memory of Grand Cleric Elthina with this,” Sebastian said, voice low and angry. He paced away a few steps and raked a hand through his hair. “He speaks as if my pursuit of the Maleficar is a vanity project or political game, and not the pursuit of justice! They treat me as the threat, not the cursed mage who caused all of this!”

Lucia’s expression remained poised, but her words were edged with righteous indignation. “If they truly held the memory of the Grand Cleric sacred, they would not question the purpose of your mission—they would join it.” She stepped forward and picked up the letter again, though now with something closer to distaste in her eyes. “Instead, they mock the very principles we are obliged to uphold.” She scanned the lines once more. “He seeks to distract us from his evasion with compliments. But flattery is no substitute for virtue. And he offers neither penance nor partnership.”

Her gaze lifted to meet his. There was no fire, only steel beneath glass. “He underestimates you, and underestimates the Maker’s justice. That is Kirkwall’s true failing.”

Sebastian managed a tight smile. “Master Tethras has made a career out of underestimating people of faith. He thinks us all pious fools easily swayed by a few pretty words.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “But I see his intent clear enough. He hopes to placate us, then shut us out.”

Fury warred with a cold, calculating impulse in Sebastian’s mind. Part of him wanted to rip the letter to shreds and declare Kirkwall an enemy of Starkhaven on the spot. March the forces now, blockade the city as Duke Renou had once eagerly suggested. Sebastian could almost hear Renou’s brash voice scoffing, “is such a courtesy necessary?” when these discussions had taken place just weeks earlier. How satisfying it would be to send that word now, to let Renou sail his ships south and seize Kirkwall’s harbor, to show Varric Tethras just how Starkhaven meant to deal with obstinate, uncooperative regimes.

Yet Sebastian’s strategic mind held him in check. He was angry, yes—but he had not lost all reason. Varric’s letter, for all its duplicity, was crafted to avoid giving him any casus belli. If he reacted overtly with aggression right now, he would play right into the dwarf’s narrative, appearing as the overreaching zealot. Divine Victoria would be compelled to side with Kirkwall if Starkhaven became the clear aggressor without provocation that others could see. No, an immediate declaration of hostilities would be unwise. Not yet. Not until and unless Kirkwall outright obstructed justice in some undeniable fashion.

When he lifted his gaze to meet Lucia’s, he hadn’t known what he was looking for, not exactly. Lucia spoke, her voice low but unwavering. “The Maker sees what is done in shadow. We need not answer insult with rashness—but we must not remain silent.” She laid the letter down with quiet finality. “I know you will choose wisely, my prince. But the righteous cannot afford to seem uncertain.”

Sebastian felt gratitude swell within him at her words. He appreciated that she didn’t even consider simply acquiescing, and put voice to a certainty he knew in his heart was true. Sending a reply at all would be an exercise in restraint for him, but he’d need to send something , formally acknowledging Kirkwall’s response. Sebastian felt his jaw set. “I will reply that Starkhaven is, of course, pleased to hear Kirkwall has matters in hand,” he said with an icy calm. “I will echo the flattery, thank the Viscount for his oh-so-gracious response. We shall play this little game of courtesies a while longer.”

Lucia inclined her head slightly, though her brow rose, measured, curious. “And behind those courtesies?” she asked, voice gentle but probing.

Sebastian’s eyes hardened as he looked toward the open balcony, where in the distance the last wisps of smoke from the wagon fire were fading into the midday sky. “Behind those courtesies, we will do what is necessary. If Kirkwall refuses our overtures of help, then we must assume the responsibility ourselves, without their consent if need be.”

The princess nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on him with quiet clarity. “The Maker does not bless the righteous for standing still.”

Sebastian nodded and let out a long breath. He turned back to his desk, reaching into a drawer and retrieving a small wooden coffer bound with silverite clasps. From a chain around his neck, he drew a key and unlocked it. Inside lay a neat stack of ciphered parchment and tightly rolled dispatch scrolls—private correspondence with operatives who once served the Inquisition’s intelligence web. That network had fractured in the time since the Inquisition formally disbanded, but many of its agents still worked discreetly. Sebastian had been prudent, even blessed, to secure a few of them for Starkhaven’s cause.

“It brings me no joy to admit that I have… friends in low places,” he said with a touch of something akin to regret. As his quill scratched, he continued, “Discreet eyes and ears who can move in Kirkwall without fanfare. We will find out exactly what transpires in Kirkwall. If Varric thinks to hide any hint of the Maleficar or his enablers, we’ll know. And if the Maleficar shows his face in Kirkwall…” Sebastian pressed the quill so hard that the tip nearly broke. “I will know of it swiftly. Faster than Master Tethras would tell us, certainly.”

Lucia stepped beside him, reading a few unfamiliar symbols over his shoulder, though she made no attempt to decipher them. She likely didn’t need to recognize the language to recognize its purpose.  “The Maker grants His faithful both insight and reach,” she murmured. “You are wise to prepare. There is virtue in patience—but no holiness in blindness.”

Sebastian paused at that, not because he disagreed, but because her words echoed a sentiment he rarely voiced aloud. It was comfort, not temptation, to know that she understood. If King Wilhelm had taught his daughter the value of strategic subterfuge, then so much the better. It aligned with what Sebastian had learned during the years of strife: sometimes spies and subterfuge achieved what armies could not, even those faithful to the Maker. At the moment, with outright invasion off the table, he would need to chip away at Kirkwall’s false front by other means.

He finished the last of the letters and sealed them carefully, some with wax and no crest, others with the Starkhaven seal displayed plainly. He laid them out in a neat row on the desk, each bound for a different corner of the world. One would wind its way through Ansburg. Another would find its way to Hercinia’s coast. A third, far more plain in its appearance, was destined for Wycome. Lucia had refreshed his inkpot in silence, watching him with an admiring gaze.

Sebastian rose from his chair, feeling steadier than he had since Varric’s reply first arrived. Planning, acting—these were sacred antidotes to helplessness. If Kirkwall’s door was shut to him, he would find a window, or at least a keyhole to peer through. He moved to the doors, beckoning a waiting courier who stood just outside in the hall. Handing off the bundle of letters with clear instructions for their varied delivery routes, he dismissed the man.

With the task complete, he turned his attention to the balcony, where Lucia soon joined him. They walked to the balcony rail, overlooking the bustling sprawl of Starkhaven below. From here, the city looked peaceful—cathedral spires, red-tiled roofs, winding streets teeming with ordinary midday life. They heard the distant tolling of a chantry bell, likely making a noon devotion. Sebastian felt a swell of affection and protectiveness for this city and its people. Everything he did—every harsh decree, every backroom stratagem—was in service to keeping Starkhaven safe and pure in the Maker’s light. And now, not only Starkhaven, but potentially all of the Free Marches. If his path led to a holy war to uproot the last of the dangers that had risen in the ashes of Kirkwall’s wake, then so be it.

Chapter Text

It was shaping up to be a perfectly ordinary morning in Kirkwall. Dreary paperwork, lukewarm coffee, and a throbbing headache from too little sleep. Varric sat behind the Viscount’s desk attempting to focus on a scrawled petition about drainage in Lowtown. The mundanity of it was almost comforting after the last few days of crisis. Less than a week had passed since he’d sent that honey-tongued letter politely telling Sebastian to shove his “assistance” where the sun didn’t shine. With Starkhaven’s demands temporarily appeased, Varric had dared to hope he might steal a quiet moment or two to catch up on Kirkwall’s more routine problems.

No such luck. The Viscount’s office still bore scars from the recent turmoil: maps of the Free Marches curled at the edges from the week’s stormy humidity, casualty reports from the failed prison convoy stacked accusingly in one corner, and a half-empty bottle of Antivan brandy sitting next to Bianca on the desk. Varric reached for the bottle out of habit, then thought better of it—too early for that, Grandpa Tethras, he chided himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the dull ache behind his eyes to ebb. Maker, he hated mornings—especially mornings following weeks of disaster control.

He was about to dip his quill in ink and sign off on the drainage petition when a floorboard creaked ever so softly behind him. Too softly. Years of dodging trouble in Kirkwall’s back alleys had sharpened Varric’s instincts to a razor’s edge. In a single motion, he slid Bianca off the desktop and flipped the heavy crossbow up to bear.

“Funny,” he drawled without turning, heart thumping a little faster. “I don’t recall scheduling a surprise engagement…”

Silence answered. The hairs on Varric’s neck prickled. Whoever was there moved like a cat stalking a bird. Assassin. Had to be. And unless Varric was mistaken, the faint whiff reaching him through the parchment-and-leather smell of the office was oil of thyme and nightshade—poison.

A shadow flickered in the corner of his vision. Varric twisted in his seat just as a blade hissed by his ear. There was a flash of steel, a grunt. His leather coat parted at the shoulder seam as a knife narrowly missed flesh. In a blink, Varric had a bolt loaded and fired point-blank.

The quarrel caught the attacker in the thigh. A strangled cry finally broke the silence. Varric’s would-be murderer staggered back from the force of the impact, clutching at the bolt now buried deep in a muscle. Black leather armor, close-fitting and stained dark best for nighttime work; a thin stiletto dagger glistening with something viscous; a hood half-covering a tattoo on his jaw. Varric’s pulse kicked. Antivan Crow. Of course Starkhaven wouldn’t take “no, thank you” quietly—they’d sent the world’s deadliest messengers to reply.

“Bianca’s not a fan of uninvited guests,” Varric said, rising from the chair. He kept the crossbow trained on the intruder. “Neither am I, as it happens.”

The Crow snarled something in Antivan and flung a small orb to the ground. Pop—an explosion of acrid smoke billowed out. Varric coughed, eyes stinging as a cloud of gray engulfed the office. The world narrowed to shapes and shadows. He heard the patter of swift footsteps circling to his right. Two of them? Three? It was hard to tell in the haze, but the scuff of boots and the whisper of blades suggested more than one assailant. Trust the Crows to send a whole murder, he thought grimly.

He dropped low behind the desk as a second dagger whistled overhead, thudding into the high back of the Viscount’s chair. Poison dripped from the embedded tip, sizzling against the polished wood. If he’d been a hair slower, that would be lodged in his neck. Varric’s heart hammered in his chest, adrenaline washing the last vestiges of fatigue from his mind.

“Seren, get out of here!” he barked hoarsely, hoping his seneschal had heeded the danger. Seren had been by the doorway just moments ago, sorting ledgers. Now, through the murk, Varric saw the half-elf duck and scramble for the door handle. Good. Seren wasn’t armed or trained for this—better they fetch help.

A dark shape vaulted over the desk with inhuman agility, landing where Varric had been sitting. The assassin whose leg he’d skewered? No—this one moved too fluidly to be injured. A second Crow, then. They came at Varric in a blur of motion. Varric barely had time to yank Bianca’s reloading lever; he brought the metal limbs of the crossbow up just in time to block a slashing shortsword aimed at his head. Steel scraped on steel with a piercing screech. The force of the blow sent a jolt down his arms. Damn, they were fast.

Varric kicked back hard, his boot connecting with what he hoped was a kneecap. The Crow hissed in pain and faltered, giving Varric a precious second. He wrenched Bianca free, jammed a new bolt into place one-handed, and fired upward from the hip. The quarrel buried itself in the attacker’s midsection at near zero range. The Crow choked on a gasp, doubling over as blood blossomed dark through their leather jerkin. One down—maybe. Varric didn’t have time to confirm the kill, because the first assassin—the one he’d hit in the thigh—chose that moment to rejoin the fray. 

Through the thinning smoke, Varric caught a glimpse of a blade arcing toward him from the left. He spun, bringing Bianca around like a club. The heavy crossbow creaked against the side of the Crow’s skull with a sickening thud. The man crumpled sideways, helmet askew. Varric planted a boot on the assassin’s chest and leveled Bianca at his face. “You picked the wrong dwarf,” he growled between clenched teeth, finger tightening on the trigger.

Before he could loose the shot, a sharp pain lanced through his right arm. Varric sucked in a breath as his forearm suddenly burned like it was on fire. He glanced down—another slender throwing knife had grazed him, slicing through his shirtsleeve just enough to spill blood. A line of angry red skin bubbled around the cut, and his arm began to go numb. Poison. Blight it. The bastards were coating everything they threw. Already a tingling chill crept through his fingers, making it harder to grip Bianca’s stock.

A third assassin emerged from the smoke near the door, a curved blade drawn back for a throw. Varric’s mind raced, instincts warring between diving for cover and finishing off the one under his boot. Before either could happen, the office doors slammed open. A rush of cooler air flooded in, clearing the smoke just enough to reveal a familiar armored figure in the doorway.

Aveline Vallen did not hesitate. The Guard-Captain barreled forward, shield first. “Kirkwall Guard! Drop your weapons!” she shouted, voice echoing off the stone walls. Behind her, two uniformed guards fanned out with swords drawn. 

The Crow by the door twisted toward this new threat and flung his dagger at Aveline. She deflected it with her shield in a burst of sparks. “Oh no you don’t!” Aveline snarled. In two great strides, she closed the distance and bashed the pommel of her sword into the assassin’s face. Cartilage crunched; the man reeled backward with a muffled scream, clutching a shattered nose.

The assassin pinned under Varric’s boot chose desperate measures. With a feral strength, he bucked Varric off—and Varric, unsteady from the poison, stumbled and lost his footing. The Crow rolled free, bleeding from the head but very much still alive. Before Varric could aim another shot, the assassin sprang toward the room’s tall windows. In one swift motion, he hurled himself through the glass.

Varric heard the crash of shattering panes and a fading cry as the man plummeted toward the courtyard below. Three stories down, Varric calculated with a grim twist in his gut. Even an Antivan Crow wasn’t landing softly from that. “Shit,” he breathed, wiping sweat and smoke from his eyes. So much for taking that one alive.

Aveline had engaged the remaining attacker by the door, the one she’d stunned. The wounded Crow slashed wildly at her, but Aveline moved with seasoned precision. She caught his wrist in an iron grip and slammed him against the wall. The man struggled, twisting like an eel and spitting Antivan curses through blood-slick teeth. For a heartbeat, Varric thought they might actually capture one. But the Crow’s free hand darted suddenly to a leather pouch at his belt—before Aveline could stop him, he shoved something into his own mouth.

“No!” Aveline barked, wrenching his jaw, but it was too late. The assassin convulsed, eyes rolling back, then went limp. A thin line of black froth dribbled from his lips as he sagged in Aveline’s grasp. He was dead before she lowered him to the floor. Aveline muttered a frustrated curse and let the body slump. “Poisoned himself,” she said to the guards, who were still catching their breath. “Maker’s breath, they’d rather die than be questioned.”

Varric leaned back against the edge of his desk, trying to steady his own breathing. The office reeked of smoke and blood and bitter herbs. Glass shards littered the floor near the blown-out window, glinting in the daylight like cruel confetti. Of the three attackers, one was missing (presumably a splatter on the cobblestones below), one lay dead at Aveline’s feet, and a third—the one Varric had shot in the gut—lay sprawled on the rug, motionless. That one had yet to move or make a sound; the bolt protruding under his ribs had likely done its job.

Seren appeared in the doorway, face flushed and eyes huge. They must have fled to fetch Aveline and the guard when he told them to run. Now Seren hovered, clutching the door frame with white-knuckled hands. “M-Messere—Varric—are you hurt?” they stammered.

“Nothing a week at the Blooming Rose won’t fix,” Varric joked weakly. He peeled back his torn sleeve to inspect the knife graze on his forearm. The bleeding was minimal, but the flesh around it was livid and purple. The numbness had spread through his hand, making his fingers clumsy. “Ah, fantastic. My arm’s gone tingly. Must be my lucky day.” He tried to keep his tone light, but a sliver of anger cut through. An assassination attempt. In his city, in broad daylight. The audacity of it made his blood boil beneath the shock.

Aveline stepped over the corpse and was at Varric’s side in an instant. “Sit,” she ordered brusquely, the authority in her voice undercut by naked concern in her eyes. She guided him down to perch on the edge of the desk. “Let me see.” She examined the wound carefully, sniffing the residue she touched with the tips of her gloved fingers. “Andraste’s mercy… Nevarran mix, by the smell. Don’t move, I have an antidote in my belt pouch.”

As Aveline dug out a small vial of antidote tonic, Varric glanced up at the two guards, who were still standing at attention, awaiting orders. Both looked rattled—one kept staring at the shattered window, clearly shocked at the violence that had just erupted in the normally quiet Keep halls. “Fan out and secure this wing,” Varric told them, mustering as much cool authority as he could. No sense letting them see his knees still trembling under the desk. “If there are any more of these murderous clowns skulking around, I don’t want them getting a second chance.”

“Yes, ser!” The guards snapped to it and rushed off, one pausing only to bark for a runner to fetch more men.

Aveline passed Varric the vial. “Drink. All of it,” she instructed. Varric grimaced at the acrid taste over his tongue as he swallowed the antidote, but gradually, sensation began to creep back into his fingertips. The burning in his forearm eased to a tolerable sting. Aveline exhaled in relief. “Lucky it was a small dose. You’ll live.”

“Wasn’t planning on checking out today anyway,” Varric replied, cracking a lopsided grin. He rolled his shoulder tentatively. Sore, but functional. And Maker, was he angry now. That fear-laced adrenaline was cooling into a seething irritation. So much for Kirkwall’s illustrious Viscount being safe on his own turf. He glanced around at the carnage: fine oak paneling scorched by smoke, centuries-old glass annihilated, blood soaking into an expensive Antivan rug (an ironic touch). With a rough sigh, Varric retrieved Bianca from the floor and shook a few bits of broken glass out of her firing mechanism. “First Starkhaven sends us love letters, now they’re sending assassins. I’m flattered by the attention, really.”

Aveline snorted, half amused, half grim. “I doubt Sebastian ordered this. It seems more his style to march an army to our gates than hire cutthroats.” She nudged the dead Crow with the toe of her boot, eyes narrowed. “Crows work for coin. Someone paid dearly to send them.”

Varric was already thinking the same. The Antivan Crows didn’t come cheap—whoever funded this little morning surprise had deep pockets and an interest in seeing Kirkwall’s leadership skewered. Sebastian certainly ticked one box, but Aveline was right—this wasn’t his style. If not Sebastian directly, though, then one of his allies. Maybe one working in the shadows. The idea that Starkhaven’s influence might have slithered inside Kirkwall’s walls made Varric’s jaw tighten. It was one thing to face an enemy head-on; another to have them slithering around in the dark, striking from behind.

Seren had edged into the office now, carefully skirting glass shards and the spreading pool of blood. Though visibly shaken, they forced themselves to focus. “We should search them,” Seren suggested quietly. “There might be… um… clues, messere.” They swallowed, eyeing the nearest corpse with a queasy expression. Clearly, rifling bodies wasn’t a skill taught in Seneschal 101, but Seren gingerly knelt by the dead Crow regardless.

Varric nodded, easing himself back to his feet. “Good thinking. Try not to get any nasty surprises. These two were walking poison dispensers.” He moved to help Seren, suppressing a wince as broken glass crunched under his boots. Together they checked the assassins’ pouches and pockets. Varric found a few slim knives, a coil of garrote wire (lovely), and a velvet coin purse fat with Orlesian minting. That alone spoke volumes—some foreign sponsor with Orlesian gold, likely funneled through backchannels to the Crows. Aveline discovered a crumpled note tucked inside the inner lining of one Crow’s gauntlet. The parchment was soaked in the man’s blood, and part of it had torn on a shattered piece of metal during the scuffle.

Aveline peeled the sticky paper free, frowning at the stain that obscured much of the ink. “Looks like a list… some kind of job order?” She squinted and read what she could. “Most of it’s ruined. I can make out a few letters here… There’s ‘-odge’... ‘Podge’? And then the word ‘next’.” She glanced at Varric sharply. “Does ‘Podge’ mean anything to you?”

Seren’s eyes lit with recognition. “Yes! I knew I’d heard it before.” They stood up, brushing off their knees. “Podge is an alias. Real name’s Podrick—Podrick something. He’s a small-time thief down in Darktown.”

Now it clicked with Varric too. “Podrick. Right. Maker’s breath.” He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a fine sprinkling of glass. Podrick—Podge—had once been Podrick Bellemore, if memory served. Not that Podrick advertised that in Darktown. The Bellemores had been minor nobility decades ago. There’d been a scandal—something about treasonous correspondence with the Qunari, or was it embezzling from the city coffers? Varric couldn’t recall the details, only that the family fell hard and fast. Their lands were seized, titles stripped. The son, Podrick, would be around Varric’s age now, and had apparently reinvented himself as a rat in Kirkwall’s gutter. Varric let out a low whistle. “Podrick Bellemore. Haven’t heard that name in years. The kid’s been scraping by as a pickpocket ever since his daddy got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”

Aveline’s brows knitted. “Minor nobility, disgraced family… If this note says ‘Podge - next,’ it sounds like the Crows were moving down a list of targets. Viscount Tethras first, and then a washed-up noble’s son?” She shook her head. “It’s a strange pairing. What’s this Podrick got to do with any of this?”

“Good question,” Varric muttered. He didn’t like coincidences. If someone had both Varric and Podrick on a hit list, there had to be a link. Perhaps Podrick wasn’t as insignificant as he seemed. “Seren, anything else you can remember about Podrick? Or the Bellemores?”

Seren pursed their lips, thinking. “Only what the old records say. Lord Arlan Bellemore—that’s Podrick’s father—was removed from the Kirkwall council about fifteen years ago. Corruption charges. They were a minor house but had held that council seat for generations. After the scandal, the family was ruined.” They hesitated, then added, “I recall something about Podrick in a recent complaint. He’s been petitioning to reclaim the family’s titles or some such? He claims his father was set up. The guard has picked him up a few times for theft, but he never stays in the cells long.”

Aveline’s mouth set in a grim line. “Ah, I remember now. Donnic mentioned a Podrick just last week—caught him sniffing around the city records archive after hours. We figured he was looking to steal documents to sell on the black market. Perhaps he was searching for proof of his family’s innocence instead.” She blew out a breath. “If Podrick truly thinks he can restore his name, he might become a thorn to some people… Perhaps enough of a thorn to hire assassins to remove him.”

Varric tapped a finger thoughtfully on Bianca’s stock. “So someone in Kirkwall’s nobility—someone who benefited from the Bellemores’ downfall or fear their return—might have an interest in seeing Podrick six feet under.” His voice hardened. “And if that same someone put me at the top of the list, then we’re looking at a traitor in our midst.”

He exchanged a look with Aveline. He could see the same realization reflected in her eyes. A Kirkwaller with deep pockets and ties to Starkhaven’s agenda—because who else would profit from assassinating the Viscount when Sebastian Vael’s threatening a crusade? Someone was playing a double game, weakening Kirkwall from within. Maker’s breath, the thought made Varric feel ill. He scanned his memories of recent council meetings; skeptical faces, dissenting voices. Who had the most to gain by cutting Kirkwall’s legs out from under it? Renval’s dismissive sneers… Meriel’s cold pragmatism… Or perhaps someone absent from those talks, pulling strings quietly in the background.

“We need to find Podrick, now,” Varric said, pushing aside the troubling questions for the moment. “If the Crows had him lined up as ‘next,’ he might already have more company headed his way.”

Aveline nodded sharply. “Agreed. We can’t assume this was the only squad they dispatched. I’ll assemble a detachment—discreetly. Last thing we need is panic in the streets or our rat getting spooked and bolting deeper underground.”

“I’ll come with,” Varric said, rolling his shoulder once and finding the strength returning. He wasn’t about to sit on the sidelines after nearly being skewered. And he doubted Podrick would respond well to uniformed guards showing up at his door without someone he trusted. Granted, Varric wasn’t sure Podrick trusted him per se—but Varric’s name still carried weight in the underworld. Enough, hopefully, to get Podrick talking instead of running.

Aveline gave him a sidelong look. “Are you sure you’re up for this? You just had a close call, Varric. I’d rather not drag our Viscount through Darktown’s filth if he’s nursing a poison wound.”

Varric mustered a cheeky grin. “Captain, I’m insulted. You think a little love bite on the arm’s going to slow me down? Bianca and I are fine. And trust me, a dwarf in Darktown draws a lot less attention than half a dozen guards stomping around.” He gestured to the shattered window and general wreckage. “Besides, I could use some fresh air after… all this.”

Aveline huffed, somewhere between exasperated and fond. “Fine. But stick close, and if you start feeling faint from that poison, you shout. I’ll not have you keeling over in the depths of Darktown.”

“Yes ma’am,” Varric said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Seren, you too. Grab whatever you need and come on—we might need your knack for recalling details.” He paused, considering. “Actually, one more thing.” He strode to the open doorway, catching the arm of a guard just arriving with reinforcements. “Fetch Marsa from the infirmary. Tell her to examine these… trespassers. I want confirmation they’re Crows and any other evidence she can find. And—” he lowered his voice, “keep this contained. We don’t need rumors spreading yet.”

The guard saluted smartly. “At once, Your Excellency.”

Within minutes, Varric, Aveline, and Seren were on their way out of Hightown. Aveline had two of her most trusted guards tailing at a distance as protection, but otherwise they kept their entourage minimal. The group wound down through the streets as noon like struggled to break through the ever-present Kirkwall haze. Varric walked briskly despite the twinge in his arm. Every so often, his gaze flicked over his shoulder, alert for any sign of more assassins. But aside from a pair of elven laborers hauling a cart and a few Hightown residents casting curious looks at their visibly armed little party, no threats revealed themselves.

They descended into Lowtown’s warren of narrow alleys and makeshift markets. The air grew heavier, tinged with smoke from foundries and the tang of unwashed bodies. Down here, most people averted their eyes as the Viscount and Guard-Captain passed by. Aveline’s very presence usually scattered the shadier denizens, but Varric caught more than one hooded figure peering at them from a distance. News of the attempt on him wouldn’t stay secret for long among Kirkwall’s rumor-mongers. Best to make this quick.

At last they reached a dilapidated stairwell hidden behind a collapsed wine distillery. Aveline wrinkled her nose. “Darktown,” she announced, as if introducing them all to a mutual old enemy. The entranced yawned like a maw in the earth, exhaling a foul breath of mildew and rot.

“After you, Captain,” Varric said grandly, waving Aveline ahead with a flourish. She shot him a withering look and drew her sword, stepping into the shadows first. Varric and Seren followed, with one guard trailing behind to guard their rear.

The descent into Darktown was like passing from dusk to midnight. Each step down the creaking wooden stairway dimmed the light further. At the bottom, rows of guttering torch sconces provided meager illumination, their smoke gathering along the ceiling of old stone tunnels. Darktown stretched out before them: a subterranean slum carved into Kirkwall’s bones, all scabrous walls and jury-rigged shacks. Familiar despair clung to the air—this was where those with nowhere to go ended up. Refugees, fugitives, castoffs. Varric has spent many a misadventurous night in Darktown back in the day, chasing leads for stories or friends who’d lost their way. He’d never expected to return as Viscount on official business, and the irony wasn’t lost on him.

They moved cautiously through winding passages that echoed with distant coughs and murmurs. Shapes shuffled in the dark, wary eyes tracking them from behind sagging doorways as small figures darted away into side alleys. Aveline’s armored footsteps announced them clearly, but Varric kept his own tread light, ears straining for anything amiss. He caught snippets of whispered conversations cut short as they passed. Nobody openly confronted the Guard-Captain—not yet at least. Even criminals knew Aveline by reputation and generally steered clear unless desperate.

Varric guided them by memory and Seren’s intel toward the area Podrick was known to haunt. According to Seren’s earlier recollection, Podrick often holed up near the old tunnels by Slum’s Edge—the same area that once housed Anders’ little clinic, Varric realized with a frown. How times have changed. That clinic had saved lives, even brought a bunch of new ones into the world; now its remains likely sheltered smugglers and worse.

As they neared the spot, Aveline signaled a halt with a clenched fist. The group pressed against a wall slick with moss and sewage runoff. “This is the place,” she whispered, gesturing ahead to a half-collapsed archway leading into a domed chamber. Once an extension of Kirkwall’s sewer system, it was now repurposed with scrap wood and canvas as a makeshift living space. Faint lamplight flickered within. “Podrick’s lair, I presume.”

“How are we going to play this?” Seren asked softly. Even in the gloom, their face was drawn and tense. It wasn’t fear for themselves, Varric sensed, but deep worry—for Varric’s safety, for what nastiness they might uncover next. The kid had heart.

Varric considered. If they stormed in weapons drawn, Podrick would bolt like a rabbit. But time was of the essence if assassins were on his trail. “Let’s try the friendly approach first. I’ll go in and have a chat, man to miscreant. Give me, say… thirty seconds, then follow if you hear me holler or if he rabbits.”

Aveline didn’t look thrilled by the plan. She had one gauntleted hand on her hip, hovering near her sword hilt. “I don’t like the idea of you walking in there alone.”

Varric mustered a crooked smile. “Don’t worry about me, Aveline. If Podrick tries anything, well—” he patted Bianca’s stock, slung over his shoulder, “—I’ll introduce him to my girl here. You and your boys can cut off any escape routes.”

After a moment, Aveline relented. “Fine. Seneschal Seren, you and I will circle around that side passage.” She pointed to a narrow gap in the stone that likely connected to the same chamber via another entrance—Darktown was a maze of connecting tunnels. “If he runs, we’ll corral him.”

“Just be careful,” Seren added in an anxious whisper. “We still don’t know if any Crows beat us here.”

They had a point. Varric’s neck prickled at the notion of more assassins stalking these same tunnels. But all was quiet for now, save the steady drip of water from the ceiling. “I’ll whistle if I spot trouble,” he assured them. With that, he straightened his leather coat, took a breath, and strode casually under the crumbling archway.

The interior space was dim but livable by Darktown standards. Old crates and barrels formed crude furniture. A tattered Ferelden tapestry hung across one wall, likely stolen. In the center, beside a guttering oil lamp, was Podrick. He was hunched over a low table strewn with papers. In one hand he clutched a scrap of parchment; the other tapped nervously at a half-empty bottle of beer. He looked exactly like Varric remembered from years ago, just thinner; a wiry human in his mid-forties with patchy black stubble on his chin and hair that might have been pure black if it weren’t matted with dirt. He wore a threadbare noble’s vest over stained peasant linen, as if clinging to some fragment of former dignity.

Podrick didn’t notice Varric at first—he was muttering to himself, reading the parchment by lamp glow. Varric caught a few words echoing in the chamber. “...damn lies… proof’s right here… think they can just—”

“Afternoon, Podge,” Varric interrupted brightly, as if greeting an old friend at the Hanged Man. He put on his most disarming grin. “Mind if I drop in? I promise I won’t steal the silver.”

Podrick jerked upright in alarm, the parchment flying from his fingers. He spun toward Varric, typically narrow eyes blown wide in the lamplight. For one absurd moment, he looked more afraid that someone had overheard him talking to himself than the fact an armed dwarf had just strolled in. Then recognition hit. “Varric Tethras?” Podrick blurted, blinking rapidly. His gaze darted around, likely seeking potential backup or an exit. Finding none immediately, he summoned up a sneer instead. “Or should I say Your Excellency?”

He tried to mask the unease with sarcasm, but Varric could see the man’s hands shaking. Podrick knew this wasn’t a social call. “Ah, so you do remember me,” Varric said lightly, stepping further inside. He made a show of resting one hand casually on Bianca’s stock. “It’s been a while. How’s the family?”

Podrick’s face twitched. “Dead, thanks for asking,” he spat. He shifted on his feet, inching subtly toward the far side of the table where a rusted shortsword lay among the clutter. “What do you want, dwarf? Come to mock me? Or did the guard finally decide a starving nobody was worth their precious time?”

Varric clucked his tongue. “Podge, Podge… Is that any way to greet Kirkwall’s Viscount? After all we’ve been through? I haven’t forgotten about that game at the Hanged Man—what was it—eight years ago? You still owe me three royals from that hand, if I recall.”

Podrick flushed, which gave his sallow cheeks a bit of color. “That game was rigged and you know it,” he snapped, then caught himself, clearly baffled at this detour. His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t answer me. Why are you here? And don’t tell me it’s about coin.”

Varric’s grin faded, replaced by a more serious expression. “I’m here because someone wants you dead, Podge. And they almost got me killed on their way to you.”

That knocked the bravado out of the man. He took a step back, bumping against the table. “W-what? Dead? What in Andraste’s name are you talking about?” He glanced around the room again, as if assassins might materialize from the shadows at the word.

“We intercepted a group of Antivan Crows in my office not an hour ago,” Varric said, voice echoing slightly in the cramped space. “They tried to give me a few new ventilation holes in my chest. Didn’t succeed.” He patted Bianca meaningfully. “On one of them, we found a note. Your name, Podge. Marked as ‘next.’”

Podrick’s throat bobbed. He stared at Varric, then at the entryway behind him like he expected Crows to come pouring in. “Crows… here? After me?” The disbelief quickly gave way to panic. “Andraste’s flaming ashes, I—I haven’t done anything! I’m a nobody!”

Varric raised a skeptical brow. “Nobody? Come on. We both know that’s nug shit. Maybe the folks up in Hightown don’t remember the Bellemore name, but down here? A disgraced noble’s son digging around in archives, asking questions about old scandals… That’s not nothing, Podrick.”

Podrick’s breath quickened. He looked like a cornered rat, eyes flickering between Varric and the corridor behind, calculating his odds. “I only wanted the truth,” he said, voice cracking. “They ruined us, Varric. Ruined my father, destroyed my family. I needed proof—proof that bastard set us up.”

“And which bastard would that be?” came Aveline’s voice, firm and clear, from the archway. She stepped into the lamplight with Seren right behind her. Podrick jumped a foot, realizing he was now well and truly surrounded. Aveline’s hand rested on her sword hilt in plain sight. “Go on, Podrick. Name him.”

Podrick’s shoulders slumped as the last of his defiance melted into resignation. “Guard-Captain,” he greeted Aveline bitterly. “Why am I not surprised you’re mixed up in this too? Figures. The minute I get close to justice, the whole city comes down on me.”

“This isn’t about dragging you in for petty theft,” Aveline snapped, patience thin. “The Viscount is offering you a chance to save your hide. So talk.”

Podrick looked between Aveline’s uncompromising glare and Varric’s calmer, but no less intent, gaze. He deflated. “Fine. But you should be talking to him,” Podrick said, voice turning acidic. “Lord Markus Renval.” He practically spat the name. “High-and-mighty noble. He’s the bastard who framed my father all those years ago. And he’s the one who wants me dead now, I guarantee it.”

Varric felt a cold pang of recognition—and grim vindication—stab through him. Renval. One of the very nobles in his council chamber, scoffing and smoothing his fancy sleeves while Kirkwall’s future hung in the balance. Renval, who argued against every action at every turn. It made an ugly kind of sense. Renval’s family had to have profited greatly from House Bellemore’s fall; Varric faintly recalled reading about how the Renvals had absorbed several of the Bellemore trade deals after the scandal. And Renval’s behavior lately… Was it just cowardice, or deliberate sabotage? Varric clenched his jaw.

“What makes you so sure it’s Renval?” he asked evenly, though his mind was already fitting the puzzle pieces together.

Podrick barked a humorless laugh. “Because I’ve got the damned proof. Or… had.” He glanced at the scattered papers on the ground, his throat tightening. “I dug up letters from my father’s correspondences. A few months back, I paid good coin to some Carta contacts for records out of Orzammar—ledgers showing Renval trading with the Qunari smugglers at the same time he was accusing my father of doing it. Father always knew he was framed, and by the Void, he was right. It was Renval moving illicit goods through Kirkwall, using our name. We took the fall when it got exposed.”

Aveline’s eyes narrowed. “That’s… a very serious accusation.”

“It’s the truth,” Podrick said quickly, desperation creeping in. “I was going to use it. Force him to reinstate our name, give back what was ours. And if he didn’t, I was going to expose Renval for the leech he is.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth, trembling slightly. “But… I was careless. He must’ve caught wind that I had those records. Last week, two men cornered me in an alley, demanded I give them everything I had. They wore guard cloaks, but I knew they weren’t real guards. Probably mercenaries on Renval’s coin. I stashed the letters before they grabbed me. They roughed me up, searched, didn’t find anything. I thought I’d shaken them.” Podrick grimaced. “Guess not. Now the Crows are after me… Maker, what a mess.”

Varric exchanged a look with Aveline. Her jaw was set in barely contained fury. If what Podrick said was true, Lord Renval was more than a Starkhaven sympathizer—he was a traitor who’d stoop to anything to secure his position. Hiring mercenaries to bully Podrick, hiring Antivan Crows to do the dirty work permanently when that failed… And Renval had sat in Varric’s office days ago, bemoaning how Kirkwall was “alone” and “in no state for war.” Had he been trying to weaken their resolve, to pave the way for Sebastian’s invasion? The thought made Varric’s stomach turn. The duplicity was almost impressive in a sick way. Renval had even seemed impressed with the letter to Starkhaven. The old weasel must’ve been laughing inside, knowing he had other schemes in motion.

“You still have those letters? The proof?” Aveline asked Podrick sharply.

Podrick’s face crumpled. “No. They… they’re gone,” he said miserably. “I hid them in a safe place. But when I went to retrieve them yesterday, they were already gone. Renval’s thugs must’ve found them after all. I’ve got nothing left.” He slumped against the table, the fight draining out of him. “And now I’m as good as dead.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the drip of water from a fissure in the ceiling. Varric felt a pang of sympathy despite himself. Podrick was a scoundrel, sure, and a cheat and a liar. But he was also a man who had lost everything to Kirkwall’s cutthroat politics. Not so different from me, in a way, Varric mused darkly. A commoner who rose to power and a noble who fell from it—both now tangled in the same deadly game thanks to Sebastian’s damned crusade and the allies he’d stirred up.

Aveline stepped forward and placed a firm hand on Podrick’s shoulder. He flinched, but she held him steady. “Listen to me, Podrick,” she said, her voice low but steely. “We’re not going to let the Crows or anyone else get to you. But you have to cooperate. That means coming with us, now. Protective custody.”

Podrick eyed her warily. “Protective custody? In the Keep or in a cell?” There was distrust in his voice, but also a glimmer of hope he couldn’t quite hide.

“You’d rather take your chances on the streets?” Varric asked. “I get it, Podge. Trust me, I do. Kirkwall’s powers that be haven’t been kind to you. But I give you my word: as long as I’m Viscount, no one’s going to harm you under my roof. We need you alive. You’re a witness now.”

Podrick’s eyes darted between them. He swallowed hard. “And after that? After you use me to nail Renval to the wall—assuming you even can, without those letters—what happens to me?”

Seren piped up softly from behind Aveline, their tone earnest. “If Lord Renval is found guilty of the crimes you’ve described, Ser Podrick, he will face judgment. Your testimony could help right a past wrong.” They offered a tentative, encouraging smile. “It might even restore some honor to your family’s name.”

Varric noted the careful omission of any promise of titles or lands. Those were long gone, and Podrick likely knew it. But a public vindication—that his father was innocent after all—perhaps that would be enough. Podrick let out a shuddering breath. “Alright,” he mumbled. “Alright, I’ll come.” He attempted a wry smile that mostly came off as weary. “Not like I have much of a choice, do I?”

“Smart man,” Varric said. He moved aside, gesturing for Podrick to walk with Seren and Aveline. “We’ll get you someplace safe. And discreet,” he added, knowing Podrick’s nerves. “In fact, we have just the cell… I mean, a suite of rooms for you. A nice view of the harbor, I hear.”

Podrick managed a weak chuckle at that. “Ha. Fancy.”

They kept Podrick between them as they made their way out of Darktown. Aveline’s second guard fell in, taking up rear guard with weapon drawn, just in case. But no shadows leapt out to ambush them; no black-clad killers lurked in their path. Perhaps the Crows hadn’t gotten this far yet—or Aveline’s swift action had cut them off. Varric didn’t let his guard down until they had climbed back into the lower streets of Lowtown and even then the tension in his shoulders remained.

At the entrance to a sidestreet, Aveline dispatched one guard ahead to quietly summon a covered litter. She wanted Podrick moved to the Keep with minimal fanfare. Varric agreed—if Renval or any accomplice caught wind that Podrick was in custody, they might panic or try something desperate. No, better to keep this under wraps until they had evidence and a plan.

Maker, what a mess. It was supposed to be Sebastian Vael at their gates they worried about, not fellow Kirkwall nobles knifing them in the back.

Podrick hovered close to Varric as they waited, black eyes darting at every distant sound. The man was visibly on edge, like a skittish horse ready to bolt. Varric nudged Podrick’s arm with his uninjured shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. “We’ll sort it out, Podge. Might not bring back the good old days, but we’ll see justice done.”

Podrick glanced at him, a flicker of gratitude crossing his dirt-smudged face. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Didn’t expect… well, any of this.” He attempted a shaky laugh. “Viscount Tethras, champion of the gutter folk, eh?”

“Don’t spread it around,” Varric replied with a world-weary sigh. “I have a terrible reputation to uphold. Can’t have people think I’ve gone completely soft.”

That earned a genuine, if brief, smile from Podrick. It faded quickly as his gaze drifted upward, toward Hightown’s distant silhouette visible at the end of the street. “Renval,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Never imagined he’d go so far. The Crows. Maker’s breath… If he’d do that to me, what’s he planning to do to you? To Kirkwall?”

Varric followed Podrick’s gaze to the ornate spires beyond. A couple of days ago, he’d have said Renval was just a pessimistic old coot with no backbone. Now… he wasn’t sure what to think. “Don’t you worry about me,” Varric said, though his tone lacked its usual joking air. “Worry about yourself for now. We’ll handle Renval.”

Inside, though, Varric’s gut churned. Renval had been undermining him for months with subtle jabs and doubts in the council, but Varric had chalked that up to the usual political friction. He hadn’t imagined the man would cross the line into treason and murder. But should I have? Varric wondered bitterly. Kirkwall’s elite had always played dirty when their power was threatened. And Sebastian’s cause had given them the perfect rallying cry to exploit. Renval might believe he was doing the Maker’s work by aiding Starkhaven’s righteous vengeance—or maybe he just saw an opportunity to settle old scores and come out on the winning side. Either way, he’d put countless lives at risk. Varric flexed his fingers, longing to be strangling a certain bejeweled throat.

Patience. He needed proof, a solid case, before confronting Renval. And he would confront him—just not yet.

The litter arrived presently, a nondescript covered wagon with a single door. Aveline ushered Podrick inside, and Seren climbed in as well to keep an eye on him. Varric pulled Aveline aside before joining them. He kept his voice low. “This stays between as few of us as possible for now. We can’t move on Renval until we’ve got our ducks lined up.”

Aveline nodded, her face still flushed from anger but tempered by duty. “I know. I’ll have my most loyal guards watching over Podrick. No one talks. And Renval will get no hint of this from me or any of my men.” She placed a hand briefly on Varric’s back, a comforting pressure. “We’ll get him, Varric. The snake can’t hide now.”

Varric managed a tight smile. Having Aveline at his side made even this betrayal feel surmountable. “I know. Just have to be smart.” He climbed into the litter last, pulling the canvas flap shut behind him.

As they lurched into motion, trundling up out of Lowtown toward Hightown’s gates, Varric finally allowed himself a long exhale. His arm throbbed dully under its bandage, and every muscle ached from the morning’s fight. It had been one hell of a morning. He rubbed a thumb over Bianca’s stock, absent-mindedly tracing the grain of the wood. The city rattled outside, the sounds of daily life continuing oblivious to the drama unfolding in its underbelly. A fruit vendor hawked wares, children shouted in play, a Chanter called out verses on a corner. Kirkwall endured, as it always did, blissfully ignorant of how close chaos loomed.

Inside the wagon, Podrick sat hunched and silent, lost in his own anxious thoughts. Seren offered him a waterskin and a gentle word, which Podrick accepted with a grunt of thanks. Aveline kept glancing in at them through a gap in the flaps. The tension weighed on them all.

Varric watched a droplet of his blood, fallen earlier from his cut, quiver on the wooden floor with each shift and shudder of movement in the litter. This is what it’s come to, he thought, we bleed before the war even starts. Starkhaven’s ally—Renval, if Podrick was right—had made the first covert strike. It wouldn’t be the last. And it meant Varric now had a war to fight on two fronts: one against an external foe rallying righteous armies, and another within Kirkwall’s own halls, slithering behind smiles and silks.

He leaned his head back against the carriage wall, closing his eyes for just a moment. He pictured the Hawke estate as he last saw it in the moonlight—a dark, empty shell, a symbol twisted by time. How many ghosts did Kirkwall have, refusing to stay buried? Elthina’s death, the Mage-Templar war, the Inquisition, the grudges festering in hearts like Renval’s… They were all converging now, converging on him and the fragile peace he was trying so hard to hold together.

Varric opened his eyes and caught Aveline’s gaze through the gaps in the flaps. In her eyes was the steady reassurance that he wasn’t in this alone. He gave her a small nod. Yes. They would root this out together, quietly for now, decisively when the time came. Podrick’s information would be the start. He’d get the whole ugly truth, gather evidence. Perhaps those letters weren’t gone after all—perhaps Renval stashed them somewhere. Seren might be able to sniff out where, with their network of informants. And Josephine Montilyet—if Varric’s letter reached her—could perhaps ferret out Renval’s broader dealings. The pieces were already moving in Varric’s mind, a careful game plan unfurling to counter the one being played against him.

The litter slowed as they traveled up the incline into Hightown. Podrick peered through the back flap, eyes widening at the marble manors coming into view. He hadn’t been up here in years, perhaps. Varric cleared his throat, drawing Podrick’s attention. “Podge—Podrick. We’ll have plenty of time for you to tell your full story once we’re secure. I’ll see that you get a meal and some rest.” He offered a faint, wry smile. “Maybe a bath or two, too.”

Podrick managed a tired smirk. “Heh. Maybe three.” He gestured vaguely at Varric’s bandaged arm. “I, uh… I am sorry, you know. That you got dragged into this. I never meant—”

“Forget it,” Varric said sincerely. “Renval’s the bastard behind this. You and I? We’re just the poor saps cleaning up his mess. Kirkwall has a habit of making unlikely allies.” He extended his hand. “Truce?”

Podrick eyed the hand, then grasped it and shook. “Truce.” A ghost of his old bravado returned as he added, “But I’m not paying you those three royals. I know you cheated.”

Varric barked a genuine laugh and released the handshake. “You wound me, Podge. I’ll get those coins off you one day, mark my words. For now, focus on staying alive.”

The litter came to a gentle stop. They had arrived via a side entrance of the Keep, away from prying eyes. Aveline’s guards quickly formed a cordon to escort Podrick inside, and Seren hurried ahead to arrange a secure chamber and summon a trusted healer to check everyone over. As he stepped out, Varric caught Aveline’s arm lightly. “Thank you,” he said under his breath.

Aveline shook her head. “Just doing my job. Maker knows it’s never dull with you in charge.” But she squeezed his shoulder in a comradely way, her stern expression softening. “We’ll get through this, Varric. Kirkwall will get through this.”

They disembarked, and Podrick was swiftly shepherded into the Keep’s depths, flanked by guards. As Varric trailed behind, he took one last look out over Kirkwall from the doorway. The afternoon sun had broken through at last, illuminating the city’s patchwork of red roofs and weathered stone. Merchants were closing up market stalls; urchins were playing tag around the statue in the square. Life went on, blissfully unaware of the knives in the shadows.

Varric took in a slow breath, the air tasting of sea salt and rain. Then he turned and strode inside, the heavy door thudding shut behind him. In the relative quiet of the Keep’s corridor, with Podrick’s footsteps echoing ahead and Aveline’s armor clinking at his side, Varric firmed his resolve.

Kirkwall stood at the brink of a storm. Enemies without, enemies within—a tangle of daggers aimed at his heart. But if those enemies thought a bit of poison and treachery would cow Varric Tethras, they were in for a rude surprise. He’d survived being betrayed by his own brother, a Qunari uprising, the fall of the Chantry, and a big damn world-eating hole in the sky. He’d be damned if he let a prince’s crusade or a scheming lord end Kirkwall’s hard-won peace.

As he walked deeper into the Keep, Varric rolled his injured shoulder and set his jaw. The game had changed now. Starkhaven wasn’t just rattling sabers at the border—their allies were her, in the very walls of Kirkwall, smiling through their teeth. But fine. If they wanted to think they had the upper hand for now, he’d let them. Varric had learned a thing or two about playing the long game from both politics and wicked grace tables alike. He still had cards to draw, allies to call, and stories to spin that could snare even the shrewdest of snakes.

In the flickering torchlight of the corridor, Varric allowed himself a small, fierce grin. This battle wasn’t going to be won on open fields with banners flying, but in the shadows, with wit and will. And if there was one thing Varric had in spades, it was both. Kirkwall’s enemies were about to learn that the City of Chains was not so easily broken. Not from without, and not from within. He would see to that personally, crossbow in one hand and quill in the other, until every last threat was silenced and the pages of Kirkwall’s next chapter were written—on his terms.

Chapter Text

Night fell slowly over Laysh, draping the decaying port in a murky twilight. A damp wind gusted in from the Volca Sea, carrying the brine of salt and the odor of rotting kelp that clung to the half-sunk pilings along the docks. Warden-Constable Carver Hawke stood vigil atop the old sea wall, his dark blue Warden cloak fluttering around broad shoulders as he surveyed the quiet ruin of the town below. Much of Laysh lay abandoned—weathered warehouses with sagging roofs lined the waterfront, and empty market stalls creaked on their hinges in the breeze. In the gloom, a few lanterns glimmered in occupied homes, but they were scarce. To Carver’s eyes, the scattered lights only emphasized how much of the port had gone dark.

He narrowed his eyes against the sting of the sea wind. Far at the edge of the bay, the silhouettes of broken ships’ masts jutted from the water like skeletal fingers. They were remnants of a more prosperous age, long before his time—relics of when this port bustled with vessels from across the sea. Now, only ghost stories and half-whispered superstitions remained of that bygone era. Carver had heard the murmurs in the tavern on his rare visits: sailors spoke in hushed tones of spirits on the water, of strange lights bobbing beyond the surf on moonless nights, and of a ghostly ship said to glide out in the mist, crewed by drowned men. The skeptic in him dismissed such tales as fanciful talk to pass dark nights. And yet… tonight even Carver had to admit the atmosphere of Laysh invited such imaginings. The very air felt heavy with history and quiet dread.

At the far end of the docks, Carver could make out the modest chantry that served Laysh’s dwindling faithful. By daylight, it was an unassuming structure of half-rotted wood, bearing more resemblance to a sailor’s chapel than a grand temple. Its doors were closed at this hour, but he remembered the sight within. A humble altar to Andraste, lovingly adorned with strings of seashells and fishing nets. The locals had placed them there in hopeful offering, as if the Bride of the Maker might extend her protection over those who sailed the treacherous waters. Candles usually burned low before the seashell altar, their flames reflecting on the polished conch shells and casting dancing shadows on the chantry’s wooden beams. It was a quaint, oddly beautiful devotion—one of the few touches of color and faith in an otherwise gray and crumbling town. Carver allowed himself to appreciate it. Even here, in a forgotten corner of Thedas, people still kept their hope alive, however fragile.

He pulled his cloak tighter as the wind picked up, a chill seeping through the gambeson and plate beneath. The season was nominally summer, but in western Anderfels, the nights could bite with an autumn cold. Down below, the black waters of the bay slapped against the stone quay in an erratic rhythm. Carver watched as foam caplets glowed faintly where they caught the meager light from a lone dock lantern. It was then he saw it… or thought he did. A light, far out on the water. It was brief, just on the edge of his vision: a flicker of pale green luminescence, there and gone in a heartbeat. He straightened, squinting hard. The horizon was murky and empty. Nothing. Perhaps a reflection of starlight or an eye trick from staring too long into darkness, he told himself.

Yet his skin prickled beneath his armor. It was not the first time he’d glimpsed such things. Rumors among the longshoremen said witch-lights sometimes danced on the bay on clouded nights—flames with no torch, moving against the wind. Carver’s jaw tightened. He would not jump at shadows like a superstitious villager, but he silently vowed to have the night patrol keep watch on the waters nonetheless.

A rustle of leather boots on stone announced someone ascending the sea wall steps behind him. Carver did not turn immediately; he recognized the measured, quiet footfalls. Only one man in Laysh moved with such calm purpose. A moment later, Nathaniel Howe stepped up beside him, clad in Grey Warden armor marked with the silver griffon emblem. Nathaniel’s black hair was shot through with a few more streaks of gray than when Carver had first met him, and fine lines etched the corners of his eyes. But the older Warden’s posture was as straight and assured as a decade ago, and his keen gaze missed little. He inclined his head in greeting.

“Constable,” Nathaniel said, voice low and even. He followed Carver’s line of sight out over the bay. “You’re out here late. I thought I’d find you inspecting the barracks at this hour.”

Carver huffed softly, a hint of wryness on his lips. “Finished that earlier. No new cracks in the beams, no rats in the grain stores. For once, something in this place isn’t falling apart.” He paused, then added, “Couldn’t sleep, so I decided to take a turn on the wall.”

Nathaniel gave a slight nod. He understood the unspoken sentiment. Sleep never came easily to Grey Wardens, not with the nightmares, and for Carver, restless nights had become common of late. If Nathaniel had noticed him pacing at odd hours or brooding alone under the stars, he’d had the grace not to comment on it directly. Instead, the older Warden stepped forward and propped his elbows on the rough stone parapet, adopting a casual stance next to Carver.

For a few moments, both men simply stood there in companionable silence, listening to the waves and the distant, forlorn creak of a hanging sign somewhere in town. Despite the quiet, Laysh was not peaceful; the emptiness held an undercurrent of unease. Carver’s eyes flicked again to the dark horizon. He had half a mind to ask Nathaniel if he’d seen odd lights out at sea, but he bit back the question. No need to voice phantoms just yet.

Nathaniel broke the silence first. “The men are talking,” he said softly, as though continuing a conversation already begun. His gaze remained on the middle distance. “They say the hounds have been acting skittish again. Growling at nothing. And earlier today, two of the horses refused to enter the western stable.”

Carver exhaled through his nose, a measured breath. “I heard,” he replied. Of course he’d heard; nothing in their small garrison escaped his notice, not if he could help it. “Friedl reported the dogs wouldn’t go near the old lighthouse last night. Had their hackles up and one bolted as if something bit it.”

Nathaniel’s lips pressed into a thin line of concern. “That makes three incidents this week, if we count the flock of crows that descended on the training yard out of nowhere.” He glanced at Carver, lowering his voice. “The locals are already on edge. A few of the dockworkers swear the spirits are stirring. They think the town’s… cursed.” He said the last word without mockery, but Carver detected the skepticism beneath it. Grey Wardens faced real monsters like darkspawn and demons; curses and haunts were usually considered peasant tales.

Usually.

Carver ran the back of a gauntleted hand over the wind-loose strands of his long black hair, pushing them back and out of his face. He had once dismissed such talk outright, but now he wasn’t so sure. “We both know how superstition runs in isolated places,” he said, trying to sound pragmatic. “Half of it is nonsense. If a cupboard creaks in the night, someone blames a ghost.” He paused, then conceded, “Still… something has the animals spooked.” He thought of the fleeting greenish glow on the waves he might have seen. Something has me spooked, Carver admitted silently, but outwardly he remained stern and steady. The men looked to him to be unflappable.

Nathaniel studied Carver in the dim light. “You’ve a good intuition for these things,” he said quietly. Coming from a veteran like Howe, it was high praise. “If you suspect something’s amiss, I’ll trust your instinct.”

“I don’t know what I suspect yet,” Carver muttered. He rested his hands on the parapet; his fingers curled tightly on the cold stone. “But I have a feeling… It’s like the air here has changed these past weeks. The way a battlefield feels before a charge, when you know something is about to happen.” He gave a self-conscious shrug, suddenly aware he was voicing what sounded like a gut feeling rather than anything concrete. That was unlike him. In his youth, he’d been impulsive and quick to jump to conclusions, but Grey Warden training and years of command had drilled into him a habit of practicality and evidence. Ghostly lights and anxious hounds were flimsy evidence at best.

Nathaniel offered a faint, reassuring smile. “The Wardens didn’t survive five Blights by ignoring omens, however subtle. We’ve learned to heed warnings—even if they come in the form of uneasy horses or strange tales from sailors.” The older Warden’s gaze drifted out to sea again. “And in a place like Laysh, who’s to say what lingers? This town has seen traders from lost lands, war, plague… perhaps even things older than the Chantry’s tales.”

Carver cast him a sideways glance. Nathaniel wasn’t a mage or a scholarly sort, but like many Wardens, he possessed a wary respect for the unknown. It heartened Carver to hear his second-in-command lend credence, however lightly, to his worries.

Below them, a lone gull gave a shrill cry and fluttered off the mast of a derelict ship, vanishing into the dusk. Carver watched its departure, then cleared his throat. “Have our men keep a record of these incidents. If the pattern continues, we’ll send word to Weisshaupt. They might need to send a mage or two to inspect for—” he hesitated, the word heavy with implication, “—for a thinning Veil. Maker knows I’d rather have confirmation from someone who can sense such things than sit here chasing shadows.”

Nathaniel nodded in agreement. “I’ll see to it. Perhaps Constable Hauer can be persuaded to part with one of her mage recruits for a few weeks, if we report potential veil disturbances.” He allowed himself a dry chuckle. “We’ll omit the term ghost lights in our letter, lest the First Warden think Constable Hawke has been too long in isolation and started seeing things.”

Carver huffed a half-laugh. The thought of the stiff-necked First Warden in Weisshaupt reading about apparitions in Laysh nearly amused him. In truth, Carver didn’t give a nug’s ass what the First Warden or the nobility in Hossberg thought of him. He hadn’t clawed his way through blood and nightmares for over a decade to play politics. Let them whisper; he cared only for keeping his people safe. Still, Nathaniel’s wisecrack did its job, lightening Carver’s grim mood for a moment.

They left the sea wall and began a slow walk along the rampart that overlooked the town. Below, the narrow cobbled lanes were mostly empty at this hour. Here and there, Carver saw movement: a pair of Grey Wardens patrolling in the near distance, their torches bobbing; a hunched townswoman hurrying home with a basket clutched tight; the distant figure of old Hettie, the dockmaster’s wife, lighting a candle at the chantry’s door and murmuring a quick prayer before heading in for the night. Laysh seemed to live in a perpetual state of dusk, even by day, as though it remembered it was once a lively city and felt the absence like a phantom limb.

“How’s our supply situation?” Carver asked after a silence, turning the subject to more mundane matters as they walked. He kept his tone crisp, all business once more. Routine was a comfort, and it wouldn’t do for any of the passing guards to see their constable too lost in uneasy musings.

Nathaniel clasped his hands behind his back, reporting dutifully. “We have enough dried rations to last another two months, with careful use. Fresh food is scarcer. The villagers haven’t had a good catch in weeks. They say the fish have moved farther out or deeper down.” He frowned. “Could be the season… or something in the water chasing them off.” Another hint of the unnatural, left unsaid. “Either way, I’ve organized a trade with a caravan out of Nordbotten. They should arrive within a fortnight with grain and salted beef. Assuming bandits or worse don’t harry them on the roads.”

Carver gave a short nod. The mention of Nordbotten made him recall the world beyond Laysh, a world he had almost managed to push from his mind these past few weeks. “Any news from the capital?” he asked, voice neutral. It was a casual query, but Nathaniel knew what he meant.

“A few tidbits.” Nathaniel’s mouth twitched, signaling mixed feelings. “The latest reports from Weisshaupt finally came through. Sounds like King Wilhelm is still at odds with the First. Something about troop deployments and grain tithes. The King’s pushing for more control along the roads, but with darkspawn raids in the north, the Wardens are resisting pulling back.” He shrugged. “Same old tug-of-war.”

Carver grunted. Politics. Anderfels’ stubborn crown and the Grey Wardens’ influence were an open secret—one Carver had little patience for. “And Princess Lucia?” he prompted. The missive had mentioned the Princess in passing, though Carver had only skimmed it.

Nathaniel allowed himself a faint smirk. “Ah, yes, her. They say Princess Lucia has been touring the southern forts, making a show of royal concern. Rumor has it she’s trying to win the people’s favor, maybe with an eye toward one day claiming the throne over her little brother. Nothing but rumors, of course.”

Carver snorted softly. Royal ambitions, far removed from Laysh’s concerns. “Well, I wish her luck. She’ll need it if she plans to tame this country.” He swept an arm lightly to indicate the desolate town and the wild, dark expanse beyond. Western Anderfels was a far cry from courtly intrigues. Out here, a royal title meant less than a sharp sword and a sturdy shield when trouble struck.

“In any case,” Nathaniel continued, “neither King Wilhelm’s squabbles nor the Princess’s tours have much effect on us. No reinforcements, no increased funding. We’re on our own, as usual.”

Carver expected as much. He wasn’t bitter about it—he’d ceased expecting aid from the capital a long time ago. The Wardens of Laysh were used to making do with what little they had. If extra hands or coin ever came, it would be from Weisshaupt Fortress and the First Warden’s grace, not the Anderfels crown. And the First Warden had other worries, from Orlesian Chantry pressure to reports of lingering darkspawn clusters deep underground. Laysh’s quiet troubles would be low on their priority list until Carver could prove an actual threat was brewing.

They reached the end of the rampart, where a crumbling statue of some Andrastian hero overlooked the harbor. The figure’s features had been worn smooth by centuries of wind-blown sand and salty air, her identity lost to time. Carver paused there, one boot on a fallen chunk of masonry, and gazed out once more at the black water. Clouds had rolled over the sky, obscuring the stars. Below, only the faint glow from a few windows and torches gave definition to the town. It was the loneliest post he’d ever served—and yet, it felt oddly fitting.

Carver felt Nathaniel’s gaze as it lingered on him. “You’ve been quiet tonight,” Nathaniel offered gently. It was perhaps a redundant statement. Carver was always a man of relatively few words, but the intent was clear. Nathaniel was inviting him to speak, if he wished to unburden anything weighing on him.

Carver stayed silent for a long moment, debating with himself. He trusted Nathaniel more than most; the man had earned that trust a hundred times in battle and counsel. If there was anyone he could speak freely to, it was Howe. Still, Carver’s instinct was to keep his turmoil locked inside. Especially when it came to that subject. But tonight, with the veil of night around them, and an inexplicable dread gnawing at him, he found himself saying, “I was thinking about my brother.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but he could not keep a slight huskiness from it.

Nathaniel nodded silently, not interrupting.

Carver’s hands tightened behind his back. “It’s… I get these flashes sometimes. Memories.” His blue eyes remained fixed on the waves, but they were distant, seeing another time and place. “I’ve been thinking about the last time Garrett and I spoke. Truly spoke. It was… after what happened at Kirkwall. We ran into each other. He had that mage with him—Anders—” the name fell from his lips with a bit more bitterness than he’d meant, but still he continued, “and we argued. Maker, after everything… It was just a few words. Nasty ones. I was always good at those.” He grimaced, the old regret surfacing like a bruise pressed. “He wanted me to go with Aveline somewhere, away from whatever was going on with the other Wardens. Meanwhile, he was running off to help the Inquisition. To go save the world.” Carver stopped, jaw clenching. There it was: the old resentment, the stubborn pride that had flared in him even then. He’d been so eager to prove himself independent of his big brother’s shadow that he’d pushed Garrett away in what turned out to be their final parting.

Nathaniel’s voice was soft. “You didn’t know.”

Carver let out a breath that was almost a chuckle, though humorless. “Does it matter? I was… I was angry, still. For things that didn’t matter anymore. Garrett and I—we had been through so much, lost so much together. But I never quite let go of that chip on my shoulder.” He finally tore his gaze from the sea and looked down at his hands, remembering how he’d clenched his fists at his brother’s concern, how he’d practically shoved Garrett out of the barracks door. “‘Go play hero without me,’ I told him.” The words escaped Carver’s lips now in a whisper, heavy with regret. “And he did. The bloody hero went and got himself lost in the Fade for the Inquisition… like the big damned hero Varric’s stories makes him out to be.”

Nathaniel bowed his head. Everyone knew the story—Garrett Hawke’s sacrifice in the Fade, to save the Herald of Andraste from certain death. Nathaniel knew the story was a wound not just for Carver, but for many others as well. Garrett Hawke had been a friend to some Wardens and a legend to others. To Carver, though, he was a brother first and foremost. No legend or hero’s tale could fill the void of that loss. Nathaniel placed a hand on Carver’s shoulder, a solid and undemanding gesture of comfort. “Hindsight is cruel, Carver. None of us can predict our last words to those we love.” He paused. “Garrett understood the risks. He made his choice to save others… The Inquisition wouldn’t have succeeded without him. Your brother died a hero.”

Carver’s throat tightened. Died. He still wasn’t sure if he believed Garrett was truly gone forever. A foolish hope clung to him that perhaps his brother yet lived, trapped beyond the Veil. But that hope was as cruel as it was comforting; it kept the wound from scabbing over.

“A hero,” Carver echoed quietly. The word made him think of Bethany, of how she died defending their mother from a darkspawn ogre. Both of his siblings went out heroes. He wasn’t sure he liked the word at all anymore. “He was always that, in one way or another.” He managed a thin smile towards Nathaniel. “Thank you.”

Nathaniel gave a brief squeeze to Carver’s shoulder, then released it. Carver straightened, squaring his shoulders as if settling a familiar weight more comfortably across them. The moment of vulnerability passed like a ripple smoothing out on water.

“We should finish our rounds,” Carver said, returning to the immediate present. Duty was ever his refuge. “I want to be sure the western gate is secured. The last storm weakened it.”

“Of course, Constable,” Nathaniel replied formally, stepping back into his role with a respectful inclination of his head. Side by side, the two Grey Wardens descended the stairway from the wall and headed through the small courtyard that led toward the gate and their barracks. Their boots splashed through shallow puddles—remnants of yesterday’s brief rain—reflecting the torchlight in quivering orange smears.

As they walked, Carver gestured to a nearby pair of guards—one a local Ander named Stefan, the other a Rivaini archer called Luceia—to join them. “Anything to report?” Carver asked. Stefan, a lanky man with straw-blond hair, shook his head.

“All quiet so far, Constable,” Stefan answered in a thick Anderfels accent. “Just the wind making the tavern sign bang around. Scared old Bram enough to get him muttering about nachtgeists again.” He rolled his eyes, clearly not buying the old man’s ghost fears.

Luceia smirked. “He’s probably three ales deep. Every time he’s drunk, he sees geists.”

Carver allowed a short chuckle under his breath. Old Bram was Laysh’s resident storyteller and drunk, often one and the same. If a crate toppled over in an empty warehouse, Bram would claim a poltergeist knocked it over. Still, in these times Carver wouldn’t entirely dismiss the ravings. “If that’s the worst trouble tonight, we’re lucky,” he said. “Keep alert, both of you. If you spot anything out of the ordinary, let me or Senior Warden Howe know at once. Understood?”

“Yes, ser,” both guards replied in unison, posture straightening under Carver’s stern gaze. They respected him; he’d fought darkspawn in the Deep Roads and lived, stood with them against raiders and worse. In a forlorn place like this, that kind of steady, stalwart leadership earned loyalty fast. Carver gave them a firm nod and continued on. Nathaniel lingered a moment to clap Stefan on the back in a friendly manner—the older Warden was always a bit more personable—then he followed after Carver.

They reached the western gate, a stout wooden palisade reinforced with iron bands. It led out to the overgrown road that meandered eventually eastward toward the rest of the Anderfels. The gate was closed, its beams swollen slightly from the rain. Carver ran a hand along one edge where the wood had splintered. Just as he thought—the hinge was strained. He’d have their carpenter fix it on the morrow. Satisfied that it would hold for tonight, he signaled to the gate watch to remain vigilant and then turned back toward the center of town. 

Beyond the gate, the edge of the Wandering Hills loomed as a range of dark humps under the night sky. Carver took a moment to stare at them through a gap in the palisade. Those hills were crawling with restless things—not only darkspawn sometimes, but also ordinary predators. Wolves prowled, and occasionally things far worse. Once, a dragon had been spotted flying over those hills on its way to the coast, though it never troubled Laysh. Carver almost wished a tangible threat like that would show itself now; at least a dragon was something he could face steel to fang. It was the unseen, creeping dread that set his nerves on edge.

As if on cue, a low howl drifted on the wind from somewhere in the distance. It didn’t sound like a wolf. It was longer, keening, almost like an animal in pain. The hairs on the back of Carver’s neck rose. Nathaniel halted as well, both men listening. The howl faded, leaving just the rustle of long grass beyond the road.

“Another beast?” Nathaniel wondered quietly.

Carver’s hand had moved to rest on the hilt of his greatsword. He hadn’t even realized he’d done it. He released the iron grip deliberately. “Not sure. Could be a halla caught by a wolf… sound carries oddly at night.” But both of them knew no halla roamed these parts; that was just an easy lie to counter the dark possibility they were both imagining. 

They exchanged a knowing look. Without another word, Carver motioned, and they continued their circuit. He would send a scouting party to that area at first light, he decided. Best to rule out a darkspawn straggler or a rabid animal creeping near. Ever pragmatic, Carver planned the next step: gather evidence, keep people safe, do not jump to conclusions.

By the time their round was done, midnight had come and gone. The two Wardens arrived at the small Grey Warden barracks, an old customs house near the docks that had been repurposed to house their command. The structure groaned and shifted as the wind picked up again, but it was sturdy enough on the lower floors, where the living quarters and command office were located. Inside, a couple of sleepy men snapped to attention, and Carver gave them a tired wave of acknowledgment.

Nathaniel picked up a half-burned candle from a table and lit it from a wall sconce. “I’ll write up the incident log and draft that letter to Weisshaupt requesting a mage,” he said. The gentle candle glow cast flickering shadows on the stone walls and Nathaniel’s careworn face.

“You can do it in the morning,” Carver replied, shrugging off his cloak. The weight of the day (and night) was finally settling on him. He suddenly realized he was exhausted. “Get some rest, Nathaniel. That’s an order.” The slight quirk of his lips took any sting from the words—it was more a friendly jest than a true command.

Nathaniel gave a small bow of acquiescence. “As you say, Constable. And you? Will you actually sleep tonight?”

Carver hung the cloak on a peg. “I’ll try.” Whether sleep would come or not was another matter, but he could at least lie down and close his eyes for a few hours. They parted with a nod. Nathaniel quietly headed down the corridor toward his quarters, the candle bobbing in his hand until he disappeared around a corner.

Alone, Carver entered his own quarters—a sparse room that had once been the harbormaster’s office. A narrow bed, a desk littered with reports and maps, a single shuttered window looking out to the sea… It wasn’t much, but it was more than some of his soldiers had. He methodically began removing his armor, piece by piece, placing the gauntlets and breastplate within reach (old habits died hard). Donning a simple linen shirt, Carver sat on the edge of his cot and rubbed at his face wearily. The events of the night played over in his mind: the strange light, the howling cry, the conversation with Nathaniel. And beyond all that, like a persistent ache, the memory of his family.

He reached to the small table beside the bed and picked up a wooden carving that lay there. In the wavering lamplight, its form was just visible—a crude carving of a dragon, its features smoothed by years of handling, with one wing cracked clean off. Malcolm Hawke had whittled it long ago, back when Carver was an angry little boy wallowing in envy for his siblings. It had been one of the very few things he’d managed to stuff into his pocket during the escape from Lothering. At the time, Carver had been almost embarrassed to have grabbed it before he thought to grab anything else from their home. Now it was one of the few personal items he kept close to him.

Staring at the carving, Carver felt the wave of regret threaten again—the what-ifs and if onlys swirling like a familiar tempest. If only he’d been less stubborn, if only he’d been kinder to his parents, if only he’d laughed more at Garrett’s stupid jokes and hugged Bethany back when she flung her arms around him… Would things have been different? Would he have been different? There was no answer, only the somber face of a past he could not change.

Carver closed his fist gently around the wooden dragon. Outside the shuttered window, the wind howled once more, sudden and sharp. The wooden frame rattled. Carver’s eyes flicked to the sound. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw a glint of light seeping through the cracks in the shutter—that same uncanny pale glow. It was as if something out on the bay was shining a beacon toward the town. Carver stood abruptly, heart thudding, and unbarred the window. He pushed it open. The night air burst in, cold and smelling of brine.

His gaze swept the dark horizon over the water. At first, he saw only blackness. But then—there. A tiny, bobbing light on the waves, unmistakable this time against the moonless sky. It glimmered, wan and greenish, like a will-o’-wisp skipping just above the surface of the sea. Carver leaned out, knuckles white on the windowsill. The light flickered twice, then vanished as if it had been nuffed out. He waited, holding his breath. In the faint distance, he could have sworn he heard a soft splash, or perhaps the creak of old wood drifting… but the wind’s moan swallowed any certainty.

A lesser man might have called out, raised alarm at once. But Carver Hawke was not a fearful boy chasing phantoms—he was a Grey Warden, a Constable. He forced himself to inhale slowly, calming the racing of his pulse. If this were real, it would be investigated thoroughly come morning. There was no benefit to rousing the whole barracks over a single distant light that was gone as soon as it appeared. Even so, his instincts roared that something was truly out there. Watching, or waiting.

Carver pulled the shutters closed and bolted them. He stood a moment in the darkness of his quarters, letting his eyes adjust. A single candle on his desk flickered weakly, casting his elongated shadow on the wall. A slow-burning dread settled in his gut, but alongside it, a resolve began to harden. The unknown had shown its hand in the briefest tease. If it thought to frighten or deter the Grey Wardens of Laysh, it would soon learn its error.

“Whatever you are,” Carver whispered into the dark room, “we’ll be ready.” The only answer was the muffled crash of waves and the distant roll of thunder beyond the hills. Carver set the dragon carving back on the table and extinguished the flame with a pinch of his fingers. In the ensuing darkness, he lay back on his cot, one hand resting reflexively on the hilt of the sword propped alongside the bed.

His eyes remained open long after, staring at the ceiling beams as if searching for answers in their knotted wood. In his mind, he could still picture that eerie light dancing on the black water and the ghosts of old sailors whispering of spirits on the waves. He thought of Garrett, lost in a world of spirits himself, and of the thin barrier that separated the living from the Fade. The Veil. Perhaps it truly was thinning here in Laysh; perhaps the two worlds were drawing perilously close.

Carver’s last thought before fitful sleep finally claimed him was that of a familiar farmhouse with a field of cabbages and onions nearby. The smell of turned earth after rain and the creak of a windmill when the breeze caught it just right. He remembered waking in the early hours to the sound of his father chopping wood, the comforting murmur of his mother’s voice through the thin walls as she and Bethany baked bread, and the way Garrett would stubbornly remain asleep, tangled in a blanket. Back then, the world had felt smaller—not safer, perhaps, but filled with people who could hold it together by sheer force of will and love alone.

Now, everything was larger, colder. Here in Laysh, surrounded by ruin and fog and the slow, creeping signs of something unnatural, Carver Hawke held to that memory. Not because it offered comfort, but because it reminded him why he stood watch. Not for kings. Not for orders scribbled in gilded halls. But for the ones who would never know his name—the frightened dockworker’s child, the apprentice mage’s eyes who didn’t want to be afraid, the villagers still lighting candles in seashell chapels.

Because once, in a village long since lost to fire and blood, a boy’s father told him that keeping others safe was the only fight worth choosing. And though that boy was long gone, the man he became had not forgotten him.

Chapter Text

The porridge had gone cold again. Anders stared at the gray mass congealing in the wooden bowl, watching the butter form a golden island in the center—untouched, like everything else these days. His spoon rested against the rim where he’d abandoned it minutes or hours ago; time moved strangely now, like honey poured in winter.

Three weeks had come and gone since Flynn brought him to Jemma’s farm. Three weeks since he’d last felt the crushing weight of stone walls and the bitter taste of desperation. His body bore the proof of healing—the angry red wounds along his ribs had faded to pale pink lines, the constant ache in his shoulders had eased to only morning stiffness, and his hands no longer trembled from hunger. Yet sitting in the warm kitchen of Jemma’s farmhouse, surrounded by the homely scents of baking bread and drying herbs, Anders felt more broken than he had in the deepest cells of his prison.

The work must continue. The thought surfaced like a bubble rising from deep water, and he couldn’t quite remember what brought it about. When had he last thought about work? The clinic in Darktown was ash and memory, had been for years now. The patients he’d once stitched back together were either dead or scattered to the winds. Unless… unless the work was something else entirely. Something that mattered more than healing individual wounds when the whole world was bleeding.

“You should eat,” Jemma’s voice cut through his reverie, gentle but firm. She moved around the kitchen with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d learned to waste nothing—not food, not time, not words. She was a woman of about forty years, with graying hair pulled back into a simple braid. Her hands showed the calluses of honest labor, and something about her eyes reminded him of someone, though he couldn’t place who. Perhaps it was simply that she reminded him of hope, and hope had become foreign to him.

Anders picked up the spoon and managed a small bite. The porridge was lukewarm and bland, but it was fuel. He’d learned to think of food as fuel during the years of imprisonment, when flavor was a luxury he couldn’t afford to miss. Now, even surrounded by abundance, he found himself unable to taste anything fully.

“I’ve been thinking,” Jemma continued, settling into the chair across from him with her own bowl. Unlike his, her bowl was nearly empty, evidence of a practical appetite that didn’t waste time on contemplation. “About what comes next.”

Anders set down his spoon again. “What do you mean?”

“You’re well enough to travel now. Strong enough to make choices.” Her dark eyes studied his face with the same careful attention she gave to her struggling plants. “There are people asking questions about you. About what you represent.”

What I represent. The words sat heavy in his chest. Flynn had mentioned it once—twice, maybe more—in those quiet evenings during the first week, when Anders had been too weak to do much more than listen. He’d spoken of how word of his survival would spread. Of frightened apostates trading stories in whispers around cookfires. Of refugees from fallen Circles who clung to the hope that the man who shattered the Chantry might still be out there, watching. Waiting. Leading. Anders had wanted to scream at him then, but hadn’t had the strength. Even now, the thought made his stomach twist.

“I don’t represent anything,” he said quietly. “I’m just… I’m just a man who made a choice and has been living with the consequences ever since.”

Jemma’s expression softened, but her voice remained steady. “The mages fleeing the Circles don’t see it that way. They see the man who struck the first blow for their freedom. They see someone who understands what it means to be caged.”

They see a symbol. They see a weapon. They see what they need to see. What we must be for them. Anders brought a palm up against the side of his head, pressing lightly against his temple to quiet the thoughts that felt both his and not his. “I struck a blow, yes. But freedom?” He laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “Look around you, Jemma. Look at what my ‘first blow’ accomplished. The Circles are gone, but how long until they rebuild? How long until they go back to hunting us like animals and tearing children from their parents’ arms?”

“Change is never clean,” Jemma replied. “Revolution is messy, violent, heartbreaking, and slow. But it’s also necessary. The old system was built on suffering—it had to fall before something better could rise.”

She understands. She sees the greater purpose. She knows what must be done. Anders found himself nodding before he realized he was doing it, then stopped abruptly. When had he started agreeing with such certainty? Part of him—the part that remembered doubting, that remembered questioning whether the Chantry was truly irredeemable—wanted to argue. But that part felt distant now, like a voice calling from across a vast canyon.

“I’m tired,” he said instead, and it was the truest thing he’d spoken in weeks. “I’m not a leader, Jemma. And… I don’t know if I have another revolution in me.”

Her hand covered his across the table, callused fingers warm against his skin. It was a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed until she offered it. “You don’t have to carry it alone. There are others who share your vision, like the ones Flynn is gathering. Others who understand what must be done.”

Others who can continue the work. Others who won’t falter when the moment comes. Others who won’t be weak. Anders pulled his hand away and pushed back from the table. “I think I need some air.” 

The morning sun was gentle on his face as he stepped outside, but it couldn’t chase away the chill that had settled in his bones. Jemma’s farmhouse sat nestled in a valley between rolling hills, surrounded by fields of grain that rustled in the breeze like whispered secrets. It was peaceful here, the kind of place where a man could forget about the weight of the world and focus on the simple things: the rhythm of seasons, the satisfaction of honest work, the pleasure of watching something grow.

How long has it been since I felt at peace? Anders couldn’t remember. Even in his happiest moments with Hawke, there had always been the undercurrent of urgency, the knowledge that their time was borrowed and their love was dangerous. Hawke. The name hit him like a physical blow, and he had to grip the porch railing to steady himself.

Hawke chose duty over love. Hawke chose to save a pawn of the Chantry rather than return to me. Hawke left me behind. The thoughts came with such conviction that Anders found himself nearly believing them, even as another part of his mind—smaller, quieter—whispered that it wasn’t true. Hawke was trapped, had done what he always did and saved others before himself. Hawke had looked at him with such love, such devotion, before he answered the Inquisition.

But the doubts crept in anyway, as they often did lately. Had that love been real, or had it been pity? Had Hawke truly cared for him, or had he simply been managing a dangerous asset? Anders closed his eyes and tried to remember the feel of Hawke’s hands on his skin, the sound of his laugh, the way his mouth would twitch right before he said something particularly outrageous just to make Anders smile.

Am I just remembering what I want to remember? The thought came unbidden and unwelcome, but stubbornly stuck to the surface. Have I just created a fantasy to ease my pain? He was afraid of you, just like everyone else. Anders shook his head violently, trying to dislodge the thoughts. No. No, that wasn’t right. Hawke loved him. Hawke had chosen to be with him, even knowing what he was, what he carried inside him. Hawke wouldn’t—

“Anders?” Jemma’s voice came from behind him, concerned. “Are you alright?”

He turned to find her standing in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral. How long had he been standing there, fighting with his own mind? The sun had moved to a new position, casting shorter shadows across the yard. 

“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” she said with a slight smile, but her eyes remained watchful. “Come. I could use help with the south field. The barley needs harvesting before the weather turns.”

The work was good for him, he found. The repetitive motion of swinging the scythe, the burn in his shoulders, the satisfaction of watching the grain fall in neat rows—it quieted the voices in his head, at least for a while. Jemma worked beside him, matching his pace without comment. She was much stronger than she looked, and her technique was flawless. They fell into a rhythm. Cut, gather, bundle, move. Cut, gather, bundle, move.

“How long have you been here?” Anders asked during a brief rest, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“Fifteen years,” Jemma replied, leaning on her scythe. “I ran away from the Markham Circle, figured the best hiding spot was one close by.” She offered a wry smile. “Married the Templar who helped me escape, if you can believe it. That may have helped some, too.”

“You… married a Templar?” Anders asked, unable to hide the surprise evident in his voice.

“Aye, that I did. We’d known each other since I was just a girl and he was a fresh-faced recruit. He was a good man. Passed a few years back—illness, not battle.” She shrugged, as though the truth was one she’d long accepted and moved on from. “We got a few good years out of it. That’s more than most people like us ever get.” Her gaze drifted to his face then, lingering on him for a moment before she continued, “How did Hawke die?”

The question struck like a blade between his ribs. “He’s not dead,” Anders said quickly—too quickly. “He’s trapped in the Fade, but he’s not dead. He’s… he’s coming back.”

Is he? How can I speak with such certainty, even after all these years? Anders gripped his scythe tighter, knuckles white against the worn wood. How long can I wait for a man who chose to abandon me?

“He’s coming back,” he repeated, as if saying it could make it true.

Jemma studied his face for a long moment, then nodded. “Then we’ll be ready for him when he does.” She returned to her work, but Anders caught the note of gentle pity in her voice. It made him want to scream, to rage, to show her that he wasn’t some broken thing to be humored. Instead, he channeled that anger into his work, cutting grain with vicious efficiency until his arms ached and his lungs burned.

She must think I’m pathetic, clinging to false hope like a child. She’s humoring me because she pities me. Anders tried to push the thoughts away, but they clung like thorns. Hawke is gone. Accept it. Move on. Use that pain to fuel the work that remains. The certainty in the voice was overwhelming, and for a moment, Anders found himself nodding along. Yes, perhaps it was time to accept reality. Perhaps it was time to—

“No.” The word came out as a snarl, and Jemma looked up sharply. Anders realized he’d spoken aloud, and his face burned with embarrassment. “Sorry, I… talking to myself.”

“We all do,” she said gently. Her gentleness was maddening. “Especially when we’re grieving.”

“I am not grieving!” Anders snapped, then immediately regretted his tone. He stood fully and held the scythe with one hand while the other wiped a hand over his sweat-covered face. “I’m… I’m sorry, Jemma. It’s difficult to explain.”

Jemma set down her scythe and moved closer. “You’ve been through a great deal, Anders. Your body is healing, but your mind…” She placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying him carefully. “Minds take longer to mend. And sometimes they can mend wrong, like a bone that’s been broken too many times.”

She’s right. I’m broken. His mouth twitched, but he bit back whatever words sat behind his teeth. I’ve become something else. Something dangerous, perhaps. Too dangerous. Anders felt the familiar chill of fear creep up his spine. Was he losing himself? Had he already lost himself? Was he now the monster everyone said he was? The thought of becoming a true abomination, of losing the last threads of his humanity, terrified him more than anything he experienced in the Circle, with the Wardens, and in Castra Muniti combined. 

“I need to stay myself,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “I need to stay me. For when he comes back. We promised each other.”

“Then hold onto the things that make you yourself,” Jemma said quietly. “The things that remind you who you are beneath everything else.”

But what if there’s nothing left? What if Anders died in Kirkwall and all that remained was Vengeance? He pushed the thought away and focused on memories instead. His memories. Hawke’s laugh. The way he’d tease Anders about his manifesto. The warmth of his body pressed against Anders’s in the quiet hours before dawn. The look in his eyes when he’d say “I love you” when they lay in bed together. 

Those memories are lies. Fantasies you’ve created to cope with abandonment when they locked you away. Hawke stopped loving you the day he chose the Inquisition. Hawke knew death was his only escape from you.

“Stop,” Anders said aloud, pressing his palms against his temples. “Stop, stop, stop!”

Jemma’s grip on his shoulder tightened, though he barely noticed it. “Anders, look at me. What is it?”

“I can’t—” Anders struggled to find the words. “I can’t tell what’s real anymore. My own thoughts, they don’t feel like mine. I remember things one way, but then I doubt myself. It’s like I can’t—it’s like… I’m losing it. I’m going completely mad and I can’t stop it.”

She was quiet for a long moment, studying his face. “The spirit inside you,” she said finally. “Flynn said it was called Justice. Is it… changing?”

I am Justice. Justice is me. We are one purpose, one will. There is no separation. Anders shook his head violently. “There is no spirit, not anymore. There’s just me, and I’m going insane.”

“Lying to yourself won’t help,” Jemma said firmly, though not unkindly. “I’ve known other mages who hosted spirits. I know what it looks like when boundaries start to blur.”

“Then you know what comes next,” Anders said bitterly. “When the boundaries disappear completely. When there’s nothing left but the demon.”

“I thought Justice wasn’t a demon.”

“Justice died years ago,” Anders said, and his tone became near-frantic. “I killed him—me and my anger. All that’s left is Vengeance, and Vengeance is patient. And then, when the time comes…” He gestured helplessly. “There won’t be an Anders anymore. Just a creature wearing my face—my stupid, idiot face!”

Jemma remained quiet for a long time, her hands still warm on his shoulders. She squeezed him lightly, and when she finally spoke, it was not a pitying thing she said. It was words full of resolve. “Then we fight for Anders. Every day, every moment. We remind him who he is, what he values, and what he loves. We give him reasons to stay.”

And when that’s not enough? When the work demands more than I can give? When the greater good requires more sacrifice? Anders didn’t voice the thoughts, but they echoed in his mind like a funeral bell. Instead, he nodded and turned back to the field, scythe in hand. “We should finish the field.”

They worked in companionable silence until the sun began to sink toward the horizon. The harvest was good, Jemma told him later. The grain was full and golden, free from blight or rot. It would feed the village through winter, with enough left over to trade for other necessities. It was simple work. Honest work. No politics, no manifestos, no grand gestures. Just people fed and bellies full.

“Every revolution needs its farmers,” Jemma said as they made their way back to the farmhouse. “Someone has to feed the fighters.”

Someone has to continue the work. Someone has to make the hard choices. Someone has to bear the burden of necessary action. Anders found himself nodding again, then caught himself. Was he agreeing with the sentiment, or was something else agreeing for him? He wondered when he started thinking so clinically with so much certainty, then wondered again if perhaps he had always been that way—that perhaps it was the confusion that was misplaced. A clever boy, First Enchanter Irving had called him. He’ll be an intelligent man. And he was, wasn’t he? An intelligent man.

That night, he lay in his narrow bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of the countryside. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called to its mate. Closer by, the old house settled and creaked like a ship at anchor. Normal sounds, peaceful sounds. The kind of sounds a man could grow to love if he let himself.

Hawke loved the sounds of the city. The bustle of the market, the call of vendors, and children playing in the streets. He said it meant people were living their lives, not just surviving. Anders smiled at the memory, then felt a pang of doubt. Did he really say that, or am I just remembering what I want to remember?

He rolled onto his side and tried to picture Hawke’s face in detail. The strong jaw, the warm brown eyes, the way his hair fell across his forehead when he let it grow too long. The scar on his chin from an ill-advised duel with Carver when they were boys. The way he bit his lip when he was concentrating—absently, unconsciously—like he didn’t even realize he did it.

You’re creating a fantasy. A perfect lover who never existed. The real Hawke was afraid of you, just as the others were. He never meant for it to go this far.

He thought of a night in Kirkwall, long before everything collapsed. The two of them lying tangled on a mattress far more comfortable than he deserved. The room had been dim, quiet, warm with the scent of old books and worn wool. Hawke’s chest rose and fell in easy rhythm, and Anders had spoken without thinking, voice low and brittle in the dark: “You should find someone else. I’m only going to hurt you.”

Hawke had sighed theatrically—more exasperated than wounded—and rolled over until his body covered Anders’s, heavy and reassuring. He leaned in close, his voice rough with sleep but certain: “I don’t want someone else. I want you.”

The real Hawke chose duty over love. The real Hawke is dead, and you’re clinging to a ghost.

“He’s not dead,” Anders whispered into the darkness. “He’s coming back.”

When? How long will you wait? How many years will you waste on false hope? How much work will remain undone while you pine for a man who abandoned you?

Anders rolled over again, pulling the blanket over his head. But the voices followed him into the darkness, whispering doubts and certainties in equal measure. He didn’t sleep until near dawn, and when he finally did, his dreams were filled with fire and the sound of screaming.

The morning began with rain, a steady drizzle that turned the farmyard into a muddy swamp and made outdoor work impossible. Anders sat at the kitchen table, watching droplets race down the window glass while Jemma prepared the day’s meals. The domestic scene should have been comforting, but instead it felt like a trap, a pretty cage that kept him from the work that needed to be done.

The work that needs to be done. The circles that need to be broken. The oppressors need to be taught the price of their cruelty. Anders blinked, realizing he’d been staring at the same raindrop for several minutes. When had he started thinking about breaking circles? The Circles were already broken, shattered by the very event he’d set in motion. And surely the Divine’s edicts wouldn’t go unheeded. Unless…

“We need to go to the village today,” Jemma announced, breaking into his thoughts. “Rain or no, it’s market day. And there are people I want you to meet.”

Anders looked up sharply. “I thought we agreed I’d stay here. Out of sight.”

“You can’t hide forever,” she replied, not unkindly. “Besides, you need a proper identity if you’re going to stay here. People ask questions about strangers, especially in times like these. And don’t worry,” she continued, interrupting him before he could argue, “I’ve already come up with one for you. You’re my half-brother from Ferelden. Anselm. You came to the Free Marches after the Blight, looking for work and family. You’re handy with crops and animals, horribly shy, and you’ve had some training as a healer just like me.”

Anders stared at her blankly for a long moment. “Anselm?” he repeated, testing the name. It felt strange on his tongue, like wearing clothes that didn’t quite fit. “And if someone recognizes me?”

“They won’t,” Jemma said with confidence. “There’s plenty of folk with family from the Anderfels here. You’ll be just another blond man. Anyway, most people see what they expect to see.”

The perfect disguise. The perfect cover for moving among the people. The perfect way to identify potential allies and enemies. Anders was nodding along with the logic before he realized he was doing it, and frowned lightly at himself when Jemma turned to gather cloaks.

They set out for the village in the early afternoon, taking a winding road that followed a small creek. The rain had stopped, but the air was still heavy with moisture and the promise of more to come. Anders walked beside Jemma’s cart, his hood pulled up to shadow his face. She’d given him simple clothes—homespun wool and leather, the kind worn by farmers and laborers throughout the Free Marches. 

Hambleton was larger than he’d expected, fit for perhaps two hundred souls to call it home. The market square buzzed with activity despite the threatening weather. Merchants hawked their wares from colorful stalls, children dodged between adults with shrieks of laughter, and the air was thick with the scents of baking bread and roasting meat.

So many people. So many potential allies. So many who could be taught the truth. Anders watched the crowd with growing unease. When had he started looking at gatherings of people as opportunities for recruitment? When had he started seeing conversations as chances to spread a message?

They brought the cart to a halt near an empty stall, but Jemma stepped over to take his arm. “Come. Let me introduce you to some friends.” With that, she led him to a group of women clustered around a fabric seller’s stall. They were the type of women who formed the backbone of small communities—practical, sharp-eyed, unafraid to speak their minds. They greeted Jemma warmly and regarded Anders with polite curiosity.

“This is my half-brother, Anselm,” Jemma announced the lie as easily as she took a breath. “He’s come from Ferelden to help with the farm since Ewald…” She never finished the sentence, but the mention of her late husband earned immediate acceptance of the lie.

The introductions passed in a blur of names and pleasant smiles. Marta, the baker’s wife. Elsa, who ran the inn with her husband. Gwen, a widow who kept goats and made cheese. They were kind to him, welcoming in the way of people who understood that hard times made family out of strangers. 

“Terrible business in Ferelden,” Marta said, shaking her head as she continued a conversation they’d been having before Anders and Jemma approached. “All those poor souls fleeing the troubles. We’ve had refugees coming through near every day on their way to Markham.”

“Refugees?” Anders asked, his tone light, but his body had stilled.

“Mages, mostly,” Gwen replied. “Running from fanatics. Sunbrands, they call themselves. Some of those people are in a bad way when they arrive.”

Running. Always running. Never fighting back. Never making a stand. Anders felt a familiar anger begin to burn in his chest. Why do they run when they could fight? Why do they accept persecution when they have the power to end it?

“Just yesterday, we had two show up at the inn,” Elsa added, her voice dropping to a whisper. “A woman and a girl—barely more than ten, I’d wager. Survivors from a massacre, I hear. Poor things were half-dead when they stumbled in.”

Anders stiffened, the word massacre sinking into him like a blade. The anger that had been rising threatened to boil over—but the image of a child, bloodied and half-dead, forced it back down. He forced it back down. He straightened, jaw tight, and took in a steadying breath.

“I heard they meant to attack the Knight-Commander,” Marta added. She spoke as if she were gossiping about some neighborhood rumor, and not the murder of innocents. “But that’s only if you believe what Starkhaven had to say about it. Maker knows they’ve no love for the Divine’s reforms.”

They ignore their Divine. The same brutality will continue with new names. The same oppression will wear different masks. Anders felt his hands begin to shake, not with weakness but with rage. How many more will die? How many more innocents must suffer?

“Where are they?” he asked, his voice too sharp, too immediate. The women glanced at each other, suddenly uneasy. Elsa’s smile faltered, her eyes darting to Jemma as if to ask for permission.

“At the inn,” Elsa said. “The woman used to be a Templar. Hard to believe they’d attack one of their own, but—” she shrugged helplessly “—you know how it goes. The girl she’s with hasn’t spoken a word since they arrived. Poor lamb.”

Before another word could be said, Jemma stepped in smoothly, placing a hand on Anders’s forearm with practiced ease. “We should see to their injuries, then,” she said gently. “It’s a good thing we brought our satchels. Come, Anselm.”

The inn was a modest affair, two stories of weathered wood and stone that had seen better days. The common room was mostly empty, just a few local men nursing ales and speaking in low voices about the weather and crops. Anders said nothing—not while on the way to the inn and not once they entered, his mind too focused on counting the heavy thud of his heart beating hard against his chest. Elsa led them up the stairs, away from any prying eyes or sharp ears, and took them to a room at the end of the hall. Inside, two figures were sat at a table. The taller of the two stood—the Templar, if Anders had to guess. She was a tall woman with broad shoulders and a waterfall of braided hair adorned with golden bands. Her eyes narrowed on Jemma and Anders as they entered, her hand already resting on the hilt of a blade on her hip.

“Carys,” Elsa said gently. “I’m sorry for the intrusion. This is Jemma, and her brother Anselm. They’re healers—they’re going to have a look at you and…”

“Lily,” Carys said simply. Her gaze settled onto Anders and did not wander.

“We heard about Starkhaven,” Jemma said carefully. “Elsa, could you fetch some warm water and some towels?”

“Of course,” Elsa said, and without another word, she made her leave. Anders drew a slow breath as the door closed behind them. Jemma hovered protectively at his shoulder, and Carys’s eyes never left his face. Yet it was Lily’s eyes—a brilliant shade of hazel green, wide and haunted—that cut him to the bone.

This is why the work must continue. There are thousands more children with those same eyes.

“What happened?” Jemma asked. Her question pulled Anders from his thoughts long enough to tear his gaze away from the child and look to Carys.

The former Templar’s expression hardened. “The prince of Starkhaven decided that Divine Victoria’s writ wasn’t good enough,” she said bitterly. “I accompanied a group of mages to Starkhaven, and he turned them away.” She paused, jaw working as she collected her words. “They had children with them. Elderly folk—people who lost everything in the fighting. They were good, faithful people who thought Starkhaven would accept them, but…”

Anders could feel bile rising in his throat. He forced himself not to speak, trembling from the effort. “They surrounded the camp at dawn,” Carys went on, her voice growing harder with every syllable. “They demanded that the mages leave immediately or face consequences. When Caius… when he tried to show the Divine’s writ… it was only a simple light spell. They called it an attack.”

A low whimper came from Lily as Carys spoke. Anders’s heart lurched a little at the sound. It was too familiar—it reminded him of the sobs that had run in his own ears long ago, when templars dragged him screaming from his family’s farm. Anger pooled in his gut. All of the sacrifice, all of the death, all of the running had been for nothing. They are all the same, he thought. They create the suffering, then blame the victims.

“It was a slaughter,” Carys said flatly, looking away. “Men, women, children—it didn’t matter. They were all cut down.” She blinked back a tear that had no business escaping. “Twenty dead, all because they believed in the Divine’s protection. Because they thought civilization meant something.”

The simplicity of her words struck Anders like a blow. He swallowed hard. The years he’d spent in Kirkwall—toiling night after night, drafting manifestos, arguing for mercy, begging Grand Cleric Elthina to do the right thing before it was too late—it had felt like a cruel joke. There can be no peace, his mind whispered with merciless clarity. This is what happens when you trust their promises.

Jemma’s voice sounded so distant now, so far away that Anders barely heard her as she demanded softly, “How did she survive? The girl… how did she get out?”

Carys hesitated only a beat. “Her brother pushed her into a drainage ditch when the fighting started.” She reached out to place a protective hand on Lily’s trembling shoulder. “Covered her with brambles and mud, told her not to move no matter what she heard. The child stayed there for two days before I was able to go back for her.” Her voice broke as she added, “She hasn’t spoken since.”

Anders’s chest tightened. Lily remained still as a stone, eyes blank and distant, stained with dried tears, her body locked as if frozen in fear. Her red hair was matted and dirty, sitting in tangled knots at her thin shoulders. His heart ached seeing this child so broken. Slowly, he moved forward and knelt at Lily’s side. Every careful breath he took felt loud to his ears. Up close, he could see scratches on her arms where the brambles had snagged her skin. He reached out a trembling hand in offering to the girl.

“My name is Anders,” he said softly, as if confiding a secret. “I know what it’s like to lose everything… I’m so, so sorry.” His voice cracked, and he fought to keep it even. In the silent pause that followed, Lily hesitated, then lifted her own small hand to touch his. Her skin was cold as marble in his grasp, and her fingers shook.

This is what they do to children. This is what they call righteous. This is what they defend with their laws and their codes and their pretty words. 

As their skin met, something in Anders’s mind shifted. A deafening peace fell over the tumult of anger and pain. The constant clamor of noise in his head—his own fear, the storm of righteous fury, the ghostly echoes of every wounded child he had ever known—stilled into perfect, terrible clarity. A single purpose rose above all: This child will never cower in a ditch again. For a moment, he simply held Lily’s hand, the gentle weight of it grounded him while his resolve crystallized like steel. In that instant, he understood what had to come next.

“Will you be staying in Hambleton?” he asked Carys, glancing up at the woman from where he still knelt.

“For now. Don’t have anywhere else to go, and she needs time to heal.”

Healing isn’t enough. Healing doesn’t bring justice. Healing doesn’t prevent the next massacre. Anders looked at Lily again, seeing not just a traumatized child but a symbol of everything wrong with the world. She deserves better than survival.

“What now?” he asked, the question directed as much at himself as at Carys.

“Now?” Carys laughed bitterly. “What else can we do but try to move on? Hopefully in time, she’ll learn to forget.”

But she won’t forget. It’ll happen again, and there will be more Lilies. Tomorrow, next week, next year. And it will keep happening until someone makes it stop. Until someone dares to do what must be done. Anders felt the weight of certainty settling on his shoulders like a cloak made of lead. Until someone takes responsibility for ending this.

In Lily’s gaze, Anders felt a gulf open between himself and her. Maybe she would heal from this, maybe she would learn to forget. But he had seen too much, lost too much, carried too much to hope for such mercy for himself.

They need a leader. They need someone who understands the stakes. They need someone willing to make the hard choices. The thought came with such force that Anders almost gasped. No. No, I can’t. I won’t. But who else? Who else has the knowledge, the willingness to act? Who else has already sacrificed everything for freedom?

Who else is already damned?

“I should go,” he said abruptly, standing and releasing Lily’s hand as gently as he could. He did not meet Carys’s gaze as he turned and made for the door, hurrying down the hall past Elsa as she returned with warm water and towels. By the time he stepped outside, the rain had started again, yet the world seemed simultaneously too bright and too dark, too loud and too quiet. The weight of choice pressed down on him like a physical thing, and he found himself thinking of—no, clinging to —Hawke.

What would Hawke do? What would he say? Would he tell me to fight, or tell me to run? Would he understand the necessity, or would he try to stop me?

Hawke is gone. Hawke chose duty over love. Hawke left you to face this alone. The thoughts came with such venom that Anders staggered. No. That’s not true. He’s trapped—he had no choice. He’ll come back to me.

Everyone has a choice. He chose to stay in the Fade. He chose heroic sacrifice over a life with you. He chose to be remembered as a savior rather than be chained to your infamy.

“Stop,” Anders whispered, pressing his palms against his temples. “Stop, please.”

“Anders?” Jemma’s voice came to him in a whisper, though he didn’t know when she’d arrived or where she spoke from. Distantly, he felt her hand on his shoulder. He felt himself being guided away from curious eyes. “Anders, take a deep breath. What’s wrong?”

He looked at her, this kind woman who’d taken him in, who’d healed him, who’d shown him nothing but compassion. He thought of Flynn, of his joy when Anders agreed to meet with the other mages he spoke of. “I think…” he began, then stopped. How could he explain? How could he tell her he was standing at the edge of a precipice, that the choice before him was between accepting responsibility for a revolution he’d started or retreating into the safety of obscurity?

There is no safety in obscurity. There is no peace while others suffer. There is no redemption in hiding while the world burns. The absolution in those words was overwhelming, and Anders found himself nodding along despite himself.

“I think I understand now,” he said quietly. “What needs to be done.”

Chapter Text

The Starkhaven Chantry had never seen such splendor, nor such careful watching of words.

Prince Sebastian Vael stood before the great altar, his ceremonial armor gleaming like captured sunlight, the heraldry of Starkhaven emblanzoned proudly across his chest. The morning light streamed through the chantry’s ancient stained glass, casting jeweled shadows of crimson and gold across the assembled nobility. Yet for all the pageantry, Sebastian felt the weight of divine purpose pressing upon his shoulders—the Maker’s will made manifest through mortal action.

This is not merely a wedding, he reminded himself as Princess Lucia of the Anderfels approached down the aisle. This is the Maker’s design unfolding, an alliance blessed by Andraste herself that will bring His light to the Free Marches.

Lucia moved with the measured grace of one born to rule, her gown a masterwork of Ander silk that whispered against the marble floor. Her father had spared no expense—the dress alone likely cost more than most lords saw in a year. But it was her eyes that held Sebastian’s attention: sharp, intelligent, missing nothing. Here was no mere political pawn, but a woman who understood what games were necessary to play as well as any.

King Wilhelm Augustin of the Anderfels sat rigid in his seat of honor, his weathered face a mask of devotion and barely concealed ambition. The king’s presence at this ceremony spoke volumes about the importance he placed on this alliance, yet Sebastian could read the tension in the set of his shoulders. Wilhelm was a man caught between necessity and devotion, between the pragmatic needs of his kingdom and his deep mistrust of the changes sweeping through a quickly unraveling Chantry.

Beside the king sat young Prince Baldewin, barely twelve but already carrying himself with the imperious bearing of one who believed the Maker had marked him for greatness. The boy’s eyes swept the assembled guests with undisguised judgment, as if cataloguing their worth in both his and the Maker’s eyes. Sebastian had met such faithful before—their piety was both their strength and their blindness.

Yet perhaps the Maker speaks through the mouths of the young and faithful, Sebastian recalled Revered Mother Neilina saying once. These are times when the devout must stand firm against the creeping corruption of false doctrine.

As Grand Cleric Bronach began the rites, Sebastian felt the Maker’s presence filling the sacred space. Each word of the ceremony resonated with divine truth, each gesture a sacred compact witnessed by Andraste herself. This was so much more than political theater—this was the Maker’s will being written in flesh and blood, in alliance and oath. All around them the eyes of Starkhaven, the Anderfels, and even the beyond watched.

Duke Marcel Renou of Hercinia lounged in his seat with practiced indifference, and Sebastian felt a pang of righteous concern. Such worldly detachment troubled him—how could any faithful soul witness this sacred ceremony without feeling the Maker’s presence? Marcel was here to calculate advantage, Sebastian knew, but surely exposure to true devotion might kindle something greater in the duke’s mercenary heart.

More encouraging was the presence of Grand Enchanter Vivienne, resplendent in her silks and radiating controlled authority. Sebastian felt a stirring of approval as he observed her—here was one of the exceedingly rare breed of mages who truly understood their proper place in the Maker’s design. Unlike so many of her kind who chafed against righteous oversight, Vivienne had embraced the natural order that placed magical power under the guidance of faithful authority. Her attendance was more than political calculation; it was a demonstration that even among the College of Enchanters, some still recognized the wisdom of the Chantry’s traditions.

“Do you, Sebastian of House Vael, Prince of Starkhaven, take this woman as your wife before the eyes of the Maker?” The Grand Cleric’s voice echoed through the chantry.

“I do so swear, before the Maker and His bride Andraste,” Sebastian replied, his voice carrying clearly through the sacred space. The words were ritual, but the commitment behind them was steel-sharp.

When it came time for Lucia to speak her vows, her voice rang with quiet conviction. “I do so swear, before the Maker and His bride Andraste, to stand as your wife and partner in all things.” Her eyes met his, and Sebastian saw the understanding there. This was a partnership built on mutual respect and shared purpose.

The ceremony concluded with the traditional blessings, with sweet-smelling incense and white petaled flowers rained down from above. But it was the feast that followed where the true work would begin.

The great hall of Starkhaven’s palace had been transformed into a wonderland of banners and flowers, long tables groaning under the weight of the finest foods from across Thedas. Sebastian made his rounds with Lucia at his side, accepting congratulations and noting the subtle currents of conversation that swirled around them.

It was during the third course—roasted peacock stuffed with nuts and fruits—that Sebastian rose to address his guests. The hall fell silent, goblets halfway to lips, as all waited to hear what the prince might announce.

“My lords and ladies,” he began, his voice resonant, measured by the cadence of both statesman and sermon. “Today marks more than a royal union. It is a pledge of enduring kinship between Starkhaven and the Anderfels. As such, I am pleased to announce that select Ander soldiers and Grey Wardens will be integrated into our Sunbrands—not as outsiders, but as brothers-and-sisters-in-arms, so that our legions might learn from one another and grow stronger in both unity and faith.”

Polite murmurs rippled through the hall. King Wilhelm offered a satisfied nod, plainly familiar with the arrangement. Duke Marcel leaned forward slightly, expression sharpening with interest, while Grand Enchanter Vivienne gave a small, knowing smile behind her wine goblet.

It was then that a new voice cut through the murmur of continuing conversations. “Your Highness,” came a clear, confident tone from near the high table. Sebastian looked up to see a woman rise gracefully from her seat—Commander Priyanka Khatri of the Grey Wardens, he recalled from earlier introductions. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical yet fashionable style that couldn’t quite contain its natural waves, and her deep brown eyes held the steady gaze of one accustomed to making difficult decisions. The gray and blue of her formal Warden dress uniform marked her clearly among the assembled nobility.

“Forgive the interruption,” Commander Khatri continued, her accent carrying a musical cadence unfamiliar to Sebastian’s ear, “but if I am not mistaken, you mentioned the Grey Wardens would be among those… integrated into your Sunbrands?” She hardly let a breath pass before she continued, “I confess my confusion, Your Highness. As the Grey Wardens are bound by no crown nor court, any such commitment would require the First Warden’s assent, and unless I am mistaken, none has been made.”

Her tone was polite, and she allowed the statement to hang lightly in the air for a long moment, yet the weight of it was unmistakable. The stillness in the hall deepened. Even Lucia, composed as ever beside Sebastian, had gone statue-still. But Sebastian saw it for what it was, even as he felt the eyes of every guest land upon him at once. Here was not simply a challenge to the Anderfels King’s authority, but a test of diplomacy—the Maker working through unexpected channels to reveal the complexities of mortal ambition.

Sebastian inclined his head. “There is no intent to overstep. We do not presume to command the Grey Wardens, nor do we intend to distract from the purpose of your order. If the Grey Wardens should choose to aid Starkhaven beyond their typical service, we would welcome their blades in good faith.”

King Wilhelm shifted in his chair, his voice smooth and assured. “The Anderfels have long honored the Wardens with its sons and daughters. It stands to reason that those trained in our regiments might prove eager to support a righteous cause elsewhere—particularly one aligned so closely with Andrastian virtues.” A pause, then, “I understand that you are not of the faith, however, being from Rivain. Such matters might elude you.”

Commander Khatri’s smile was polite, cool, and utterly unmoved by the king’s deliberate jab. “Of course, Your Majesty. The Wardens have indeed always been grateful for the Anderfels’ support of our duty. In my recent travels to outposts as far as Laysh and Mont-de-glace, I’ve seen firsthand how valuable allyship is for the good of all involved. Particularly when it is… prediscussed.”

Sebastian felt a flicker of something—familiarity perhaps—at the way she spoke so boldly before so many who might consider themselves her betters. As such, he couldn’t help a measure of fondness from entering his tone as he spoke, “The Maker’s wisdom flows through many channels. Whether through formal treaties or bonds of friendship forged in faith, those who serve righteously will find their paths converging toward His greater purpose.” He paused, and offered a polite smile to the Warden-Commander. “Our alliance with the Anderfels represents such convergence. It is my hope that the Wardens will see the value in it as well.”

Commander Khatri inclined her head respectfully, accepting his explanation while clearly filing away the information for future consideration. But young Prince Baldewin, who had thus far been listening intently through the exchange, spoke up.

“Surely the Grey Wardens themselves represent the Maker’s will in action against the darkspawn threat? Their sacred duty transcends mortal politics, does it not?”

Commander Khatri’s expression softened slightly at the young prince’s words. “Your Highness shows wisdom beyond his years. Yes, the Wardens do indeed serve a purpose that stands apart from the politics of nations, but we rely upon those nations for support. It is precisely because our duty is sacred that we must be careful how we honor our commitments.”

Lucia chose that moment to speak, her voice carrying as gently as a summer’s breeze. “The Warden-Commander honors us with her thoughtful questions. Such dedication to duty in service to the Maker will ensure our alliances may serve the greater good.” 

The tension began to ebb as conversation resumed, but Sebastian knew the underlying currents had not disappeared. He stole the occasional glance to the Warden-Commander, who had since engaged in conversation with Lady Genevieve Tudor. As the evening wore on and wine loosened tongues, Sebastian found himself in quiet discussion with Duke Marcel near one of the great hearths.

“A diplomatic response to the Warden’s inquiry,” Marcel murmured, swirling his wine. “Though I suspect Commander Khatri’s questions reflect a power struggle in the Anderfels.”

“The Wardens serve a noble purpose,” Sebastian replied firmly, his voice carrying the conviction of absolute faith. “But their focus necessarily lies with the darkspawn. Our alliances serve a higher calling—the Maker’s will made manifest through unified faithful purpose.”

Marcel smiled—a predator’s expression that never quite reached his eyes. “Indeed. And this new military arrangement of yours… it speaks of ambitions beyond mere alliance.”

Sebastian met his gaze with conviction alight in his eyes. “The Free Marches have suffered for too long under the weight of divided loyalties and faltering faith. When the devout stand together, guided by divine will, we do not simply endure—we prevail.”

Marcel gave a thoughtful hum, tilting his head. “A noble vision. Though I cannot help but recall another who sought unity among the Marches. Prince Fyruss, wasn’t it? Styled himself king, briefly, before that dream unraveled.”

He did not raise his voice, but the implication cut cleanly through the chamber like the glint of a knife beneath brocade. Sebastian’s jaw set, the name clearly striking its mark before he could think to conceal it. Marcel raised his goblet in a toast that was not a toast. “Let us hope your cause finds stronger footing than his, Your Highness. A spiritual crown may weigh heavier than a mortal one.”

Sebastian opened his mouth to respond, but was spared by the smooth, deliberate arrival of Lucia at his side. “Your Grace,” she said with a graceful curtsy, her voice warm with courtly ease. “I trust the evening has met your expectations?”

Marcel’s eyes did not leave Sebastian. “Immensely, Your Highness,” he said at last, smiling like a man with too many secrets. “Your court never fails to… enlighten.”

As the duke moved away, Lucia’s hand found Sebastian’s arm. “He probes like a physician examining a wound,” she murmured.

“And finds us healthy, I hope,” Sebastian replied. “Though vigilance will be required.”

The feast continued deep into the night, but Sebastian found his attention drawn again and again to the various factions represented in his hall. The Anderfels royal delegation. The Free Marches nobility, calculating how this alliance might affect their own positions. The Warden-Commander, surprisingly comfortable in a room full of nobility. And Lady de Fer, representing interests that likely stretched far beyond that of the College of Enchanters’.

When at last the evening drew to a close and the guests began to retire, Sebastian stood with Lucia on the palace’s great balcony, looking out over the torchlit city of Starkhaven.

“A successful beginning,” Lucia said quietly. 

“The beginning, yes,” Sebastian agreed. “But we have set wheels in motion that will not easily be stopped.” He paused, and found his gaze drift down to his new bride, to the gentle curve of her nose and the fullness of her lips. “May I ask you something, my lady?”

Lucia turned to look up at him, surprise written into her expression. “You may ask anything of me, husband.” She spoke with such sincerity that it warmed something deep in his chest.

“You have traveled through much of Thedas on your way to me,” he said. “What is your sense of the Divine’s reforms? Truly. Is she beloved beyond our borders? Or has the world begun to see her moderation for what it is?”

Lucia studied him a moment before responding, the torchlight catching the sharp angles of her profile. “In many places, she is still as a reformer of reason. A symbol of peace after years of blood. In others… her reluctance to wield the Chantry’s full authority has made her appear… weak. Passive. And others still…” She hesitated, then added with gentle candor, “You know well how her name is spoken in Starkhaven. With caution. Sometimes disdain.”

Sebastian exhaled slowly, the wind tugging at his wedding cloak. “Then if we oppose her,” he murmured, more to himself than her, “we may draw the ire of the Chantry.”

“Or rally those who’ve quietly lost faith in her leadership,” Lucia said, her hand raising to rest against his arm. 

He turned to her fully then, his expression tight with conviction. “Duke Marcel… If he leaves tonight with the belief that I mean to follow Fyruss’s path, to unite the Free Marches beneath one banner out of ambition… he may make that fear real by speaking it aloud. Others may flock to Kirkwall out of spite. They would risk damnation before they see the truth.”

“And what is the truth, my love?”

Sebastian paused. It was a question that had so simple an answer that it nearly surprised him. “That the Free Marches are fractured. The faith is fractured. And someone must take up the burden of repair.”

Lucia smiled, soft and adoring, and brought her free hand up to cup the side of his face lovingly. “Then let them speak. Let them whisper of ambition, if they must. Did they not also call Andraste ambitious?” He said nothing, but something in him ease at the comparison. Lucia stepped closer. “The world hungers for certainty, Sebastian. For strength guided by faith. You were chosen for this moment. I believe that, with every breath. Whatever others may say, I know you act not from pride—but from purpose. And those who truly believe will see it, too.”

Sebastian took her hand from his cheek and kissed her palm gently, allowing the action to be his answer. As they stood together in the flickering torchlight, Sebastian felt a divine presence surrounding them like a mantle of sacred purpose. The alliance with the Anderfels was secured by the Maker’s grace, the integration of their military forces—with or without the Grey Wardens—would begin soon under His guidance, and the petty concerns of mortal politicians would shift according to His ineffable plan.

Yet he knew challenges remained. The current Divine had shown troubling signs of worldly compromise, yes, but not all were convinced of her fallibility. And the various lords and ladies who witnessed today’s ceremony would undoubtedly need guidance to see the divine truth behind these earthly machinations.

But for now, Sebastian allowed himself a moment of righteous satisfaction. Starkhaven stood stronger tonight than it had this morning, blessed by the Maker’s favor, and beside him stood a partner who understood both the sacred nature of their mission and the necessity of unwavering faith in pursuing it.

The Maker’s work, Sebastian knew with absolute certainty, required instruments willing to embrace both its glory and its terrible burden. The corrupt and faithless would resist, but divine will could not—would not—be turned away by mortal opposition.

As the city settled into sleep below them, Sebastian began to plan for the sacred work ahead—for the purification of a world that had strayed too far from the Maker’s light.

Chapter Text

The hour was late by the time Varric found himself hunched over a broad table in Kirkwall’s Viscount’s Keep archives. The chamber was lit only by a few flickering wall sconces and a hooded lantern that Seren had set between piles of ledgers. The air smelled of mildewed parchment and faint candle wax, and shadows danced across rows of dust-speckled scroll shelves. The three of them—Varric, Seren, and Podge—worked in focused silence. The only sounds were the occasional flip of a parchment, the scratch of quill on notes, and Podge’s quiet, impatient huff when another document yielded little. Varric’s shoulder still throbbed beneath his leather coat, a dull lingering of the previous month’s skirmish, but he paid it little mind. There were more pressing pains tonight.

Seren perched on a stool opposite Varric, their half-elven features intent in the lantern light. A strand of tightly coiled hair had escaped their braids to brush their cheeks, but they ignored it as their dark brown eyes scanned a trade ledger from years past. Quick-witted and methodical, Seren had the idea to systematically sift through city records for all mentions of Renval’s business dealings. It was tedious work, but as they ran a fingertip down a column of figures, their gaze flickered up to meet Varric’s.

“Here,” they whispered, voice echoing softly in the vaulted archive hall. “9:09 Dragon—a significant uptick in Renval’s shipping profits. Five new merchant ships acquired in one year.” Their gaze darted over to Podge with a knowing spark. “That’s right after the Bellemore scandal.”

Podge leaned back in his chair and let out a bitter breath. The lanky human rested a bruised hand on the table to steady himself; a month of actual food and a comfortable bed had softened him only slightly, but he still bore a sharpness to his features that came from a life of hardship. “Five ships…” Podge muttered, voice rough with resentment. “My father lost everything—our shipping contracts, trade rights—after he was framed. Looks like Renval snatched up the spoils.” He tapped his finger against the table, eyes narrowing as he looked at the page in Seren’s hands, as if the numbers themselves were offenders. A lock of his jet-black hair, now loose from its tie, fell over his forehead, and he tossed it back impatiently. “Of course that weasel profited. Isn’t it always the way?”

Varric exhaled slowly, calmness forced into his tone. “The merchant’s guild would’ve redistributed the Bellemore assets after the conviction,” he said slowly. His penchant for business gossip was still sharp, and seeing the proof in the ledgers may as well have written its own story. “Renval probably claimed they were doing everyone a favor by buying up abandoned shipments so goods wouldn’t rot in the docks. Generous, isn’t he?”

Podge barked a soft, humorless laugh. “As generous as a vulture.” He glanced sideways at Varric. Not long ago, the man had been skittish as a cornered nug; now, with purpose to focus on, some of his confidence—and anger—had returned. “I remember hearing that line. ‘For Kirkwall’s sake,’ my father said. Knew he was being set up, but he had no way to prove Renval orchestrated it all.” His jaw tightened, the flicker of grief in his eyes quickly masked by anger. “He believed the truth would come to light.”

Seren carefully turned the page, scanning for more clues. They had already pulled several volumes: trade manifests, council meeting minutes, property registries. “I think we have enough on Bellemore,” Seren said, gentle but firm. They shot Podge a sympathetic look—one he met only briefly before averting his gaze. “What about Starkhaven, Varric? Do you think Renval has been coordinating with agents on behalf of the Vaels?”

At that, Varric straightened, biting back at the flare of pain in his shoulder. It should’ve healed by now, and that it lingered so long bothered him. “If he’s been Starkhaven’s inside man this whole time, there has to be something… coin changing hands, communications.” He rubbed his chin, fingers rough against the grain of stubble. Truthfully, he thought Renval was too clever to openly correspond with Starkhaven, especially now. But perhaps… “Check the treasury ledgers around the time Sebastian started stomping his feet. Any unusual expenditures or donations by Renval could point to some secret support.”

Seren nodded and slid off the stool to fetch another ledger from a nearby stack. Though their official title was Acting Seneschal, they handled the Keep’s records with the ease of a master archivist. Varric watched as Seren hefted a thick accounting tome onto the table, their sleeve brushing aside motes of dust. He couldn’t help a faint smile; not many in Kirkwall would stay up all night poring over columns of figures on a hunch. But Seren had leapt into this task with earnest determination, treating Podge not as a criminal or a nuisance but as an ally in need of help. It reminded Varric why he’d come to trust Seren so naturally.

“Let’s see,” Seren murmured as they flipped to the section for civic donations and outgoing funds. Their eyes skimmed line after line of cramped writing. Varric and Podge waited, tense and silent. Outside the archive’s lone narrow window, a damp wind gusted, causing the flame in their lantern to gutter. Shadows leapt and stretched. Varric flexed his fingers, the anticipation knotting in his chest as tight as his grip on Bianca’s stock during a fight.

Seren hummed lightly. “Nothing obvious for Starkhaven,” they said with a frown. Podge made a frustrated noise and slumped back against the chair, but Seren stopped short. “Wait. This is odd… there’s a payment here, authorized by the Viscount’s office… sizeable sum, to a ‘private construction fund’ about four months ago.” They traced the entry. “It’s phrased vaguely… but the disbursing clerk noted it was for ‘Chantry renovations in the Marches.’ Doesn’t say Kirkwall specifically, though.”

Varric’s eyes narrowed. Kirkwall hadn’t pledged any coin for Chantry rebuilding that he could recall—certainly not without his knowledge as Viscount. “Which clerk signed off?” he asked, leaning in.

Seren ran a finger to the margin. “Seneschal Bran’s authorization cipher, but… it doesn’t look like his handwriting on the description. Could be Renval had someone slip this in while Bran was ill with that bout of lung sickness.”

Podge straightened. “You think Renval diverted Kirkwall coin to help Starkhaven make their Chantry prettier?”

Varric’s teeth set on edge. “If that payment actually went to Starkhaven, it’s one more link,” he said. “It’s just more proof that Renval’s been funneling resources to our dear prince under everyone’s nose.” It wasn’t outright proof of treason, Varric knew, but it was a hell of an indicator. Varric had to work not to think about Renval at the council table, loudly insisting that Starkhaven would never act against Kirkwall. All the while, he’s greasing the wheels for Sebastian’s war machine, Varric thought bitterly.

Seren carefully closed the ledger. “We can follow up on where that money actually landed—maybe send word to a contact in Starkhaven,” they said. Varric gave a curt nod at Seren’s suggestions; every scrap would help when the time came to confront Renval.

Podge let out a tight sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face. In the shifting light, the man looked suddenly exhausted, the adrenaline ebbing. “So we have Renval enriching himself on my family’s ruin, and probably whispering in Starkhaven’s ear while bleeding Kirkwall to do it.” He shook his head slowly. “I expected nothing less of that bastard. But…” he hesitated, brow furrowing. “There’s something I don’t get. My father’s scandal was about smuggling with the Qunari, right? What’s Starkhaven’s got to do with that? It’s not like the Vaels cared about Kirkwall until after the Chantry blew.”

Varric traded a glance with Seren. They’d uncovered concrete evidence of Renval’s corruption and some less-than-flattering implications about ties to Starkhaven. But an older question yet lingered: why had Lord Renval moved against the Bellemores in the first place, all those years ago? Simple greed, surely, but perhaps there was more. A frown tugged at Varric’s mouth. Renval might have been clever enough to orchestrate the deed, but to make the accusations stick, he’d have needed allies—people of influence backing the charges. 

Seren seemed to follow his train of thought. The seneschal’s apprentice-turned-seneschal had proven to have a keen political instinct. “Podrick… at the trial or inquiry for your father, who were the nobles leading the charge?” Seren asked gently. “Do you recall any names?” 

Podge blinked, clearly dredging up memories he’d rather forget. “I was a boy, but… I remember my mother cursing certain fair-weather friends .” He rubbed at the curve of his jaw, scowling lightly. “She said one of Father’s longtime associates on the council turned on him. Supported the accusations, swore by the evidence… Lord Amell.”

Varric felt an uncomfortable lurch in his gut. “Amell,” he repeated quietly. Hawke’s maternal family, old-time nobles who’d been well-regarded in their time, before Gamlen went and flung the ball into the sea. Amell… The name was nearly as dust-laden as the tomes around them, but now it resurfaced with a sinister edge.

Seren glanced quickly at Varric, clearly knowing its significance. Podge didn’t notice; he was busy staring down at his hands, fists clenched atop the table. “Father considered Aristide a friend,” Podge continued. “They were both on the Viscount’s advisory board. Maker, I… I remember, Leandra was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. And then… When the accusations came, Lord Amell sided with Renval. He testified that he’d seen correspondence linking Father to the Qunari.” Podge’s lips twisted with disgust. “Coming from Lord Amell, I’m sure that only helped convince the Viscount. My mother spit on Bethann’s grave after she died.”

Seren’s voice was soft, almost apologetic. “The Amells… They died around 9:11, didn’t they? Not long after the scandal.” They flipped open a slim volume—a registry of noble obituaries—and confirmed the dates with a solemn nod. “Yes. It says here Bethann Amell passed in 9:10 from illness, Aristide Amell in early 9:11.” Closing the book, Seren continued thoughtfully, “After their deaths, the estate passed to Gamlen Amell, who lost it spectacularly fast. Maybe too fast.” Their eyes met Varric’s again. “Amell fell, and Renval was there to reap the benefits.”

Podge let out a smirk, though it lacked any true humor. “So Renval took them down, too? Good. It’s the least they deserve.” He shook his head in astonishment. “Here I thought it was because Leandra ran off with that Fereldan mage and Gamlen proved himself a wastrel.” His black eyes flashed. “Seems Renval probably helped that misfortune along himself.”

“It fits,” Varric said grimly. In his mind, disparate pieces from Kirkwall’s past were aligning into a stark picture. Renval had been playing a long game indeed. Take down Bellemore, profit from their ships. Use the Amells to do it, then pick apart Amell’s remains when the old lord dies. It would’ve made for compelling gossip if it weren’t so exhausting. “We need to know exactly how Renval profited from the Amells’ fall. If we can show he conspired there as well…” Varric’s heart panged, a mix of triumph at cornering Renval and a pang of sorrow that Hawke’s own family had been entangled in such ugliness. “Seren, is there any record of Renval acquiring Amell property or holdings? The estate itself was sold off, but—”

“Actually,” Seren interjected, already reaching for a bound sheaf of property sale records, “the Amell estate was tied up for a while before Gamlen was able to sell it. Leandra’s marriage to Malcolm Hawke meant the estate couldn’t be sold until certain legalities… Ah, here: in 9:15, Lady Reinhardt petitioned to purchase the Amell estate.” They scanned further. “It notes competing bids. One here from Markus Renval—for some of the Amell vineyards in the hinterlands. That sale went through.” Seren’s lips pressed thin. “And another note: Renval absorbed two of the Amell shipping routes in 9:17 after Gamlen Amell defaulted on loans.”

Varric drummed his fingers on the table, anger boiling beneath his calm facade. Renval had sunk his claws into the Amells too, just as suspected. “He bled them dry,” Varric said. “Bran’s predecessor would’ve overseen those sales… likely stamped those approvals quickly if Renval presented himself as the savior of failing assets.” It was exactly the sort of predatory politicking Kirkwall’s elite excelled at. And Renval was a master among them, it seemed.

Podge’s face had gone tight. “I knew about our ships, but I never knew he made off with Amell property too. The old leech never missed an opportunity.” He looked at Varric searchingly. “If we expose all this… it’ll ruin Renval, right? The council will have his head for betraying one of their own—two of their own, counting my father—and for sneaking around with Starkhaven.”

Varric managed a hard, almost wolfish grin. “It will do more than ruin him, Podge. It’ll strip him of any legitimacy. Betraying Kirkwall’s interests, conspiring against fellow nobles… shit, it’s straight up treason.” He straightened the disarray of scrolls before him and carefully rolled up the evidence they’d marked. “But we need undeniable proof. The numbers and records tell a story, but a clever snake like Renval probably has a thousand excuses to squirm out of it.” Varric tapped a finger on the table, thinking aloud. “Aveline’s guard can quietly verify the payment trail to Starkhaven, and we can work our angle here in the Keep. But the coup de grâce would be something from Renval himself. Correspondence, orders… something in his own hand tying it together.”

Seren’s eyes lit at the idea, but then dimmed. “Renval’s estate would have that, but we can’t exactly search his manor without tipping him off.”

“No,” Varric agreed. “But maybe we don’t have to. If Aristide and Renval worked together to take down the Bellemores, they might’ve done it through letters.”

Podge shook his head and scoffed. “If those letters exist… Where would they even be now? The Amells have been gone for ages. Leandra’s dead, Gamlen is—”

“Gambling at the Hanged Man as we speak,” Varric finished dryly. “Or visiting the Rose again.” There was no doubt in his mind that Gamlen would’ve sold or squandered whatever he could if he thought it’d fetch a price. But someone else might’ve kept them safe. Varric felt his heart skip with a sudden intuition. “Leandra.”

Seren tilted her head. “Leandra Amell?”

“Leandra Hawke,” Varric corrected, his mind already racing with possibilities. “If anything survives of the family papers, I’d bet every piece of coin I’ve ever had that Leandra has them organized by date.”

Podge tilted his head. “Hawke? As in—you mean Leandra Amell’s the Champion’s mother?”

“Shit, Podge, you really did fall out of the loop,” Varric said, pushing back from the table. The thought of returning to the Hawke state sent a complicated mix of emotions through him, but he stifled them. “I’ll go take a look. Better I do it quietly and alone. Fewer whispers that way.”

Seren set down their quill, concern flitting across their face. “Varric, it’s well past nightfall. Perhaps we should wait until morning—”

“No,” Varric interjected gently. “I appreciate the thought, kid, but time isn’t our friend. Every day we don’t act, Renval could be covering his tracks. Besides…” He managed a small smile for Seren’s benefit. “I’m not going to sleep anytime soon, thanks to that Antivan coffee you brewed up. Might as well use the hours productively.”

Podge stood as if to volunteer, but Varric held up a hand. “Not you either, Podge. You need to stay out of sight.” He softened the rejection with a nod of acknowledgment. “You’ve helped plenty already. Get some rest.”

The other man wavered, then nodded grudgingly. Truth be told, he looked dead on his feet. “Alright. Just… be careful, yeah? If Renval’s got anyone watching the estate—”

Varric chuckled under his breath. “Then they’re about to see a very handsome burglar jimmying the window.”

A ghost of a grin touched Podge’s lips. “Heh. Can’t wait to hear that story later.”

As Seren and Podge departed—Seren leading the way with an armful of ledgers, Podge escorted by one of Aveline’s trusted guards—Varric lingered a moment in the archive. He extinguished the lantern and rolled his stiff shoulders, alone now with his thoughts and the dim glow of the wall torches. The plan ahead was taking shape: find the correspondence between Renval and Aristide Amell, use it with the evidence they’d gathered, and bring Renval down hard.

Yet Varric’s chest tightened with apprehension. Searching Hawke’s estate meant walking into a museum of memories. And memories could be as dangerous as any blade. Twice as painful, too, if you weren’t careful.

He left the Keep by a servant’s side door to avoid unwanted attention, pulling up the hood of a woolspun cloak he borrowed as he stepped into the cool Kirkwall night. The rain that had soaked the city for what seemed like weeks had dwindled to a mist, and Hightown’s cobblestones gleamed under lamplight. It was well past the hour when honest citizens retired; only a few silhouettes of guards patrolling and the distant laughter from a noble’s late dinner party indicated any life. Varric kept to the edges of the lamplight, his boots nearly soundless on familiar paths. A lifetime in Kirkwall’s streets, both high and low, had taught him how to move unseen when needed.

The Hawke estate lay not too far from the stairs that led up to the Viscount’s Keep. Varric paused outside the wrought iron gate, his heart squeezing at the sight. The manor loomed three stories tall, its white stone facade silvered by moonlight. Once, this home had been full of life—Hawke’s companions coming and going at all hours odd and regular, laughter echoing during victory celebrations, warm lights in every window. Now it sat silent and dark, like a grand tombstone amid overgrown rosebushes. In the stillness, Varric could almost convince himself that the place truly was haunted by ghosts of the past.

He pushed open the gate, which swung with only a slight creak. The short path to the front door was overlaid with wet leaves. Varric’s keen eyes noted that the walkway had been swept recently—perhaps earlier that very day—but the evening wind had littered it anew. Orana’s still looking after the place, he reminded himself. He’d kept up with her from a distance, making quiet inquiries to ensure her safety and well-being. 

Varric was halfway to the door when a low growl froze him in place. Out of the darkness, a hulking shape slunk forward, blocking the path—massive shoulders, a broad head with a rigid brow, and eyes gleaming amber in the night. A mabari war hound.

“Easy, Ham,” Varric murmured, letting his hood fall back and raising both hands slowly to show he was no threat. Ham—full name Hambone the Barklord—let out a deeper growl, the sound reverberating in his barrel chest. He bared sharp teeth, uncertain in the dark whether this intruder was friend or foe. Varric’s pulse kicked up; he knew better than to underestimate a mabari on guard. But he also knew Hambone—or hoped he still did. “Hey now,” he called softly, pitching his voice low and familiar. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Hambone sniffed the air, massive head cocking. The hound took two cautious steps closer, rain-dark fur rippling over corded muscle. Varric remained very still, heart thumping. “That’s it… Take a good whiff. I don’t smell that bad, do I?” he joked gently. “I’d offer you a nug treat, but I left them in my other coat.”

Another long sniff—then recognition sparked in the mabari’s eyes. The growl cut off with an almost comical abruptness. Hambone let out a sharp bark, stubby tail wagging so quickly that it shook his hindquarters. “There we go,” Varric laughed under his breath, relief washing through him. Hambone closed the remaining distance and shoved his enormous head against Varric’s chest with a woof of delight. Varric staggered back a step at the enthusiastic greeting. “Ha! Easy there, Ham, easy!” He scratched behind the dog’s ear, earning himself a happy whine and a wet lick across Varric’s chin, nearly catching his nose. “Blegh—okay, that’s enough, you big lug. I missed you, too.”

Hambone panted, his wariness entirely gone, replaced by canine joy at the familiar presence. For a moment, Varric simply indulged in the reunion. Hambone had been an ever-present sentinel in the Hawke household ever since they came over from Lothering. Feeling the solid weight and warmth of the dog against him tugged at Varric’s heart. It also brought a lump to his throat, unexpected and painful. He cleared it before his voice could crack. “You’ve been keeping the place safe, I take it? Good boy.” 

The estate’s front door opened then, light spilling out into the night. Silhouetted in the entry was a slender elven woman in a modest gown, her blonde hair pulled back into a loose bun. She peered into the darkness with wide, cautious eyes. “Hambone?” she called uncertainly. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Orana,” Varric replied, stepping into the swath of lamplight so she could see him clearly. “Varric Tethras.”

Orana’s face shifted from alarm to astonishment, then to a bright, genuine smile. “Messere Tethras!” she exclaimed. She hurried forward onto the stoop, making way for him to step inside. “I thought perhaps Hambone was chasing rats again! Please, come inside. Both of you, come in out of that damp.”

Hambone needed no further encouragement; at his mistress’s gesture, the dog trotted up the steps and inside, his duty done. Varric followed, a damp curl of his hair falling into his eyes as he crossed the threshold. He pushed it back, blinking to adjust as Orana shut the heavy door behind them.

The front foyer of the Hawke estate was lit by only a single wall lantern, but to Varric it felt almost dazzling after the gloom outside. He took a moment to survey the familiar surroundings. The entry hall was spotless, though hints of disuse crept in at the edges—a light film of dust on the wainscoting, the faint mustiness of a house long closed up. But the floors gleamed from recent polishing, and the vase on the writing desk even held a handful of fresh wildflowers. Orana had clearly been keeping the house with pride, if not expecting much company.

Orana set her lamp on a side table and turned to Varric, her hands collapsed in front of her nervously. Her eyes shone with a mix of happiness and uncertainty. “Messere, if I had known you were coming, I would’ve prepared something. Have you eaten? I can fetch you a bit, or tea—”

Varric held up a polite hand, smiling. “I didn’t mean to drop in unannounced, Orana, truly. No need to fuss. I’m alright.” He patted his stomach lightly. “Dwarf, remember? We keep reserves.”

Orana’s cheeks dimpled with a shy smile. “As you like, messere. Still… I am glad to see you.” She paused, and her expression gentled into something wistful. “It’s been very quiet here since Bodahn and Sandal left.”

Quiet. Yes, Varric could only imagine. For two years now, this manor had lacked the laughter and life that Hawke and his friends brought to it. “How have you been holding up?” he asked softly. “Is everything… well, as well as can be?”

She understood what he truly meant. Her eyes flickered to the portrait above the mantel—Leandra Hawke’s portrait, lovingly restored years ago. A thin film of dust dulled its frame now, but the painted Leandra still smiled serenely down at them. “I manage,” Orana said, folding her arms almost self-soothingly. “There isn’t much to do, not since Master Hawke left. But I keep the place clean. I tend the garden. Hambone does try to help with digging, but he isn’t very selective about where.”

At her feet, the mabari chuffed in protest, circling twice on a rug in front of the fireplace before flopping down with a contented huff. “And you?” Varric continued gently. He removed his damp cloak and hung it on a rack by the doorway. “Are you alright for… necessities? Coin, provisions?” He thought of the nearly empty Lowtown market stalls from days prior—Kirkwall’s shortages were worsening with the threat of war looming over them. “I know things have been tough lately. I can have the Keep send you some supplies.”

But Orana shook her head quickly. “You’re kind to offer, messere, but truly, I have what I need. Master—” She faltered for a moment, then shook her head. “Serah Hawke and Serah Anders made sure of it before they left. The accounts, the staff severance, and my wages for many years. I could live here alone until I grow old and not want for anything.” Her lips curved into a sad smile. “They were so thoughtful. Serah Hawke and Serah Anders both made certain I’d be taken care of. In fact, Serah Anders was always so kind—he left behind quite a few poultices, in case I ever caught ill. I don’t think I’ve been sick in ages.”

Varric stiffened at the sound of Anders’s name. It slipped from Orana’s mouth so gently, as though the man were just another fond memory, not the architect of Kirkwall’s worst nightmare. A sour taste rose in Varric’s throat. Always so kind, she’d said—like Anders hadn’t been the one to light the powder keg and send the city into chaos. Like he hadn’t dragged Hawke into that mess and forced him to flee, leaving this house empty except for ghosts and a mabari war hound.

Orana was oblivious to the storm in Varric’s chest. He cleared his throat, forcing his face to stay neutral. “That’s great to hear, Orana,” he said. He focused instead on the comfort it brought to know that even in absentia, Hawke’s generosity and foresight were protecting others. Leaving Orana the estate and means to live, and Varric knew he’d written a will years ago leaving everything to Carver in the event of his “sudden but inevitable death,” even if it wasn’t likely that the man would ever leave the Grey Wardens to claim it.

Even so, the elf seemed to sense Varric’s melancholy because she stepped closer, concern written on her face. “Messere… have you heard from them?” she asked hesitantly. “From Master Hawke? Serah Anders?”

The question twisted like a knife. Varric met her gaze, wishing he had a better answer—or any at all. He’d told her the truth over a year ago: Hawke was lost in the Fade, and no one knew his fate. And Anders? Maker only knew. Maker willing, burning in the Void, Varric thought bitterly, then hated himself for thinking it.

“Nothing new, Orana,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing’s changed. I’m sorry.”

She lowered her gaze, nodding to herself as if affirming an unwanted certainty. “Thank you, messere. Ah! But I’ve kept you in the foyer,” her tone lifted, attempting brightness, “come, please, sit. You must be tired.” She motioned toward the plush chairs nearby.

But Varric lightly touched her arm to stop her fussing. “Actually, I came to look for something.” He glanced down the corridor toward the study, where he recalled a large mahogany desk and cabinets full of parchment. “Old letters, documents from the Amell family. Possibly locked away in the study or storage.”

Orana’s delicate brows lifted in curiosity, but she didn’t pry. “Of course. The study is as it was… I haven’t moved anything.” She led him through the darkened parlor—covering the furniture at night with sheets to keep off dust, he noticed—and onward to the study door. “I’ll fetch another lamp. The ones in here have little oil at the moment.”

The study was dark, but when Varric pushed open the heavy door, the moonlight from a tall, arched window provided enough illumination to outline the shapes within. He stepped inside, Hambone padding beside him. The air carried the faint scent of old books and extinguished fireplace coals. It struck Varric that this room likely hadn’t been used since Hawke himself last sat here. A sheet covered the desk, but underneath Varric could see a few objects left exactly as they’d been: a single overturned goblet, a quill gnawed at the end, an empty ink bottle turned upside down.

Hambone wandered to the cold fireplace and lay down with a groaning sigh, as if to say he’d supervise this endeavor horizontally. Varric moved to the desk and gently pulled the dust sheet aside. He ran a hand over the mahogany surface, tracing grooves in the wood he knew by memory. How many times had he leaned across this desk, spinning one of his outrageous stories while Hawke laughed loudly and shook his head? The ghosts of those days seemed to brush against him, and for a moment, Varric closed his eyes. Focus. Find the letters.

Orana returned with a small oil lamp and set it on the desk. Soft yellow light spread through the study, chasing away the darkest shadows. “The household papers and documents were kept in that cabinet,” she said quietly, pointing to a tall cabinet with ornate carvings standing against the wall. “I believe Mistress Leandra put all the old letters there.”

“Thanks, Orana,” Varric said earnestly. He moved to the cabinet, which was locked, but a small silver key hung on a nearby hook. Varric unlocked and opened the creaking doors. Within were neat stacks of ledgers, a few strongboxes, and several tied bundles of letters. His chest tightened at the sight; there was Hawke’s handwriting on some of those bundles, messy and bold, and Leandra’s flowing script on older ones. 

He carefully lifted out one stack tied with faded blue ribbon. A label affixed to it read, in Leandra’s handwriting, Estate Matters - 9:09-9:12. Varric untied the ribbon as he returned to the desk and began sifting through the letters. Orana hovered helpfully nearby while Hambone snored gently by the hearth.

Many of the letters were mundane: condolence notes on Lady Bethann’s passing, receipts from estate sales, and legal missives regarding the Amell inheritance, which were meant for Leandra (and decidedly not for Gamlen), as well as notes written by Lord Aristide himself about the news of each grandchild’s birth. Nearly an hour went by before his thumb paused on an envelope of heavy, cream-colored stationery, marked with an elegant R. He drew it out, eyes locked onto the familiar symbol. The seal had been broken long ago, but traces of crimson wax clung to the paper, stamped with a crest—a half-bridge sigil. Renval’s crest.

He slid the letter from its envelope. The handwriting within was refined and looping, and though age had yellowed the paper, the ink was bold and black. He recognized the style at once from council documents: this was Lord Markus Renval’s hand, there was no doubt about it. Varric began to read, eyes moving quickly at first, then slowing as the contents became clear. It was a single page, but every line made Varric’s blood run a little colder.

My Dear Lord Amell,

I write out of concern for Kirkwall’s well-being regarding the troubling allegations against Lord Bellemore. Discretion is essential, as I’m sure you agree.

We both know Bellemore’s fortunes have risen unnaturally. If these whispers prove true, they could tarnish not only his name but that of his partners—your esteemed house included. A public scandal might be the final blow to the legacy of your great house, and I would never wish such upon you or your good lady wife.

I hold proofs of Bellemore’s misdeeds and intend to present them to the Viscount. Your support would lend these findings great weight. Perhaps you might recall a suspicious correspondence or overheard an illicit conversation between the Lord Bellemore and his wife. In return for your enthusiastic cooperation, I will personally see that House Amell’s interests remain safeguarded. Favorable access to Bellemore’s former assets may also be arranged as a gesture of goodwill.

I need hardly remind you, my friend, that should Bellemore’s misgivings come to light without careful guidance, the ensuing audits may cast an unkind light on even unrelated matters. It has long been known that the Amells carry magic in their blood, even before rumors of a daughter’s youthful elopement. Surely we can avoid such unpleasantness. 

Your friendship and service to our city are highly valued, Lord Amell. I trust you will make the wise choice for the good of us all. I await your reply and remain,

Yours faithfully,

Lord Markus Renval

Varric set the letter down, hand trembling from the effort of not crumpling the aged paper outright. He drew a slow breath, steadying the fury that pounded like a war drum in his ears. This letter was exactly what he was after, and yet it brought him no relief. Renval’s schemes had destroyed Podrick’s family, wronged Hawke’s, and by extension, helped set the stage for Kirkwall’s chaos. The cascade of consequences from one man’s greed was staggering, and wholly familiar.

“Messere?” Orana’s voice managed to leak in through the haze of his thoughts. He realized she had been watching him with gentle concern. Embarrassed, Varric cleared his throat and rested the letter down on the desk carefully. 

“It’s alright,” he said. “Why don’t you get some rest? I might be here for a while. I promise I won’t leave things a mess when I finish up.” He mustered a reassuring smile. “And I’ll latch the door on my way out.”

Orana hesitated. Her gaze flickered to the letter on the desk, then back to Varric’s face. “As you wish, messere. I’ll be just upstairs if you need anything.” With that, she withdrew, closing the study door behind her and leaving Varric alone with the silence of the past.

He rifled through the remaining documents. There were a couple more bearing the Renval crest—Aristide’s replies, follow-ups about the estate bids—but they looked less immediately damning. He set them aside to review later, with a clearer mind. As he did, his gaze wandered to a lower shelf containing journals and notebooks. Some looked noticeably older than the others, but one caught Varric’s eye. Weathered and leather-bound, Varric instantly recognized it. 

Hawke’s journal.

Varric reached for it before he even knew he was doing it. He knew Hawke had carried this book with him ever since he left Lothering. It almost surprised him to see that it was here, but of course—Hawke wouldn’t have had much time to pack before he ran off with Anders. He must’ve left it here for safekeeping, alongside… Varric’s eyes drifted to a small bundle of letters tied with twine tucked next to where the journal had been. The top envelope bore no address, but the paper was the kind Hawke favored for personal correspondence, and the seal—a familiar crest pressed in crimson wax—was unbroken. Varric realized with a start that these were letters Hawke had written but hadn't had the chance to send.

He swallowed, suddenly feeling like an intruder in his friend’s private world. Do I have the right? Whispered a guilty voice in his mind. But another part of him—the part that missed his friend’s company fiercely—persuaded him that perhaps he needed to see this. To bear witness to Hawke’s truth, even if belatedly. Varric released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He carried the journal and the unsent letters to the desk, where Orana’s lamp cast a gentle circle of light. Carefully, he eased himself into the high-backed chair—Hawke’s chair. He sighed and shifted until he was comfortable, and Hambone, sensing the shifting mood, got up from the hearth and came to sit by Varric’s feet. Absent-mindedly, Varric reached down to pat the hound’s head.

“Alright, big guy,” he murmured. “Let’s see what our Champion left behind.”

He opened the leather-bound volume to its earlier pages. The handwriting was unmistakably Hawke’s—bold, fluid strokes, though here and there the pen pressure betrayed strong emotion, indenting the back of the previous page. The first dated entry was from the family’s days in Lothering. Varric felt a twinge of reluctance. This was years before he’d met Hawke—a time of loss and fear, by the looks of how often he mentioned his father and a mysterious illness. With hindsight, he wondered if the blood magic Malcolm had performed to trap Corypheus was to blame for his premature demise.

Varric shook his head and flipped through the pages. Mentions of their family farm, of the encroaching Blight, of the first night they spent on the run from darkspawn and Bethany’s death—seeing the raw grief laid bare on the page was almost too intimate to bear. He continued on, skimming more than reading fully. The entries got shorter after they came to Kirkwall, with some pages mostly blank save for a couple of mindless scribbles and brief complaints of Carver’s headassery. Even so, Varric felt like he could hear Hawke’s voice in the words—strained, frustrated, but resolute. He’d had some inkling back then how much Hawke was holding back, but reading this crystallized it.

As the years passed, his entries became less regular and more selective. Hawke chronicled key moments: the Deep Roads expedition, blaming himself for trading his brother’s life to the Wardens in a desperate bid to make up for his sister’s death; the troubles with the Qunari, his frustrations with Viscount Dumar; his rise to Champion and the growing tensions in Kirkwall with the mages and templars. Varric found himself slowing to read more carefully as he reached the portions closer to the end. 

Templars tailed us through Lowtown tonight. Anders didn’t notice but if he had, I’ve no doubt he’d have confronted them and made a scene—or worse. Couldn’t let that happen so I took him to the alley by the foundry. Worked well enough to distract him—Maker knows he’s easily distracted when I kiss him. By the time we went back, those Templars were gone—either bored or embarrassed. No doubt they think the Champion is not just an apostate, but a shameless deviant as well, snogging his lover in public. Maybe more tongue next time will keep them further away.

Varric huffed a soft breath of amusement. He could picture it: Anders pacing like an angry alleycat, and Hawke suddenly pushing him into a passionate kiss to distract him. It was equal parts clever and reckless—very much Hawke’s style. He flipped a few more pages, pausing again when he saw mention of Merrill’s name.

Keran let me know Templars were sniffing around the Alienage. Took a few more favors and more coin than I would’ve liked but between Isabela and I, we got them looking elsewhere for now. Merrill still has no idea that the break-in was Isabela’s doing… Not sure who she thinks broke in to steal nothing and clean up evidence of blood magic.

Hawke’s next lines were written in a tighter scrawl: Anders is changing. He’s angry more often now, quicker to snap. I catch him muttering to himself more and more these days. Sometimes it’s like he’s two people in one skin, and I don’t know who I’m talking to. He still comes back to me, though. Always. I can’t help but think if I hold tight enough, I can keep him here.

A few pages later:

He came to me today with a plan. Said he wants to separate himself from Justice. Maker help me, he sounded almost like the man I first met in Darktown—hopeful, determined. Asked for help getting the materials together and—well, I’m no Grand Enchanter, but I’m fairly certain drakestone doesn’t work like that. He’s not telling me the truth, but I don’t care. If this helps, I don’t care.

Varric frowned deeply at that. He remembered collecting the drakestone and sela petrae with Anders and Hawke, only to learn that it had been for the very thing that destroyed the Chantry. At the time, he thought Hawke had no idea what Anders was up to, what he’d been planning. Now, it seemed as though he had an idea, however faint, that something wasn’t quite right. His mouth twisted into a slight scowl, and he turned the page a little rougher than he meant to.

Only one more entry remained. The rest of the journal was full of blank pages, a reminder that Hawke likely intended to fill them in as well.

If it doesn’t work, I’m taking Isabela up on her offer. We’ll hop on her ship and become the worst pirates to ever sail the Waking Sea. Anders laughed at me, but I meant it. I’d trade all the gold, this title, the entire city if I have to if it meant keeping him safe.

The page bore a dark strike where Hawke’s quill had pressed too strongly. Varric shut the journal roughly, his hand resting heavily on the worn leather cover. Hawke’s final words felt like a blade twisting between his ribs. “He was planning to run,” Varric murmured aloud, voice hoarse. “And I never saw it.”

In the stillness of the study, Varric wrestled with a rush of guilt and simmering anger… at Anders, for dragging Hawke into this, and at himself, for missing it all. Hawke had always seemed so unflappable—the cheeky, brave Champion of Kirkwall with a smart remark for the most dire situation—but he’d been struggling the whole time. 

His eyes moved to the unset letters that remained on the desk; he hadn’t read them yet, but he decided not to pry further. One was addressed to Carver in a bold hand, another to Stroud, both sealed and ready to be sent. Varric hesitated but took them anyway. He wouldn’t read them, but perhaps they were worth sending with a note to explain why he had them. 

Varric carefully tied the twine back around the rest of the letters and set them aside, along with the journal. These he would take with him—Orana would permit it, he was sure, and if Hawke ever… if by some miracle Hawke returned, Varric would have them ready to give back. If Hawke didn’t come back, then at least his truth would not languish forgotten in a dusty cabinet.

Hambone raised his head to look in Varric’s direction as he stood from the desk. Varric inhaled deeply and reached for the lamp. As he moved to extinguish it, his gaze swept the study one last time—the scattering of papers, the ghostly sheet draped over the chair he’d sat in, the faint scuffs on the floor from where someone’s pacing boots had left marks. All of it looked like the lingering presence of a life interrupted. Hawke had once made a joke about the amount of ghosts in Kirkwall. Too many, and Hawke was one of them now.

He lowered the lamp’s wick, plunging the room into darkness save for moonlight’s silver touch. Hambone rose and came to his side with a quiet huff, as if asking if it was time to go. Varric rested a hand on the mabari’s broad head. “Time for me to go home, boy.” His voice was hoarse, but calm now. “I have what I need.”

Chapter Text

Garrett Hawke trudged along a narrow, twisting path of floating stones, every muscle in his body aching with weariness. The Fade’s perpetual twilight bathed the ancient ruins around him in dim, ghostly light. In the distance, bits of shattered architecture drifted lazily in midair, defying gravity and reason. He absently ran his tongue over dry lips and tried to ignore the hollow gnaw of hunger in his belly. It had been… Maker only knew how long since he’d had a decent meal. Time was a vague concept here, but his body’s needs were not.

Fortunately—if such a word applied in this nightmare realm—he hadn’t had to starve. On occasion, Valtaeva produced sustenance for him; strange fruits that oozed sweet juice, water that shimmered with faint otherworldly light. Hawke had choked them down gratefully despite their unsettling origin. It still unnerved him how the Desire Demon could just pluck things from thin air, bending the Fade’s substance to her will. Then again, he reminded himself, she was the native here. He was the outsider, the stray mortal who needed food and drink. If not for Valtaeva, he suspected the Fade would happily let him waste away without ever feeling the pangs. 

Ahead of him, the demon in question sauntered with effortless grace, her silhouette cutting a curvaceous figure against the greenish fog. Valtaeva’s pale blue skin gave off a subtle luminescence, illuminating the ruined corridor as if she carried a dim lantern within herself. Each sway of her hips was languid and confident, her cloven feet making no sound on the uneven stone. By contrast, Hawke’s boots scuffed and scraped noisily as he navigated rubble and loose debris. He adjusted his grip on the only weapon he had—the simple knife belt that may as well have been a toothpick against any real threats.

With a sigh, Hawke jogged a few steps to catch up to Valtaeva. “You know,” he began lightly, “I appreciate the gourmet tour of nightmare cuisine and all, but I can’t help noticing I’m still traveling light in the weapons department. Any chance you might have a spare mage’s staff tucked away in that… fashionable ensemble of yours?” His tone was deliberately flippant as he nodded at her revealing, ornate bodice and the swirling tatters of fabric that adorned her frame. 

Valtaeva slowed and glanced over her shoulder, one delicate eyebrow arching above an eye that glowed like amethyst embers. A smirk curved her dark lips. “Oh? Feeling underdressed, darling?” she purred. Her voice was rich with amusement. “And here I thought your sharp tongue was weapon enough for you.”

Hawke returned a thin smile. “As sharp as my wit may be, it doesn’t do much stabbing or fireball-flinging. Don’t get me wrong, this knife has served me well for cutting cheese and the occasional hangnail, but…” He shrugged, affecting nonchalance despite the real frustration simmering beneath. “I’d rather have something a bit weightier if we run into more demons who aren’t as charming as you.”

Valtaeva came to a graceful halt, turning fully to face him. The ghostly vines hanging from the archway above cast shifting patterns across her elegant horns and high cheekbones. She tapped a clawed finger against her chin, feigning thoughtful consideration. “A proper staff for the Champion of Kirkwall, is it? You do ask a lot, Garrett.” The use of his first name put him on edge again. He’d come to know it was a sign she meant to toy with him. “I could make one for you, of course.”

Hawke’s heart gave an eager thump at that, but he didn’t let it show on his face. He knew a trap when he heard one. “I sense a ‘but’ coming,” he said carefully.

“But,” Valtaeva continued as expected, her tail flicking lazily behind her, “such favors come at a price.” She drifted closer, one step and then another, until Hawke could feel the unnatural warmth radiating from her skin. She reached out and trailed a sharp claw down the front of his worn chestplate. “Power is not given freely, even small power like a little mage’s stick. If I were to craft you a staff from the Fade… I’d need something in exchange.” Her voice dropped to a silken whisper. “A kiss, perhaps? A sweet memory? Or maybe a promise to be in my debt—one favor, to be claimed later.”

She said it lightly, playfully, but Hawke felt a chill coil in his gut at the suggestion. A bargain with a Desire Demon. Maker, he’d have to be desperate or insane. He managed a chuckle, brushing off the front of his chestplate once her claw withdrew, as though dusting away the very idea. “Tempting offers, all,” he drawled, “but I’ll pass. I’m already in deep enough with one demon; I don’t fancy adding any formal contracts to the mix.”

Valtaeva’s laughter rang out in the darkness, echoing off distant walls. “Wise boy.” She winked, then turned on her heel to resume their pace. Over her shoulder she added breezily, “Besides, I find our current arrangement rather amusing. You at my side, armed with nothing but a butter knife and biting sarcasm… it has a certain drama to it. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Hawke replied, rolling his eyes as he followed. “Positively heroic. The ballads will be spectacular. ‘How the Champion stabbed a demon’s kneecap and then talked it to death.’ Sure to inspire thousands.” He shifted his knife in his belt, suppressing a sigh. 

In truth, he felt painfully vulnerable without a staff. Channeling magic with only his bare hands was possible, of course, but it was risky and inefficient. Every encounter in the Fade so far had driven that point home. If Valtaeva hadn’t intervened during his brush with the despair demon, he might have been lost forever in an illusion of its making. Even now, the memory of his mother’s gentle voice twisted into something so cruel and cold made his chest tighten. He exhaled slowly, focusing on the present. No point dwelling on failures; he had enough regrets to fill the Grand Cathedral. He was alive, and so far, relatively intact. That would have to be enough.

They continued onward through the maze of the Fade. The sky above (if it could even be called that) swirled with stormy hues of indigo and green. Fragments of stone staircases and archways drifted in and out of view at the edges of Hawke’s vision, like the remnants of a dozen different worlds bleeding together. As he walked behind Valtaeva, Hawke kept a vigilant eye on their surroundings. He remained on guard, too aware of how quickly the Fade could change. A solid floor could become a river of memory, a doorway might lead somewhere entirely new the second time through. And then there were the denizens of this place—spirits and demons lurking, watching. Most had fled or hidden themselves after the uproar Hawke had caused by slaying the Nightmare demon. But “most” was not “all.” The despair demon that nearly broke him was proof of that enough.

Hawke’s fingers brushed the handle of his belt knife as he walked. His mind wandered to thoughts of the world outside—of Varric, Aveline, Carver… of Anders. Four hundred twenty-two days. That’s how long Valtaeva claimed had passed in Thedas while he wandered the Fade. Now it could be even more, and the thought gnawed at him far worse than hunger ever could. He clenched his jaw and quickened his pace, drawing alongside Valtaeva. He was determined not to waste another day in here, relative or not. If a tear in the Veil existed, he would find it. If not, he’d damn well make one.

Valtaeva must have sensed the shift in his mood. She cast him a sidelong glance, her eyes narrowing shrewdly. “In quite the hurry now, aren’t we?” she remarked. The casual lilt of her tone did nothing to hide the curiosity beneath. “I wonder, is it desperation or determination driving you forward so fiercely?”

“Take your pick,” Hawke replied dryly. “You said you’d guide me to a place where the Veil is thin. I intend to hold you to that.” He hopped over a low, crumbled wall that littered the path, then offered her a tight, toothy grin. “I’m sure you’re eager to find this mysterious something you desire, too. Knowledge, the yoke of human kindness, shiny mirror… whatever it is.”

Valtaeva’s lips curled into a small smile—one that didn’t reach her eyes, nor was intended to. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten. Patience, my dear. We’re closer than you think.” She lifted a hand and gestured ahead. The misty gloom began to peel back, revealing a vast open space beyond the confines of the crumbling hall. “Just beyond here lies what you seek. What we seek.”

Hawke stepped through a broken archway at Valtaeva’s side, and his breath caught at the sight that unfolded. They emerged into a broad terrace of sorts, the floor underfoot composed of interlocking stone tiles etched with lyrium-filled runes. The terrace jutted out over a dark abyss speckled with distant, drifting lights—like a starry night inverted beneath the ground. At the far end of the terrace stood a pair of enormous doors, easily three stories high, set into a cyclopean wall of carved black stone. From the gap between them pulsed a dim emerald glow. Even at this distance, Hawke could feel a gentle tug in the air, a silent howl that thrummed in his bones.

The Veil was unmistakably thin here. Possibly torn.

“A tear…” Hawke murmured, hope flaring in his chest. He took an eager step forward, but Valtaeva’s arm snapped out in front of him, barring his way.

“Careful, pet,” she warned. All hint of playfulness was gone from her voice, replaced by a low, serious timbre. She tilted her head, sniffing the air. “We are not alone.”

As if on cue, a deep rumble echoed from the direction of the doors—a sound like grinding stone plates deep beneath the earth. Hawke’s heart thumped once, hard. He instinctively fell into a crouch behind a fallen pillar, yanking his knife free. Useless or not, it was all he had. Beside him, Valtaeva bared her teeth, fingers flexing as ripples of violet energy cascaded briefly over her clawed hands. The demon’s tail swished in agitation.

From between the massive doors, something moved. The amber glow intensified, casting a long, hulking shadow onto the terrace floor. With ponderous slowness, a figure emerged from the broken gate. Humanoid in outline—that was Hawke’s first impression—but as it stepped fully into view, the details sent a skitter of alarm through his nerves.

The creature was at least twelve feet tall, its body a grotesque parody of a man clad in heavy armor. Its skin—or was that armor?—appeared to be made of stone or metal, a dark, obsidian-like carapace covering dense musculature. Jagged spikes jutted from its broad shoulders and along the outsides of its powerful arms. Two massive horns curved back from its head, flaring out like a crown of twisted onyx, as if the being’s blood ran with liquid blue fire or raw lyrium. Similar glowing fissures traced along its limbs in jagged formations, pulsing like a heartbeat. The creature’s face was perhaps the most horrifying of all: vaguely shaped like a man’s, but the eyes were featureless pits of shimmering gold light, and its mouth… Hawke swallowed. The mouth was fixed in a leering grin of stone teeth, unmoving even when a voice emanated from it—a voice that resonated like an avalanche given speech.

“Well, well,” the creature intoned, its tone mocking and dripping with haughty disdain. “What have we here?” The prideful sneer in those words was almost palpable. It surveyed the terrace with a slow turn of its head. When its gaze fell upon Valtaeva, a cruel chuckle reverberated through the air. “Valtaeva. Skulking about the far reaches of the Beyond. And dragging along a little pet mortal, no less.”

Hawke felt Valtaeva tense beside him. She stepped forward away from the pillar, drawing herself up to her full height—imposing in her own right, though she barely reached the creature’s mid-chest. Even so, the desire demon’s posture radiated confidence and contempt.

“Xenophol,” she greeted coolly, spitting the name like a curse. “Still wallowing in this forgotten corner of the Fade, I see. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but we both know I’m a dreadful liar.”

Hawke eased upward to stand at Valtaeva’s flank, knife at the ready. He had seen Pride demons before—encountered lesser ones, even—but this was clearly one of the greater brethren. Possibly an ancient one. Its aura of power was almost suffocating; the very air felt heavier with each step the demon took. Hawke’s mind raced, searching his memory for anything useful. Pride demons were among the most powerful in the hierarchy, often commanding lesser spirits and demons. On the bright side, they were notoriously arrogant, and that arrogance could be exploited. On the not-so-bright side, a creature this strong could squish him like a bug. He’d need more than snappy one-liners to survive if it came to blows.

Xenophol’s molten eyes flickered down toward Hawke. The demon inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring as if scenting something interesting. “Dragging a mortal, indeed…” he rumbled. “But not a mere dreamer or astral projection. Oh no.” His maw didn’t move, but Hawke could feel its delight sharpen. “This one is real. Flesh and blood, walking the Fade. How delightfully uncommon.”

Hawke set his jaw and resisted the urge to step back as the giant demon leaned closer. The heat emanating from Xenophol’s glowing veins was like standing too near a forge. He could see his reflection flickering in those featureless golden eyes—he looked tired, filthy, and altogether unimpressive before such a titan. But damned if he’d show fear. 

“You know, I’ve been told I’m one of a kind,” Hawke quipped, forcing a smirk. “I suppose this proves it. Welcome to the freak show.”

The Pride demon let out a bark of laughter, the sound booming across the terrace. “Spirited, aren’t you? Most mortals would cower in terror before me.” His head turned back to Valtaeva. “And yet here he stands. How did you manage it, Desire? To bring a physical human here… especially this human.”

Valtaeva’s tail lashed once, irritation evident. “That’s none of your concern,” she said icily. “We’re merely passing through. Stand aside, and you can return to whatever hole you crawled out of. I’ll have no quarrel with you today, Xenophol.”

Xenophol ignored her command entirely. Those blazing eyes remained fixed on Hawke, and something like recognition dawned in their fiery depths. “This mortal… I know it.” A slow, malicious grin split the demon’s voice, if not his stony lips. “Garrett Hawke. Champion of Kirkwall, destroyer of demons, lover of demons… My, your deeds echo loudly even here, little man.”

Hawke’s blood ran cold at the demon’s litany of titles for him. He kept his knife angled low, ready, while his mind scrambled for any advantage. That Xenophol knew him could be either good or very, very bad. Judging by the covetous gleam in those eyes, very bad was winning out.

“I’m honored,” Hawke said with a mirthless chuckle. “I didn’t realize I had fans on this side of the Veil.”

“Fan? Hardly.” The Pride demon’s aura flared, and Hawke felt a pressure against his skull, a subtle probe at the edges of his mind. He stiffened, steeling himself against any incursion. Xenophol went on, voice thrumming with excitement. “But you are valuable. Imagine it—a mortal such as the Champion, in the flesh, trapped in the Fade. Do you know how many would salivate at the chance to claim such a prize? A hero’s body and soul, ripe for… negotiation.” He almost purred that last word.

Hawke swallowed, trying not to betray the sudden spike of panic at the thought of what demons would want with him. He didn’t have to imagine very hard; countless unpleasant possibilities had kept him away more nights than not. He shot a glance at Valtaeva, wondering if she might be considering those exact possibilities at this moment. But to his relief, the desire demon stepped forward, placing herself subtly yet unmistakably between Hawke and Xenophol.

“The Champion is mine,” Valtaeva said, her tone sharp as cut glass. The Fade-light around her coalesced into a scarlet aura outlining her statuesque form. In that moment, she looked every inch the predatory demon she truly was, beautiful and fearsome. “You think I’d allow some puffed-up relic of Pride waltz in and snatch what I’ve invested so much in? Not a chance, darling.”

A low snarl reverberated in Xenophol’s chest. “Everyone knows your investments seldom last, Desire. Sooner or later, you break your toys.” He spread his massive arms, cracking his neck as if loosening up. “But I’m feeling quite magnanimous. Hand the mortal to me, and I may allow you to scamper off unharmed. I could even offer you a deal—this place you’re sniffing around, this breach in the Veil… I know much about it. Give me the Champion, and I’ll tell you exactly how to harness its power for yourself. Far more valuable than whatever fleeting satisfaction you’d get from playing with this toy, no?”

Hawke’s heart thudded painfully. He kept his eyes on Valtaeva’s back, watching for any sign of betrayal. This was the moment of truth—her chance to sell him out, to take whatever she wanted and be done with him. Part of him almost expected her to turn around with a sweet smile and say deal. After all, she was a demon driven by her own desires. What was Hawke to her, ultimately? A means to an end? A diversion?

Valtaeva went very still. For a breath, the only sound was the distant crackle of energy from the glowing fissures in Xenophol’s hide. Then—Valtaeva laughed. A genuine, incredulous laugh. “Oh, Xenophol… you always did overestimate your bargaining power.” She lifted a hand and inspected her sharp nails with theatrical disinterest. “I don’t share what is mine. And I certainly don’t give them away on the promise of information I’m perfectly capable of uncovering myself.” Her tone sharpened abruptly. “The answer is no. Take your offer, and shove it up your rocky ass.”

Hawke couldn’t help it—a short, startled bark of laughter escaped him. It was a reckless reaction, but the relief that flooded through him was immense. He didn’t know whether Valtaeva’s refusal was out of any genuine (dare he say) loyalty to him or simply demonic possessiveness, but either way, she wasn’t selling him out.

Xenophol clearly didn’t share Hawke’s amusement. The demon’s eyes narrowed into blazing slits. “Insolent succubus,” he growled, all traces of faux affability gone. “So be it. If you will not give, I will take. I’ll pry him from your cold, dead claws if I must!” As that last word rolled out in a thunderous boom, the demon’s arms thrust forward. With a crackling roar, an orb of searing energy gathered between his hands and hurtled toward them, leaving a trail of molten light.

 “Move!” Valtaeva barked, leaping into motion. In a blur, she lunged left, and Hawke dove right, just as the orb smashed into the ground where they’d stood. It exploded in a blast of heat and light, sending shards of stone and sparks of magic flying. Hawke hit the tiles and rolled behind a chunk of fallen masonry, coughing as acrid smoke filled his lungs. He risked a glance over the edge of his cover. A smoldering crater now marred the terrace floor, tendrils of orange Fade-energy still crackling in the impact site.

A guttural snarl echoed as Xenophol advanced, each step shaking the ground. The pride demon extended one enormous hand and made a grasping motion. Hawke’s ears popped painfully as the air pressure around him shifted. A telekinetic force yanked the stone cunk he hid behind, tossing it aside like a toy block. Hawke scrambled up, raising his knife in a reflexive guard. Not that a few piddling inches of steel would stop a creature of that size.

Xenophol loomed over him, hollow eyes gleaming with triumph. “There you are, little morsel,” the demon rumbled. A massive, clawed hand swung down in a backhand meant to swat Hawke off the terrace entirely.

He only had a split second. Hawke threw himself into a desperate backward dive. The claw whooshed past his chest so close he felt the heat even through the metal. He landed hard and skidded, boots scrabbling against the tiles just shy of the terrace’s edge. For an instant, his stomach lurched as he saw nothing but an endless star-flecked void below. He dared not look longer; he rolled aside just as Xenophol’s hand crashed down again, smashing a section of tile where Hawke had landed. Fractured stone sprayed upward, pelting Hawke’s face and shoulders. He hissed against the sting of it, raising an arm to shield his eyes.

A furious scream like a wildcat’s split the air. Valtaeva streaked into Hawke’s peripheral vision, her form a blur of glowing violet and slashing crimson. She sprang onto Xenophol’s back with inhuman agility. In each hand, she suddenly gripped a weapon conjured from pure Fade matter: one a curved dagger of glinting silver, the other a whip of crackling emerald energy. With a snarl, she drove the dagger between two plates of the demon’s stony body at his shoulder joint. At the same time, she snapped the whip around Xenophol’s neck, green lightning arcing where it touched.

Xenophol roared in pain and rage. The pride demon twisted, reaching back with both arms to seize his assailant. Valtaeva nimbly leapt away before his claws could close around her, somersaulting and landing in a predatory crouch a few yards off. Black ichor dripped from the dagger in her hand—demon blood from the wound she’d managed to inflict. It sizzled and evaporated as she flicked it off the blade.

“Is that the best you’ve got, you pompous ox?” she taunted, baring her sharp teeth in a grin. “How disappointing.”

Hawke staggered to his feet, wiping grit from his face. The sight before him would have stolen his breath if adrenaline wasn’t already doing that. Valtaeva and Xenophol circling one another on the wide terrace like two great predators. Desire against Pride. Her form was wreathed in a corona of red-violet energy; his encircled by a burning aura of violet and green. Despite the demon’s colossal size, Valtaeva appeared utterly unafraid.

He realized then that she intended to fight Xenophol head-on, and his fist tightened around his knife. I can’t just watch from the sidelines, he thought, stomach knotting. I’m not entirely useless. With just this knife, engaging Xenophol up close was almost certain suicide. But Hawke thought of Isabela, how quickly she would weave in and out of a fight. Perhaps he could distract, harry, look for an opening… 

Before he could talk himself out of it, Hawke moved to circle Xenophol, keeping low and out of the demon’s direct line of sight. If he could get behind that oversized brute… Hawke’s mind raced through a litany of spells he could attempt bare-handed. An ice spell might slow Xenophol, if he could focus enough without a catalyst. A lightning strike might stagger him. Hawke flexed the fingers of his free hand, trying to summon a spark. Faint wisps of blue electricity flickered between his fingertips. Channeling without a staff was like trying to draw water with a sieve—most of the power slipped through his grasp. He ground his teeth and mustered a small crackling orb of lightning in his palm.

He didn’t get a chance to fling it. Xenophol suddenly reared back and bellowed, the force of which hitting Hawke like a physical wave. It knocked him off balance, staggering him as the nascent spell fizzled out from his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Valtaeva thrown to one knee by the blast of sound and will. It was like the weight of a king’s ego made manifest, crashing against everything within its wake.

“You dare wound me?” Xenophol thundered, incandescent fury in each syllable. He slammed a foot down, and the ground fissured outward from the impact. “I will unmake you both!” A spiderweb of cracks raced under Hawke’s feet; he barely leapt aside before a geyser of green energy erupted from one of the cracks, scorching the air. Another spout burst near Valtaeva, forcing her to roll clear or be incinerated. The pride demon was tearing the very foundation apart. 

Hawke’s mind screamed for a plan as chaos unfolded. The terrace was fast becoming a hazardous field of glowing fissures and unstable footing. Valtaeva was agile enough to dodge the unpredictable blasts, but one misstep could be fatal. Xenophol, naturally, seemed impervious to the inferno he was creating, wading through it with murder in his eyes.

As Hawke danced away from yet another eruption of energy at his heels, something caught his eye off to the side—a glint amidst rubble, where a section of decorative wall had been obliterated by the demon’s tantrum. Something metallic… cylindrical… a staff? For a heartbeat, Hawke thought he might be imagining it—a desperate conjuring of his own desire. But no, it was real: the slim length of a staff-like rod poking out from chunks of broken stone and mortar. 

He sprinted toward it, zigzagging around a plume of green flame that shot up before him. He reached the collapsed debris and heaved a half-splintered slab aside. There, amid the ruin, lay the unmistakable shape of a mage’s staff. It was old, that much was clear, with its wood warped and its ornamentation tarnished. A chunk of crystal at its tip flickered with dying Fade energy, suggesting this object may have once been part of the Fade’s ever-shifting landscape rather than a real mortal artifact. But right now, Hawke didn’t care if it was an illusion, a memory, or Andraste’s flaming sword itself. It looked solid enough.

He grabbed the staff with trembling hands. The wood was oddly warm, humming faintly as if responding to his touch. A jolt of renewed strength thrummed up Hawke’s arms as his magic instinctively latched onto this new conduit. A wild, exhilarated grin broke across his face. “Finally,” he breathed, rising to his feet and turning to face the battle once more. “Let’s even the odds out, shall we?”

Valtaeva was in trouble. In the time Hawke was distracted, Xenophol had closed the gap and now swung a colossal arm in a downward smash. Valtaeva darted aside, but not fast enough. The massive back of the demon’s hand clipped her, sending her skidding across the terrace floor. She hit a fallen pillar with a crack and a hiss of furious pain. In a blink, Xenophol was on her, raising one gargantuan foot to stomp down.

“Hey, ugly!” Hawke shouted. Instinct and training merged as he channeled power through the newfound staff. He thrust it forward, summoning the first spell that came to mind. A cone of frigid air and ice exploded from the tip, surging across the distance and engulfing Xenophol’s leg and lower torso in a glittering sheath of frost.

The pride demon’s foot stopped inches above Valtaeva as the ice crept up, momentarily locking joints and cracking through heated crevices. Xenophol bellowed in indignation, shattering the ice around his core with an explosive flex of muscle, but his right leg remained encased up to the knee, frozen to the ground.

Valtaeva seized the opportunity. With a feral snarl, she sprang upright and slashed both claws across Xenophol’s trapped knee. Her nails, wreathed in demonic flame, left smoking gouges in the stony flesh. Xenophol howled, swiping at her in rage, but she flipped backward out of reach, landing deftly beside Hawke.

She spared him the quickest of glances, her eyes alight with surprise and a fierce delight. “How kind of you to join,” she purred breathlessly. Her gaze flicked to the staff in his hands, and one eyebrow arched in astonishment. Clearly, she hadn’t anticipated him arming himself so dramatically in the middle of combat. Hawke offered her a lopsided grin.

“Found myself a party favor,” he quipped. “Figured I’d share.”

Xenophol was already recovering from the icy assault. Flames licked along his leg as he melted the frost away. The demon’s seething attention swung fully onto Hawke now. “Mage!” he spat, voice crackling. “You dare touch me with your feeble elements? I will crush your bones into dust!” He thrust an arm forward, and a sizzling bolt of what looked like pure prideful essence—golden and crackling—shot toward Hawke.

Hawke reacted on instinct. He twirled the staff and conjured a shimmering barrier of telekinetic force just in time. The golden bolt slammed into Hawke’s hastily raised magical shield, sending spiderweb fractures through the translucent field but not piercing it. The residual force knocked Hawke back a step; his teeth rattled in his skull from the impact. That barrier wouldn’t hold against a second hit of that magnitude. 

Valtaeva answered with a counter-attack of her own. She thrust out both hands, and a swirling blast of violet fire swarmed toward Xenophol like a cloud of ravenous butterflies. The embers clung to the pride demon’s hide, each spark exploding in little bursts of corrosive magic. For the first time, Xenophol let out a sound that might have been true pain rather than anger. The demon staggered, batting at the clinging purple flames that ate into his rocky skin.

Hawke didn’t waste the opening. He adjusted his stance, feeling the magic surge beneath his skin eagerly now that he had a focus to direct it. There was a thrumming along his forearms, familiar and energizing—the sensation of mana ready to be shaped. Hawke raised the staff high, drawing on the memory of storms just as he slammed the butt of the staff down onto the stone. In response, a jagged spear of lightning crackled forth from above, splitting the unnatural sky and crashing straight onto Xenophol’s head. The lightning struck with a deafening CRACK, enveloping the demon in a blinding corona of white-blue light. The acrid smell of ozone and burned flesh wafted through the air.

Xenophol convulsed as the bolt coursed through him, his massive form outlined starkly against the blaze. When the lightning dissipated a second later, the pride demon was left smoking, patches of his stone skin fused into blackened glass where the heat had been extreme. He shook his head as if dazed, one horn cracked at the tip.

Hawke allowed himself a fierce grin of satisfaction. That had to hurt. Beside him, Valtaeva didn’t miss a beat. With a delighted whoop, she sprinted forward, using the moment of Xenophol’s disorientation. Her whip of emerald energy reappeared in her hand, and she swung it upward, lashing the demon across the face. The whip’s crack echoed as it left a burning emerald gash from chin to cheek across Xenophol’s granite countenance.

Roaring, Xenophol lashed out blindly with an arm. The back of his hand clapped Valtaeva mid-leap, this time catching her squarely and sending her flying. She hit the ground hard and tumbled, coming to rest in a heap near the terrace’s edge. 

“Val!” Hawke shouted, unable to tell if she was injured or simply stunned.

The pride demon’s chest heaved, molten light seeping from dozens of cracks and wounds now. Hawke sprinted forward, channeling ice into the head of the staff. The staff responded sluggishly (clearly it wasn’t used to these kinds of magical surges, but no matter) as ice formed along its length. With a shout, Hawke thrust the staff out and launched a spear of solid ice the size of a ballista bolt. 

Xenophol, still shaking off the lightning strike, noticed the incoming projectile too late. The ice spear struck home, impaling the demon’s left shoulder where Valtaeeva had stabbed earlier. The spear burst on impact, exploding into a shower of jagged ice shards that tore at the demon’s already damaged flesh. Xenophol bellowed, more black ichor gushing and hissing into steam against his burning aura. His left arm fell limp; the massive limb was nearly severed at the shoulder, hanging by charred sinew and fragments of stone plating.

The demon sank to one knee with a thunderous crash, his strength finally waning. Hawke advanced warily, gripping the staff like a quarterstaff now, ready to strike again if needed. One good blast might finish the job. He could feel the magic within him surging, honed by adrenaline and the terrifying clarity of near-death combat. Sparks danced at the staff’s crystal tip, coalescing from icy blue to fiery red as he prepared an improvised mix of force and flame.

Before Hawke could unleash it, though, Xenophol suddenly let out a choking, rasping laugh. The sound was gurgling, wet—demon blood bubbled in what must have been his throat. The demon lifted his one good hand in a placating gesture, palm outward.

“W-wait… mortal…” The voice crackled, diminished but still comprehensible. Incredibly, even on his knees, with half his body in ruin, the pride demon’s tone oozed arrogance. “You… you have proven yourself… formidable. Stronger than I expected.” Golden eyes flickered toward the glow between the doors. “We could… strike a bargain, you and I,” Xenophol rasped. “I hold knowledge… ancient knowledge… of this place. Of what lies beyond. Power. If you spare me, Champion, I will share it. I will help you escape this realm. You need not rely on her any longer.” He nodded weakly in Valtaeva’s direction.

Hawke barked a short, harsh laugh. “You’re as thick as you are ugly if you think I’m interested in deals right now,” he called out to Xenophol, voice echoing across the terrace. “That ship sailed when you tried to flatten my friend here.” He took a couple more steps forward, bringing himself within striking distance of the kneeling demon’s head.

Xenophol’s eyes flared at the word friend, and he sneered. “Friend? She’s a demon, you pathetic fool. Do you truly believe she will ever be anything but your eventual doom? Use your head—I am the one offering you salvation. I am—”

“—done talking,” Hawke interrupted coldly. For once, there was no jest in his voice, no wry twist of humor. He tightened both hands on the staff and summoned the last reserves of his strength. All of his fear, his desperation, his determination to live coalesced into white-hot flame along the staff’s blade. It burst into brilliant fire, casting dancing shadows across Hawke’s resolute face. “This is for trying to kill me and mine, you stupid bastard.”

With that, Hawke drove the flaming blade of the staff straight into Xenophol’s chest, right where the largest crack glowed over the demon’s heart, or whatever passed as one. The staff’s metal tip, heated to an incandescent spike, punched through the fractured plates of stone flesh with a resounding shrrrk. Xenophol’s scream was earsplitting—an inhuman, despairing shriek that rattled loose the stones on the terrace. Hawke cried out with effort and slammed his palm against the staff’s butt, sending a concentrated pulse of fire down its length and into the demon’s core.

For a heartbeat, everything went silent and still. Xenophol’s eyes went wide, his entire body rigid as the internal fire consumed him from within. Then the demon’s form began to shudder and break. Light burst from the cracks in his body—bright, searing, and growing in intensity. Hawke yanked his staff free and stumbled back, the heat suddenly unbearable. With a final, terrible howl, Xenophol’s body imploded in a burst of light and ash. Shards of obsidian-like flesh blasted outward, dissolving into embers as they flew. Hawke threw up an arm to shield his face. A rush of hot wind whooshed past, and then… silence, save for the tinkling patter of residual gravel raining down onto the hard ground.

He lowered his arm cautiously. Where the pride demon had been was now a scorched patch of floor, glowing faintly with the fading outline of a massive, horned figure. Slowly, that outline dispersed like smoke in a breeze, leaving nothing but a black mark on the stone. Xenophol was gone—banished back to whatever corner of the Fade might reform him eventually, but certainly no longer a threat.

Hawke stood there panting, smoke rising from the charred and shattered tiles around him. His arms felt like lead, and the staff in his grip had cracked in two at some point; he was now clutching a broken half of it. The other half lay a few feet away amid the rubble, charred and smoking. It must have given out under the strain of channeling such power. Hawke let the useless piece in his hand clatter to the ground. So much for having a proper weapon—but at least it had served its purpose before breaking.

“Well… that was dramatic.” Valtaeva’s voice alerted him, and he whirled to face her. “I knew I kept you around for something.”

Relief and a surprising swell of concern flooded Hawke. She looked bruised and battered; a trickle of demonic blood ran down her temple from the gash on her brow, and the normally radiant glow of her skin was dimmed. “Oh, you know me,” he said, voice shaking with exhaustion and adrenaline, “always happy to put on a show.”

Hawke closed the distance between them and knelt beside her. He gently reached out and wiped the blood from her brow with his sleeve. The gesture was strangely intimate—just a few days ago, he never would’ve imagined dabbing a demon’s wound like tending a comrade. But after everything, it felt natural. “You alright, Val?” he asked, choosing not to think too hard about it. “That was a solid hit you took.”

Valtaeva’s eyes searched his face. Whatever she saw there made her grin soften into something almost genuine. “I’ve had worse,” she admitted. She rolled her injured shoulder and winced, but the wound was already closing. “Demons don’t bruise quite like humans, fortunately.”

Hawke huffed a tired laugh. “Lucky you. I’m going to be feeling this for weeks.” He shifted to sit beside her, both of them leaning against the cool stone of the ruined wall and catching their breaths. For a short while, neither spoke. The only sound was the crackle of dissipating magic from the ruined terrace and Hawke’s own pounding heartbeat gradually slowing. 

“You could’ve run,” Valtaeva said, breaking the silence abruptly. “You must have considered it.”

Hawke blew out a breath and rubbed a hand over his sweat-and-soot-streaked face. “I could’ve,” he agreed. “Leaving people behind… really isn’t my style. I’ve had it done to me; I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Even my own personal demonic bully.”

Valtaeva stared at him for a long moment. Then, to his astonishment, a genuine laugh bubbled up from her throat. It was a softer sound than her usual mocking chuckles. “Your loyalty does you credit, Garrett,” she said, and she said it sincerely, without a single barbed edge. “Even if it is utterly foolish at times.” She tilted her head, her horn lightly tapping the wall behind. “You could have been free of me. You know that, don’t you? You could have slipped through those doors and gone. He offered you a path if you’d bargained. Many mortals would have taken it.”

Hawke met her gaze. In the flicker of dying Fade-light, Valtaeva’s eyes were endless pools of violet flame, but they held an unfamiliar softness now. He thought carefully before replying. “Maybe I could’ve,” he admitted. “But then you’d be dead. Or whatever passes for dead for demons. And something about that didn’t sit right with me.” He offered a crooked grin. “Also, let’s be honest… He’d have tossed me into a rift straight to the Black City the moment he had a chance.”

Valtaeva’s lips curved, and she breathed a quiet hum of agreement. “True. Pride demons aren’t exactly renowned for their honest brokerage.”

“And Desire demons are?” Hawke asked, eyebrows raised.

She huffed a small laugh, then shifted, testing her limbs, before slowly rising to her feet. Hawke stood as well, swaying a little now that the adrenaline was ebbing. By the Maker, he was exhausted. Every part of him hurt, and he suspected he had more than a few bruised ribs. Still, he was alive. And so was Valtaeva.

The desire demon brushed stone dust from her thighs and cracked her neck. Already, her own supernatural healing seemed to be knitting the worst of her injuries. The glow in her skin was returning, brightening the dim air around them. When she looked at Hawke this time, there was something undeniably different in her expression.

“You saved me,” she said, matter-of-factly, yet with a note of wonder—as if that simple fact was difficult to believe.

Hawke found himself a bit at a loss. He shrugged one shoulder, trying to play down the significance. “Call it returning the favor. You’ve saved me once or twice since we started this little journey. Figured I owed you one.”

At that, Valtaeva’s mouth quirked into a knowing smirk. “Owe me? Darling, you owe me far more than one.” But there was no venom in it. In fact, she then inclined her head forward in a gesture almost like a bow. “Regardless… thank you, Garrett.” She said it softly, and Hawke blinked, wondering if he’d ever actually heard sincere gratitude from a demon before. He gave a little nod in return.

For a moment, the two just stood there, an unlikely pair on that ruined terrace: a battered human mage and a demon of desire, victorious together over a common foe. The tension that had always crackled between them was still there, but it had changed somehow—less distrust, more… camaraderies. Perhaps even fondness, as bizarre as the notion was.

Valtaeva broke the moment by clearing her throat. “Well, then.” She glanced toward the partially open massive doors and the Veil-tear beyond them. The green glow pulsing there was steadier now, as if the defeat of Xenophol had calmed the immediate area. “Our path seems clear. That tear in the Veil is likely stable enough for what we need. Or at least, stable enough to get us closer to your world.” She paused, casting a sidelong glance toward him. “Though I suspect you’d like to rest first. You look positively ready to keel over, pet.”

Hawke laughed tiredly. He felt ready to keel over. But the thought of actually resting in this place, even a minute longer than necessary, made his skin crawl. He shook his head. “No rest. Not yet. Let’s finish what we started.” He flexed his fingers and stooped to retrieve the broken half of the staff with the crystal tip—maybe it could still channel a spell or two in a pinch. He held the makeshift baton and nodded toward the doors. “I haven’t come this far to nap on the threshold.”

As they approached, Hawke felt a mix of trepidation and hope swirl in his chest. The journey wasn’t over—far from it. Beyond this tear could lie a path home, or merely another layer of the Fade’s endless mystery. But whatever theory faced next, he wouldn’t be facing it alone. He stole a glance at Valtaeva. She met his eyes and gave him a small nod before she reached out, her claws finding purchase in an engraved Tevinter sigil. With a strength that belied her slender form, she began to push it open wider.

The massive door groaned in protest as it inched open, bathing both of them in a brilliant green light. Hawke tightened his grip on his broken staff and squared his shoulders. Bruised, bleeding, exhausted—he was all of them. But he was also hopeful.

Together, the Champion of Kirkwall and the desire demon who had become more than just a convenient ally stepped through.