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Chapter Text

The tower stood on a cliff overlooking Lake Calenhad. Once a fortress constructed by Avvar and dwarves, the tower contained the only Circle of Magi left in Ferelden. Within the walls, the Circle practiced its magic and trained apprentices in the safe and ‘proper’ use of their powers. But as with most Circles, the tower was as much a prison as a refuge, if not more. The Templars of the Chantry watched over all mages, constantly alert for any sign of corruption. This cage was the only world many mages would know, torn from their families and confined there as an apprentice at a young age.

The top floor of the tower held the Harrowing Chamber. Most of those apprentices who lived long enough to take their Harrowing would see it. For some apprentices, it would be the last place they ever saw. Being ‘taken upstairs’ meant that if the apprentice was lucky, they’d be a full mage once it was over. If they weren’t, they’d return Tranquil…or not at all.

It wasn’t clear which it was yet. Odds leaned toward the Harrowing, but you never knew for sure in the Circle. Occasionally an apprentice would just disappear and the Templars would be a bit more smug than usual for a few weeks. There were several Templars standing around the room, impassive behind their helmets. Some of them, he could identify by their build and stance. Others were likely Circle regulars, but he couldn’t be sure who they were. The room at the top of the tower was chilly, but the shiver that rolled down his spine as the Knight-Commander stepped forward had nothing to do with the cold. He didn’t let on. No benefit in giving the Templars more reason to kill him.

“Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him,” Greagoir quoted. “Thus spoke the prophet Andraste as she cast down the Tevinter Imperium, ruled by mages who had brought the world to the edge of ruin.”

Daylen managed to not roll his eyes. Growing up in a tower filled with religious warriors and priestesses had given him plenty of exposure to the Chant of Light, especially that verse. The Chantry workers had always seemed particularly intent on expressing how magic was something to be controlled and feared when he was around. He hardly seemed threatening physically – he was tall, sure, but hardly imposing, skinny and gangly and the youth in his face only somewhat offset by the beard.

But the power that he held ran deeper than the physical. He knew that. They knew that.

“Your magic is a gift, but it’s also a curse, for demons of the dream realm – the Fade – are drawn to you, and seek to use you as a gateway into this world.”

When, exactly, was Greagoir going to stop telling him things he already knew?

“This is why the Harrowing exists,” Irving chimed in. Daylen looked over to the First Enchanter. Differences of opinion aside, the man had been more of a father figure to him than his own father ever had, for better or worse. “The ritual sends you into the Fade, and there you will face a demon, armed with only your will.” So he’d be interacting with demons. The thing they had made absolutely clear mages were never to do. For the Circle, that made perfect sense.

“So that’s what the Harrowing is.” Morbid curiosity took over. “And if my will isn’t enough to fight the demon off?” Daylen asked, already suspecting the answer.

“It will turn you into an abomination and the Templars will be forced to slay you,” Greagoir said bluntly. Irving scowled at him, and the Knight-Commander gestured to a basin in the middle of the room, striding over to stand next to it. “This is lyrium, the very essence of magic and your gateway into the Fade.”

Irving placed a hand on Daylen’s shoulder as the young mage again fought the urge to roll his eyes. He knew full well what lyrium was, and the Knight-Commander’s description was a vast oversimplification of its nature. “The Harrowing is a secret out of necessity, child,” he said in a low voice. “Every mage must go through this trial by fire. As we succeeded, so shall you. Keep your wits about you and remember the Fade is a realm of dreams. The spirits may rule it, but your own will is real.”

“The apprentice must go through this test alone, First Enchanter,” Greagoir said pointedly from across the room.

Daylen cracked his neck, giving Irving a feigned smile. “Do or die, right? Same as it’s always been. Let’s get this done.”

“Ah, the confidence of youth,” Irving said. “Best of luck, child.”

“You are ready,” Greagoir said, gesturing to the basin. Daylen strode across the room, trying to keep his hands from trembling. Eyeing the glowing fluid in the basin, he took a deep breath.

—ROTG—

The Fade didn’t feel particularly different from the waking world. The landmasses floating in the distance ruined the illusion.

Consciously, Daylen knew the only limits imposed by the Fade were his own. It wasn’t air he was breathing. His strength, speed, and agility were determined by the strength of his will, not by any actual physical rules. That didn’t mean it was easy to shake the instincts, the expectations.

Daylen swept shaggy brown hair back from his eyes and focused, feeling the ambient magic of the Fade flowing around him. Gathering some of it, Daylen felt it coalesce into being, a barest hint of intelligence expressing curiosity. With but a mental nudge, Daylen expressed friendship and cooperation in return, and the wisp hovered behind his shoulder, lending its power to his own. Another flex of a mental muscle, and Daylen’s skin hardened. As prepared as he could be for the moment, he looked around the immediate area, finding a path.

A few wisps barely slowed him down, the fragmented spirits more annoying than dangerous, hostile simply by nature rather than intent. It was the more interesting being that spoke to him.

“Someone else thrown to the wolves. As fresh and unprepared as ever.” Daylen spun, a ball of lightning coalescing in his hand, finding nobody behind him. “It isn’t right that they do this, the Templars. Not to you, to me, to anyone.”

Daylen looked down, spotting the source of the voice. “You’re a talking rat.”

The rat scoffed. “I’m a mouse. And do you think you’re really here? In that body?” The voice grew angrier. “You look like that because you think you do!” He sighed, and went on. “It’s always the same. But it’s not your fault. You’re in the same boat I was, aren’t you?” The mouse flowed into a human’s shape, and Daylen kept his face carefully blank as he looked over the newcomer. “Allow me to welcome you to the Fade. You can call me…well, Mouse.”

“You can change your shape?” Daylen asked, brushing down his own robes.

“Like I said, in this place, you are what you perceive yourself to be. I think I used to be like you…before. The Templars kill you if you take too long, you see. They figure you failed, and they don’t want something getting out. That’s what they did to me, I think. I have no body to reclaim. And you don’t have much time before you end up the same.”

It was almost believable. “What am I supposed to do?”

“They’ve summoned a demon, contained it here, just for an apprentice like you. You must face it, resist it if you can. That’s your way out.” Mouse paused a moment. “Or your opponent’s, if the Templars wouldn’t kill you. A test for you, a tease for the creatures of the Fade.”

“Figures they’d pit me against a demon,” Daylen muttered, looking away from Mouse, looking ahead. “Why not lock us in a room with a demon and see if we live or not?”

“A question for those in the tower. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to ask. Maybe someday, so will I.” Daylen didn’t reply, still looking away as his face twisted. “There are other spirits here, and they may help, if you can believe anything you see.” He looked around. “I’ll follow, if that’s all right. My chance was long ago, but you…you may have a way out.” He changed back into mouse form, and Daylen shrugged. “A dangerous spirit is not far,” Mouse warned. “Don’t go near it unless you’re ready to fight.”

Daylen spotted a clearing surrounded by fire, and wisely turned and immediately went in the opposite direction. Destroying another pair of wisps, Daylen spotted a figure in plate armor standing in front of several racks of weapons. “And that would be…”

“Another spirit,” Mouse whispered. “It never seemed equal to its name, to me.” Daylen grunted noncommittally, remembering who was talking.

“Another mortal thrown to the flames and left to burn, I see,” the spirit said as Daylen and Mouse approached. “Your mages have devised a cowardly test. Better you were pitted against each other to prove your mettle with skill, than to be sent unarmed against a demon.”

“Not the first mortal you’ve met in this fashion, I imagine.” Daylen blinked hard. Being able to see out the back of the spirit’s helmet made it difficult to look the spirit in the eyes.

“You are not the first sent here for such testing. Nor shall you be the last, I suspect. That you remain means you have not yet defeated your hunter. I wish you a glorious battle to come.”

Daylen set his jaw, although it was hard to tell behind the beard. “I am nobody’s prey. What kind of spirit are you? Order? Courage? Valor?”

“I am Valor, a warrior spirit. I hone my weapons in search of the perfect expression of combat.”

Daylen examined the racks, feeling the power thrumming in the weapons. “Did you create all of these weapons?”

“They are brought into being by my will. I understand that in your world, mages are the only ones who can will things into being. Those mortals who cannot must lead such hollow, empty lives.”

“They create with their hands, rather than their will,” Daylen replied. “These weapons. Would one affect the demon?”

“Without a doubt. In this realm, everything that exists is the expression of a thought. A weapon is a single need for battle, and my will makes that need reality.” The spirit paused. “Do you truly desire one of my weapons?” Daylen nodded. “I will give one to you, if you agree to duel me, first. Valor shall test your mettle as it should be tested.”

Daylen shifted his weight to his back foot, crossing his arms over his chest. “Seems you would prefer to kill me yourself, rather than leave me for the demon.”

The spirit bristled. “How dare you accuse me! I am no demon, preying upon helpless mortals to steal their essence! I am a being of honor and valor! I am a warrior!”

“Then prove it!” Daylen snapped. “Help me fight the demon!”

Valor watched him for a long moment. “You are insolent. But your will is unquestionably strong.”

“Honed through years of adversity.”

“Very well, mortal.” Drawing a staff from the rack of weapons, Valor thrust it at Daylen. “Go, prove your worth as you must. I am confident you will succeed.”

Daylen nodded, giving the staff an experimental twirl. “Thank you, Valor. If you wish to see an expression of combat, I’ll provide one with that demon.” Now armed, he and Mouse kept moving along the path until a howl made him turn to find a trio of ethereal wolves approaching. Daylen wondered whether their presence meant wolves could be mages for a few moments before zapping one with his new staff.

“Be cautious,” Mouse said. Daylen did roll his eyes this time. “There is…another spirit, here. Not the one hunting you, but still…” Daylen spotted the spirit in question. It looked like someone had partially skinned a bear, and spikes had grown from the exposed flesh. A bereskarn, if memory served.

The beast grumbled as Daylen approached, cracking open an eye. “So you are the mortal being hunted? And the small one. Is he to be a snack for me?”

“What kind of spirit are you?”

“It’s a demon,” Mouse hissed. “Maybe even more powerful than the one hunting you.”

“I am a spirit of Sloth. Mortals are ever the visitors here. Still, you serve your function. Only the mortals like yourself are truly annoying.”

“I do my best.”

The spirit wrinkled its snout. “What do you want with me?”

“I could use some help defeating a demon,” Daylen said. “What better way to defeat a spirit of the Fade but with the assistance of another spirit?”

“You already have that assistance,” Sloth replied. “You have a very nice staff. Why would you need me? Go, use your weapon since you have earned it. Be valorous.”

“He looks powerful,” Mouse whispered. “It might be possible that he could…teach you to be like him.”

“What about you?” Daylen asked.

“I…don’t think I’d make a very good bear. How would I hide?”

“Nothing stopping you from going back to a mouse afterwards,” Daylen mused, before turning to the Sloth demon. “And then you could help me fight the demon.”

“It’s true. I am quite powerful in this form…when I wish to be. But teaching is so exhausting.” Sloth shifted to a more comfortable position. “Away with you now.”

Daylen looked to Mouse. “Do you want to learn?” Mouse nodded. “Mouse wants to learn. So teach him.”

“You wish to learn my form, little one? Then I have a challenge for your friend: answer three riddles correctly, and I will teach you. Fail, and I will devour you both. The decision is yours.”

“It’s always a riddle game, isn’t it. Alright, alright. Let’s get on with it.”

Sloth tilted its head. “Truly? Promising. Your first riddle: I have seas with no water, coasts with no sand, towns without people, mountains without land. What am I?”

Daylen leaned his head back, musing on the riddle. “That would be a map, I suppose.”

The sloth demon snorted. “Correct. Next: I’m rarely touched, but often held. If you have wit, you’ll use me well. What am I?”

“Rarely touched, often held…” Daylen’s face brightened. “My tongue. What else you got?”

“Yes, your witty tongue. Fair enough. One more, shall we? Often will I spin a tale, never will I charge a fee. I’ll amuse you an entire eve, but alas, you won’t remember me. What am I?”

Daylen paced, stroking his beard. “It’s always the third one that’s the hardest. What is it, what is it…” He looked around. “Wait. Of course. The Fade is the land of dreams. It’s a dream!”

Sloth snorted again. “You are correct. An amusing distraction. So, I shall teach you my form. Now, focus,” he said to Mouse. He quickly ran through the basics of transforming in the Fade, or as quickly as a spirit of Sloth could, and moments later Mouse was a bear.

“Like this?” Mouse asked, rolling his shoulders. “Am I a bear? It feels…heavy.”

Daylen tilted his head. “You look like a large rug. It’ll do.”

“Hm. Close enough.” Sloth curled up, eyes closing. “Go, then, and defeat your demon, or whatever you intend to do. I grow weary of your mortal prattling.”

“Enjoy your nap,” Daylen said dryly. “Come on…Bear? Mouse? You still prefer Mouse?”

“Mouse will do. Shall we?”

A quartet of ethereal wolves greeted them as they backtracked towards Valor’s armory. As a wolf charged by, Daylen ducked and gathered a ball of lightning in his hand. Thrusting the lightning into the wolf’s flank, he watched as the wolf disappeared, the lightning disrupting the spirit’s form. Then he staggered and fell as one of the wolves leapt onto his back, feeling teeth at his neck, digging into his hardened skin but not breaking it. Mouse roared, a mighty paw slapping the wolf across the clearing, where it slammed into a rock and vanished. Daylen pushed himself to his feet, shaking his head as Mouse engaged the remaining two wolves, and punched a fist into the air, a bolt of arcane energy flying from his fist and eliminating one of the other wolves. Mouse slapped the wolf across the muzzle, and bent, his jaws closing around its neck. Rolling his head, Mouse snapped the wolf’s neck, flinging the body across the clearing.

“Well done,” Daylen said as the final wolf disappeared, trying not to think how close he had just come to death – or whatever passed for it, in the Fade. “You hurt?”

“No.” Mouse looked down at his paws. “I…I like this.”

“Good,” Daylen said, staggering as a burst of lightning hit him. “Maker’s tits, this is getting old!” Firing a burst of lightning back, Daylen killed the offending wisp. “That’s it. I’m going to kill all these little bastards.” Another half-dozen wisps went down to various spells as Daylen and Mouse fought their way back to where he had woken up in the Fade. Once they had cleared the immediate area, the two made their way to the fiery clearing, and a creature crawled out of the ground. It looked to be made of liquid fire, two brighter-glowing spots in the front seeming to be its eyes.

“And there,” Mouse said, “is a spirit of Rage.”

“And so it comes to me at last,” the demon rumbled. “Soon I shall see the world through your eyes, mortal.” It pointed at Daylen. “You shall be mine, body and soul.”

“Are all spirits and demons this dramatic?” Daylen stage-whispered to Mouse. The bear shrugged, and Daylen gave the demon a smile that was too wide for simple humor. “All right, then. Come get some.”

“Oh, I shall,” the Rage demon growled, summoning several wisps.

Daylen was faster, hosing down two of the wisps with a blast of lightning as Mouse charged them, and turned, frost gathering at the head of his staff. Blistering heat was rolling off the Rage demon, and Daylen took the staff in both hands, a wave of frost spraying from the end and quenching the fire of the demon. Daylen kept pushing, knocking down the demon with more frost and pouring more on until it dissipated, evaporating into the ambient energy of the Fade.

“You did it. You actually did it!” Mouse said, resuming a human form.

Daylen grunted. “And what are you, really?”

The spirit hesitated. “I was like you, once,” Mouse said. “You know that. The Templars killed me when my Harrowing too long. I’ve been stuck here since.”

“You know, Mouse?” Daylen tightened his grip on the staff. “For a demon, you’re not very smart.” He tilted his head. “Or perhaps you’re my real test.”

Mouse blanched. “What are you talking about? I’m not a demon!”

“Really?” Daylen asked dryly. “Just how stupid do you think I am? You said you were an apprentice, but you’re wearing a Senior Enchanter’s robes. I spotted that the minute we met. Which means either you’re bad at this…or you’re doing it deliberately.”

Mouse’s face twisted into something that vaguely resembled a smile. “You are a smart one.” His eyes turned from a comforting green to pure black, and his voice went deeper than any human voice possibly could. “Simple killing is a warrior’s job. The real dangers of the Fade are preconceptions, careless trust…pride.” The demon transformed, and Daylen looked up as Mouse became…something else. Limbs elongated and sharpened, skin grew harder and darker, and the creature’s frame expanded rapidly as it towered over Daylen. He fought the urge to discover if it was possible to wet yourself in the Fade as the Pride demon revealed itself. “Keep your wits about you, mage. True tests never end.” With that, it vanished, and everything went white.

—ROTG—

The man had arrived late that evening, and the discussion had been underway. A growing stack of rejected files occupied one end of the desk. “What about this one?”

The Knight-Commander scoffed. “Him? He’s constantly making escape attempts. Calls himself Anders, won’t answer to any other name. Shows promise as a healer, but he’s a misfit, a troublemaker. He has a big problem with authority.”

“If he wants out of the Circle, the Wardens may be ideal for him.”

Irving shook his head. “Duncan, I doubt he’d be cut out for the discipline of Warden life.”

“You may have a point, First Enchanter,” Duncan admitted. “Few are suited to our way of life. Fewer still excel at it. And with this Blight, we need the best.” He set the file aside. “What about this one? Surana?”

Irving stroked his beard. “Ah, her. She is an excellent scholar and a capable mage, but she lacks drive. She would be a good candidate for the Wardens, but she seems uninterested in pushing herself.”

Duncan flipped to the next file. “How about Amell?”

The First Enchanter sighed. “I would rather you didn’t.”

“Why not? He seems an excellent candidate. He excelled in many of his classes, showed great aptitude in Primal and Creation magic. He made a good showing in Spirit magic and had no disciplinary problems that made the record. Very resourceful, very charismatic.”

“Duncan, in ten years he could be a Senior Enchanter. Maybe even a First Enchanter at some other Circle. Or even here.”

The Grey Warden raised an eyebrow. “Grooming a replacement, Irving? You speak highly of him. In ten years, he could be Warden-Commander.”

“Grooming a replacement, Duncan?” Irving shot back. He sighed. “I suppose if I refuse, you’ll just invoke the Right of Conscription.”

“I would rather not have to, First Enchanter, but you know the threat we face.”

“Indeed. Well, I suppose it’s decided, then.”

—ROTG—

“Are you all right? Say something, please…”

Daylen cracked an eye open, wincing at the headache he felt, in addition to numerous aches. “Jowan? Not so loud, mate, my head’s pounding.”

His friend wheezed out a breath. “I’m glad you’re all right. They carried you in this morning. I didn’t even realize you’d been gone all night. They’d taken you upstairs, but the others didn’t know why.”

Daylen sat up slowly, groaning and brush his hair back out of his eyes. “Nothing like snatching someone up in the middle of the night to engender trust for the Templars,” he muttered, looking at his best friend. The two made an odd pair – Jowan was shorter and broader-shouldered to Daylen’s tall and skinny build. Far more fair-skinned than Daylen, Jowan had long since given up trying to grow a beard of his own. He had been a close friend to him since they met.

“So you’re Harrowed,” Jowan said quietly. “What was it like?”

“A test of ability.” Daylen tried to stretch out his back. “Did they just drop me on the bed? I feel like I was bent in half. Everything’s sore.”

“What ability?”

“They send you into the Fade, alone and unarmed. You defend yourself from demons.”

“That makes sense,” Jowan mused. “They want to see if you can resist a demon and stop yourself from becoming an abomination.”

“Not like most of us haven’t encountered spirits at one point or another anyway,” Daylen muttered, groaning as his back gave a satisfying pop. “Apparently it’s a ‘secret out of necessity,’ because why would they prepare us for the potentially lethal test?”

Jowan scowled. “They brought you in on a stretcher and just dumped you on the bed without a word. I tried to shift you around a little, but it’s not easy with a beanpole like you.” He sighed. “And now you get to move to the nice mages’ quarters upstairs. I’m stuck here and I don’t know when they’ll call me for my Harrowing.”

“With your luck, they’ll drag you off to that tonight. It’s not like they tell you ahead of time. Or tell you anything at all. You just get taken upstairs.”

“I’ve been here longer than you have,” Jowan pointed out. “I’ll be twenty-one in a few months, you’re not even twenty yet. Sometimes I think they just don’t want to test me. You know what happens. You do the Harrowing, the Rite of Tranquility, or you die.”

The less said about the people who died without Templar involvement, the better.

“I know. But there’s no pattern as to how often they put someone through the Harrowing. All we know, they’ll grab you today.” Daylen pressed two fingers to his forehead and washed away most of the headache with a burst of healing magic. “What’s bothering you, anyway? Not like we won’t see each other anymore.”

For a moment, Jowan looked like something was bursting to get out of him, but he simply shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t waste your time with this. I was supposed to tell you to see Irving as soon as you woke up.”

Daylen frowned, but nodded. “Better go talk to him, then. Otherwise I’ll get one of those disapproving looks of his. I swear, he just wants someone that’s a little copy of himself…”

“Well, he didn’t get either part with you,” Jowan deadpanned. “Someone like him, or someone little.” Daylen rolled his eyes.

Daylen made his way through the tower, nodding to his fellow mages and avoiding eye contact with the Templars. Shaking his head as a young apprentice attempting a rudimentary fire spell set fire not only to himself but also a nearby bookshelf, Daylen quietly greeted another apprentice as the Templars quenched the magical flame. “Neria, how are you? Still tender?”

The elf all but snarled at him. “Piss off, Amell.”

Daylen took a step back. “Hey now, what’d I do?”

“Not what,” she spat, “but who. You,” she looked around, and continued in a lower voice. “You had sex with Petra!”

Daylen shrugged. “So? You and Finn got Orlesian in the stacks two days ago.”

Neria blanched. “How did you know that?”

“I was in the next row, doing the same with Petra,” Daylen said with a grin.

“I…you…” She gave an angry huff and turned back to the bookshelf. “Go away, Daylen.”

“Tomorrow afternoon, then?” Neria glared at him over her shoulder, before sighing and nodding. Daylen winked at her before heading up a set of stairs to the next floor of the tower. Nodding politely to Owain as he reached the next floor, Daylen took a right, heading away from Irving’s office. As he passed a Templar, the man gave him a polite nod.

“Greetings. I’m glad your Harrowing went well,” he said.

“So am I,” Daylen said as he kept walking. “I wasn’t looking forward to being run through.” He turned left at the next room. Daylen had never liked the Templar – Cullen, the name finally came to him. He always seemed far too nice, especially considering he would lop Daylen’s head off in a moment were he given the order. He had been at the Harrowing, Daylen realized as he entered his new quarters. There still wasn’t a door, but at least it was a single bed and a desk.

“Ah, there you are,” a mage said, looking up from laying out linens on the bed. “You are to be moved up from the apprentice’s quarters, and this will be your new room. Go on, make yourself comfortable.” Poking around, Daylen found a handful of coppers left by the previous occupant – whatever had happened to them, they weren’t occupying the space anymore – and a few sheets of vellum. Pocketing the coins, Daylen nodded to the man and circled back around the floor of the tower, heading for Irving’s quarters. He arrived to an argument.

Greagoir was upset. It was easy to tell – he was awake. “Many have already gone to Ostagar – Wynne, Uldred, and most of the senior mages! We’ve committed enough of our own to this war effort!”

“Our own?” Irving echoed. “Since when have you felt such kinship with the mages, Greagoir? Or are you afraid to let the mages out from under Chantry supervision, where they can use their Maker-given powers?”

“How dare you suggest…”

“Gentlemen, please!” The third man interrupted, and Daylen took a moment to evaluate him. He was new to the tower, wearing lightweight armor over simple clothes as opposed to the heavy plate Templars wore or a mage’s robes. A fighter of some kind, then.

“Problems, Knight-Commander?” Daylen asked. “As an herbalist, I can recommend a bowl of prunes. Should help matters.”

“Daylen!” Irving gasped, even as the younger mage noticed the edges of the dark-skinned man’s mouth twitching upwards. Greagoir’s jaw dropped, and Daylen seized the opportunity that audacity had provided.

“I’m sorry, First Enchanter,” Daylen said. “You asked to see me?”

“Yes, child. You are a new brother in the Circle.” Daylen didn’t outwardly react to Irving’s choice of address, and kept his eyes on him. Greagoir hadn’t reprimanded him. Odd.

The newcomer glanced at Irving, brushing past the Knight-Commander. “This is…”

“Yes,” Irving replied cryptically.

“Well, Irving, you’re obviously busy,” Greagoir said, clearly feeling he had been dismissed. “We’ll discuss this later.” Daylen narrowed his eyes. Since when did the Knight-Commander show deference?

“Of course,” Irving replied absently as the Knight-Commander left. “Well, then, where was I? Oh, yes. This is Duncan, of the Grey Wardens.”

“A Grey Warden? Here in the tower?” Daylen asked. He looked at Duncan, reappraising him. “Recruiting? Doubt you bothered with the ferry to get a free hot meal.”

Irving nodded. “You’ve heard about the war brewing to the south, I expect? Duncan is recruiting mages to join the king’s army at Ostagar.”

“Now I understand why so many senior mages are missing from the tower. I heard Greagoir mentioning Wynne had gone already. She’d be an incredible asset.” Daylen sighed. “Providing the wounded don’t prefer prayer to actual healing.”

“With the darkspawn invading, we need all the help we can get, especially from the Circle,” Duncan said. “I fear if we don’t drive them back, we will face another Blight.”

“Duncan, you worry the poor lad with talk of Blights and darkspawn. This is a happy day for him.”

Daylen shrugged. “Blights are worth worrying about, but go on.”

“The Harrowing is behind you,” Irving said. “Your phylactery was sent to Denerim. You are officially a mage within the Circle of Magi.”

Daylen nodded. “Good to hear.” He paused a moment. “Is there a pension involved, or…”

Irving bowed his head a moment, fighting a smile behind his beard. “No pension, I’m afraid, but we have little use for money within the tower. I am proud to present you with robes befitting your new station, your staff, and a ring bearing the Circle’s insignia.” He gestured to the desk, where the items were neatly arranged. “Wear them proudly, for you have earned them.”

“Great,” Daylen said. “Now what?”

“It goes without saying that you shall not discuss the Harrowing with those who have not undergone the rite.” Daylen kept his face impassive, not letting on that he had already done exactly that. “Now, then, take your time to rest, or study in the library. The evening is yours.”

“I will return to my quarters,” Duncan said.

“Would you be so kind as to escort Duncan back to his room, child?” Irving asked.

Daylen didn’t have the faintest idea where Duncan’s quarters were. “It would be my pleasure,” he said, nodding to the First Enchanter. “Would you prefer I address you as Warden, or Ser Duncan, or…”

“Merely Duncan is fine. May I call you Daylen?”

“You’d be surprised what I get called sometimes. Please, call me Daylen.”

The two set off, Daylen’s new robes and staff under his arm. He slipped the ring on, feeling the lyrium infused in the silver resonate with his magic. “Thank you for walking with me. I am glad for the company.”

“I assume you know the way, but I’m curious about why Irving and Greagoir were arguing.”

“It is not my place to comment,” Duncan said stiffly.

Daylen turned to him, giving him the same mournful, ‘you can trust me’ puppy-dog eyes that had won the hearts and trust of many mages and countless authority figures. “Please, I’d like to know.”

Duncan sighed. “Greagoir serves the Chantry, and the relationship between the Chantry and mages has always been strained.”

“Talk about your understatements,” Daylen muttered.

Duncan didn’t comment, but there was another twitch in his beard. “You’re undoubtedly aware that the Chantry merely tolerates magic. They watch only because they feel they must.”

“Yes, but they were arguing about a war. If I worried every time Greagoir got his smalls in a twist over magic, I’d never get any sleep.”

“Any mages who join the king’s army can unleash their full power on the darkspawn. I’m counting on it. Greagoir may be afraid of what will happen. What if mages decide they no longer want to be governed by the Chantry?”

“One of two things. Either we would have mages who didn’t have to constantly fear for their lives, or the Templars would simply wipe us out. Maker knows some of the Templars here would love to just exterminate us. The Chantry might not be so worried about it if they didn’t train and treat us like living weapons. But if you’re going to fight a war, an angry mage is a useful asset.” He cocked his head, giving Duncan a long look. “What are your opinions on the matter?”

“I believe we must defeat the darkspawn, one way or another. My opinions end there.”

Daylen doubted that, but he changed tacks. “Have there been many darkspawn attacks? We don’t get much news in here. Rumors from traders, mostly.”

“A horde has formed in the south, emerging within the Korcari Wilds. If they are not stopped, they will strike north into the valley at Ostagar, and then into Ferelden proper. We Grey Wardens believe than an archdemon is leading the horde.”

“Ominous.”

“Darkspawn do attack the surface in ragtag bands, but archdemons can rally the darkspawn, turning them into a united army. The possibility that an archdemon is leading this horde is…unsettling. I fear this is what we will have to face.” The two entered his quarters, and Duncan turned to the young mage. “Thank you again.”

“My pleasure, Duncan,” Daylen said. He turned to leave, before looking back to Duncan. “You looking for one more? I don’t have combat experience, but if I can help, I have the responsibility to help.”

Duncan lifted his chin, looking at Daylen. “An admirable attitude. I will raise the matter with Irving.”

—ROTG—

Jowan was pacing outside Duncan’s quarters, his hands clenched in front of him. “Glad I caught up to you. Are you done talking with Irving?”

Daylen nodded. “For now. I’m sure he’ll want to talk my ear off about my new responsibilities later.”

“I need to talk to you. Do you remember what we discussed before you went to see Irving?”

“You think I forgot in the half hour since we talked?”

“We should go somewhere else. I don’t feel safe talking here.” Jowan led him to the tower’s chapel. A robed sister was standing nearby, and Jowan nodded to Daylen. “We should be safe here.”

“Really,” Daylen said dryly. “In the chapel. The Templars’ favorite haunt.” He looked at the sister next to them. “With a Chantry sister standing right there.”

“I am merely an initiate,” she said.

“A few months ago, I told you that I met a girl.” He gestured to the sister. “This is Lily.”

Daylen blinked as much of what he had talked about with his friend in recent weeks suddenly made sense. “Ah, I was beginning to doubt her existence. My condolences, Lily.”

“Very funny,” Jowan deadpanned.

“Jowan, you sure this is a good choice of romantic partners?”

Jowan had less patience, having suffered through hearing about Daylen's love life for years. “You had a foursome in the stacks less than a month ago.”

“Fair point.” He smiled warmly. “I’m truly happy for you both. But you can’t have brought me here to chat about love.” His eyes widened. “Unless you’re up for something kinky and need my help.”

“No,” Jowan said firmly. “I’m not…no. Just…no.” Daylen gave him a wide grin, and Jowan shook his head. “Focus. Remember I said that I didn’t think they wanted to give me my Harrowing? I know why now. I’m going to be taken upstairs. They’re…they’re going to make me Tranquil.” The smile peeled off Dalyen’s face, and he swallowed hard. “They’ll take everything that I am from me – my dreams, my hopes, fears, my love for Lily! All gone. They’ll extinguish my humanity.”

Daylen rubbed a hand over his mouth. “You’re sure? How did you find out about this?”

“I saw the document on Greagoir’s desk,” Lily said. “It authorized the Rite on Jowan, and Irving had signed it.”

Daylen shook his head, his mind whirling. “This doesn’t make sense. Officially, it’s supposed to be an absolute last resort.” He glanced at Jowan. “Why you? It’s not like you’re failing anything.”

“There’s a rumor about me. People think I’m a blood mage. They think that making me a Circle mage will endanger everyone.”

Daylen leaned back slightly. “And of course they’re wrong about that.”

Jowan’s face twisted. “Well of course they’re wrong!”

“Easy, Jowan, I trust you. You’re my best friend, I’ve known you for more than a decade,” Daylen said slowly. “But…why do they think you’re a blood mage? Some Templar have it out for you?”

“Well, I have been sneaking around,” Jowan admitted. “But it’s because I’ve been sneaking around to meet Lily, not using blood magic! People just assumed.”

“Well, it’s you, blood magic is more likely than someone actually being interested in you.” Jowan slugged him in the arm. “So what do we do? What can we do?”

“It’s not safe for me here anymore,” Jowan said quietly. “I have to get out, and that means destroying my phylactery so they can’t track me down.”

This discussion alone could get them all killed. Daylen rubbed his face, smoothing down his beard. “That would be very difficult, Jowan. They try to stop that sort of thing happening. I’m sure they’ve put some thought into it.”

“I know. That’s why we need your help, Lily and I can’t do this on our own.”

Lily nodded. “We’ll tell you what our plan is, but we need your promise that you’ll help.”

“This plan better be good.”

“I can get us into the repository,” Lily explained, “but the door to the phylactery chamber has two lcoks on it. The first enchanter and knight-commander each hold one key. But it is just a door. There is power enough in this place to destroy all of Ferelden. What’s a door to a mage?”

Daylen squinted at her. “You really think it’s going to be that easy?”

“I once saw a rod of fire melt through a lock,” Jowan said. “You could get one from the stockroom. But Owain doesn’t release such things to apprentices.”

“We should stay here. One mage at the stockroom will attract less attention than a mage, an apprentice, and an initiate,” Lily said.

“All right, hang on a bit here,” Daylen said. “There’s no way that they would leave any door to the room holding the one thing Templars can use to track a loose mage vulnerable to magical attack. It’ll be warded against magic.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Jowan challenged.

“Not yet, but I’m working on it,” Daylen admitted. “Every mage plans to escape at some point. I never planned to get someone else out. I’ll see about getting this rod of fire. If we can get down there, we can find a way into the chamber.”

“Good luck,” Lily said. “Our prayers go with you.”

—ROTG—

Among apprentices of the Circle, nothing is regarded with more fear than the Harrowing. Little is known about this rite of passage, and that alone would be cause for dread. But it is well understood that only those apprentices who pass this trial are ever seen again. They return as full members of the Circle of Magi. Of those who fail, nothing is known. Perhaps they are sent away in disgrace. Perhaps they are killed on the spot. I heard one patently ridiculous rumor among the Circle at Rivain, which claimed that failed apprentices were transformed into pigs, fattened up, and served at dinner to the senior enchanters. But I could find no evidence that the Rivaini Circle ate any particular quantity of pork.

— "The Harrowing," From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi.

Chapter Text

It is not uncommon for the neophyte to mistake apostates and maleficarum as one and the same. Indeed, the Chantry has gone to great lengths over the centuries to establish that this is so. The truth, however, is that while an apostate is often a maleficar, he need not be so. A maleficar is a mage who employs forbidden knowledge such as blood magic and the summoning of demons, whereas an apostate is merely any mage who does not fall under the auspices of the Circle of Magi (and therefore the Chantry). They are hunted by the Templars, and quite often they will turn to forbidden knowledge in order to survive, but it would be a lie to say that all apostates begin that way.

Historically, apostates become such in one of two ways: They are either mages who have escaped from the Circle or mages who were never part of it to begin with. This latter category includes what we tend to refer to as “hedge mages” – those with magical ability out in the hinterlands who follow a different magical tradition than our own. Some of these hedge mages are not even aware of their nature. Undeveloped, their abilities can express themselves in a variety of ways, which the hedge mage might attribute to faith, or will, or to another being entirely (depending on his nature). Some of these traditions are passed down from generation to generation, as with the so-called “witches” of the Chasind wilders or the “shamans” of the Avvar barbarians.

No matter how a mage has become apostate, the Chantry treats them alike: Templars begin a systematic hunt to bring the apostate to justice. In almost all cases, “justice” is execution. If there is some overriding reason the mage should live, the Rite of Tranquility is employed instead. Whether we of the Circle of Magi believe this system fair is irrelevant: It is what it is.

—From Patterns Within Form, by Halden, First Enchanter of Starkhaven, 8:80 Blessed.

—ROTG—

Daylen was grumbling under his breath as he left the chapel. Stopping at his new quarters, he changed into his new robes and slung his staff over his shoulder. “Bloody stupid plans, bloody stupid Templars, bloody stupid Rite of Tranquility, bloody stupid Chantry sisters, bloody stupid Jowan…” He broke off as Owain came within earshot. “Hello there.”

“Welcome to the Circle’s stockroom of magical items,” Owain droned. “My name is Owain. How may I assist you?”

“I need to get a rod of fire, please,” he said politely.

Owain didn’t react to his courtesy, but he never did. Tranquil never did. “Rods of fire serve many purposes. Why do you wish to acquire this particular item?”

“Well, several reasons,” Daylen said. “Lighting fires, mostly, but I also need the rod for my research into…burning things.” He coughed nervously, before going on. “Sorry, I’m investigating the effects of various amplifiers – glyphs and spells – on fire magic.”

“Here is the form,” Owain said, handing over a scroll. “Have it signed and dated by a senior enchanter. I will release a rod to you once I have the signed form.”

“I’ll be back shortly, then,” Daylen said. “Thank you.”  Looking around, he muttered to himself. “Just need the oldest, most senile, most doddering senior enchanter I can find.” Walking into the library, Daylen looked around, spotting a man in senior enchanter’s robes staring at a bookshelf. “Oh. Perfect. Sweeney’s more gone than here these days.”

“Oh, hello,” the man said as Daylen walked up next to him. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you new to the Circle?”

“I’m recently here from the Kirkwall Circle,” Daylen said, bullshitting effortlessly. “I studied under First Enchanter Orsino for a few years.”

“I’ve read some of Orsino’s work on the rapid generation of fireballs,” Sweeney said. “He’s a fine mage.”

“Agreed. Senior Enchanter, could I trouble you for a favor? I need this form signed.”

“What’s this? A request form from the stockroom? A rod of fire…” He grinned. “I remember when the junior mages I mentored asked for some of those. Turns out they were burning holes in each other’s trousers. One boy burned peepholes into the female apprentices’ dormitory!” He chuckled, and Daylen laughed along politely, letting Sweeney talk himself into it. “You’re not involved in any such rubbish, are you?” Daylen waved away the concern. “No, of course you’re not. Well, I won’t ask why you need it. Tower’s too boring lately. Tell you what, I’ll put my name on this form like so…” he quickly scribbled his name on the form, and handed it back to Daylen. “And if you get the chance, burn a big hole in the seat of the trousers of the Templar that patrols the library. Do that for old Sweeney, won’t you? Bastard’s always giving me the stink-eye.”

“I’ll see if I can manage that,” Daylen winked. “Burning a hole in the wall to the ladies’ dorm, that’s certainly a strange idea,” he mumbled as he headed for the stockroom. “Never had to use a peephole, they usually invited me in…”

—ROTG—

“Everything looks to be in order,” Owain said. Pulling a rod off the shelf, he handed it handle-first to Daylen. “Here is the rod of fire you requested.”

“Thank you, Owain,” Daylen replied. Slipping the rod up his sleeve, he headed for the chapel.

Both of them gave him a hopeful look as he approached, and he waved, the handle of the rod visible in his hand.

“To the repository, then,” Lily said. “Freedom awaits.”

The trio headed for the basement. “Relax, you two,” Daylen hissed. “Look casual. The best way to get noticed is to look like you know you’re someplace you don’t belong. Even if you get caught, just act like you didn’t realize you weren’t supposed to be there.”

“You always could get away with anything,” Jowan said.

“Not anything. Just most things.”

As they entered the basement, Lily turned towards Daylen and Jowan. “The Chantry calls this entrance ‘the Victims’ Door.’ It is built of two hundred and seventy-seven planks, one for each original Templar. It is a reminder of all the dangers those cursed with magic pose.”

“Setting aside that you’re speaking to two mages,” Daylen said, his tone frosty, “we don’t need a tour. How do we get past it?”

“The doors can be opened only by a Templar and a mage, entering together. The Chantry provides the password, which primes the ward, and the mage touches it with mana, to release it.” She turned to the door, holding out a hand. “Sword of the Maker, Tears of the Fade.” A hissing noise came from the door, and Lily nodded. “Now it must feel the touch of mana. Any spell will do. But hurry.”

Nodding, Daylen summoned a quick burst of arcane energy, and the door swung open. The trio hurried through, spotting a heavier door ahead. A hallway extended to their right, and Jowan looked at the heavy door, nodding. “Melt the locks off!”

Daylen drew the rod, aiming and focusing his magic through the rod. He saw a pulse cross the door, and pushed another bolus of magic into the rod, with the same result.

“What’s the matter?” Lily asked. “Why isn’t it working?”

“Lily,” Jowan said, his hands moving through the proscribed movements for a basic spell with no result. “Something’s not right. I can’t cast spells here. Nothing works!”

“These wards carved into the stone,” Lily said, eyeing runes carved around the doorframe. Lyrium glittered in the etchings. “This must be Templars work. They negate any magic cast within this area. I should have guessed! Why would Greagoir and Irving use simple keys for such a door? Because magical keys don’t work! How do you keep mages away from something? Make their powers completely worthless!”

“I did point out this exact possibility,” Daylen muttered, looking around.

“That’s it then!” Lily cried. “We’re finished! We can’t get in.”

“We can’t just give up.”

Daylen was still examining the area, frowning.

“We can’t batter the door down – even if we could, the whole tower would hear.”

“Don’t quit just yet,” Daylen said. “Templars didn’t design this place, they just moved in. Kinloch Hold was Avvar-built, with some help from the dwarves, and if I know the architecture of those two cultures at all, there’ll be another entrance.”

“You actually paid attention in those classes?” Jowan asked skeptically.

“So I enjoy learning. So what?” He gestured down the hallway. “We know what’s behind us. Only way we can go is ahead. If that leads to another part of the repository, we might be able to find a way around.”

“What are the chances of there being another entrance?” Lily asked.

“Do we have a choice?” Daylen asked in reply. “We go back, Jowan’s Tranquil.”

“I’ll take any chance I get,” Jowan said. “Let’s hurry. We’ve wasted enough time.”

The door was locked, but luckily, the rod of fire did work on that door. Unfortunately, the seemingly immobile suit of armor standing near the door took exception to Daylen melting the lock. Hefting a mace, the sentinel swung at Jowan. Daylen body-checked his friend out of the way, the mace hitting him in the chest and ripping a large hole in his robe.

“By the Maker!” Lily gasped. “Are you all right?”

Daylen growled. “Just messed up my new robes.” He managed to parry the next strike from the sentinel with his staff, before grabbing the suit of armor’s helmet and freezing it solid with a spell. Swinging his staff, the weight on the end of it shattered the helmet, and the armor dropped with a clatter.

“Daylen, it hit you in the chest with that mace!” Lily cried. “You must be horribly wounded!”

“I’m fine, it just winded me,” Daylen said, turning to face her. “Magic is a wonderful thing. My skin is as hard as stone right now.” Lily looked uncomfortable with Daylen’s statement, but Jowan shrugged as he stood up. “Let’s keep moving. If anyone spots a fresh robe lying around, let me know.”

Heading up a set of stairs, the trio ran into another pair of sentinels. Daylen froze one solid and Jowan hit the other with a bolt of lightning, before the apprentice was forced to start running as the mobile sentinel pursued him with a drawn sword. Daylen loosed a bolt of arcane energy from his staff, and the charging sentinel collapsed, as the first one thawed. Daylen spun, a torrent of electricity pouring from his staff and arcing across the sentinel’s armor. It dropped, and Daylen exhaled. “Anyone hurt?”

“No, I’m fine,” Jowan said. “Lily?”

“We should move,” she said quietly. “These things are…not of the Maker.”

“One thing, first,” Daylen said, pointing to a storeroom to their left. “Let’s see what we can find.”

“We should not steal!” Lily gasped.

Daylen looked over at her incredulously. “We’re already committing how many crimes? Breaking and entering, helping a mage become an apostate, and destruction of Circle property. You telling me theft is going to make anything worse?” He found a set of robes with some Tevinter script embroidered on the sleeve. “Ooh. Dibs.” Digging out a staff, he tossed it to Jowan. “I’d appreciate a moment, I’m going to change here.” Tugging off his ruined robes, Daylen quickly pulled on the new set, feeling magic surging through the lyrium weave in the robes. Sliding on a ring he found in the pocket, Daylen shrugged. “This’ll do. Let’s move.”

—ROTG—

“After we destroy my phylactery, I’m leaving behind all magic. I’m done with it. I’m just going to find a nice quiet place where Lily and I can – Daylen, must you stop to search every crate?”

“Work with me here,” Daylen said. “I’m breaking about a thousand different rules here, I’m going to get something out of it!” Chucking a tin of salve over his shoulder, Daylen pulled out a dagger. “Say, Lily, can you fight?”

“A little.” Daylen handed her the dagger, and resumed digging through the crate.

Daylen pulled out a handful of rings and amulets, and a couple of belts. “Jowan, can you identify any of these things?”

“This is a Templar amulet,” Jowan said, looking over one of them. “The Mark of Vigilance. The best mage-hunter Templars are granted these as rewards by the Divine.” He tilted his head. “Wonder how it got in here, they’re usually entombed with the helmet when he dies.” Daylen handed him another one, and Jowan turned it over in his hands. “This is dwarven-made. That’s one of their house symbols. Couldn’t tell you which one. And that one,” he said, pointing at the amulet Daylen had in his hands, “looks like a replica of the Pearl of the Anointed.”

“A replica?”

Jowan quirked an eyebrow. “Do you really expect the amulet that Kordillus Drakon of Orlais – the Anointed himself – wore during his campaigns to spread the Chant of Light throughout Thedas to have ended up in the basement of a Circle in Ferelden?”

Daylen gave his friend a sheepish smile. “I suppose you have a point there.”

“Are you quite done?” Lily hissed. “We have to keep moving!”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go,” Daylen said. “I don’t want to stick around here anyway. Reminds me of things I try to forget.” The trio kept moving through the repository, and Daylen looked to his friend. “Where are you going to go after this?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” Jowan admitted. “Far away from here, from any Templars, from magic and Circles and the Chantry.”

“Some village so small it isn’t even on a map,” Daylen suggested. “Near Gwaren is probably your best bet. Not many Templars out that way, near the Brecelian Forest.” He spotted another group of sentinels ahead, and rolled his eyes. “Company. Lily, circle around the right and…” he broke off as a lump of conjured stone slammed into his chest, knocking him flat on his back. Daylen wheezed, and Jowan hit a robed sentinel – who had knocked Daylen flat – with a bolt of lightning. “Maker’s balls,” Daylen rasped, pushing himself to his feet. “Ow.” Leaning on his staff, Daylen let loose a blast of frost from his other hand, freezing the other two sentinels solid. Lily lunged, shattering one with a strike from her dagger.

“Daylen, you hurt?” Jowan shouted, hitting the robed sentinel with a bolt of arcane energy. The sentinel collapsed and vanished, and Daylen coughed, feeling pain shooting across his chest.

“I’ll live,” Daylen said with a wince, finishing off the other armored sentinel with a bolt of lightning.

Jowan turned, a bolus of healing magic gathering in his hands, and Daylen felt some of the pain in his chest wash away. “I think your sternum may have been cracked.” Daylen nodded in thanks and pressed a fist against his chest, leaning heavily on his staff.

With only a single hallway to follow, the path forward was clear besides more groups of sentinels that failed to stop the trio.

“Is this the repository?” Daylen asked as the group entered a larger storeroom. Eyeing a bookshelf, he quickly scanned a handful of titles.

“Let’s look around,” Lily said. “We’ll need another way into the phylactery chamber.”

The room was cluttered, some items seemingly discarded randomly, haphazardly stacked, or piled in shelves so high they had seemingly taken on organization of their own. Daylen paused in front of a statue he vaguely recognized as an Avvar-inspired style, feeling mana leaking from it.

“There’s something odd about that statue,” Jowan muttered.

“I wonder who this is supposed to be,” Daylen mused, looking closer.

“Greetings,” an ethereal female voice said.

Daylen yelped and took a surprised step back, bumping into Jowan. “Maker’s breath!” Jowan said. “Did it just say something?”

“I am the essence and spirit of Eleni Zinovia, once consort and advisor to Archon Valerius,” the statue went on. “Prophecy my crime, cursed to stone for foretelling the fall of my lord’s house. ‘Forever shall you stand on the threshold of my proud fortress,’ he said, ‘and tell your lies to all who pass.’ But my lord found death at the hands of his enemies and his once-proud fortress crumbled to dust, as I foretold.”

Daylen gave Jowan a confused look. “You’d think if you hire someone to be your advisor, you’d listen to what they have to say.”

“A Tevinter statue!” Lily gasped. “Don’t listen to it! The Tevinter lords dabbled in many forbidden arts! This is a wicked thing!”

Daylen rolled his eyes, ignoring her. “How did they do this? Are you still…alive, in there?”

“Weep not for me, child,” the statue said soothingly. “Stone they made me and stone I am, eternal and unfeeling. And I shall endure ‘til the Maker returns to light their fires again.”

Daylen blinked. “And what exactly does that mean?”

“Ambiguous rubbish,” Jowan sighed. “It could mean anything! I can do it too – the sun grows dark, but lo! Here comes the dawn!” Daylen snickered, but Lily tugged at Jowan’s sleeve.

“Stop talking to it. Please, both of you.”

“We can’t do much with it, anyway,” Daylen said. “Sorry to have bothered you, Eleni. Maybe I’ll come back sometime. Don’t run off.”

“Did you…” Jowan smiled despite the situation. “Let’s go.” Looking at a bookcase to his left, his eyes narrowed. “I think the phylactery chamber is on the other side of this wall. We’ve come around in a circle, haven’t we?”

Daylen looked up and around the room, thinking, before nodding. “It should be on the other side of this wall.”

“But there’s no other entrance,” Lily said.

Daylen leaned against the wall, looking behind the bookcase. “It looks weak in spots, here. You think we can break it down?”

“We have to try,” Jowan said. “Maybe we can move the bookcase. Come on, help me.”

“Funny as it would be to just watch you struggle…” The two managed to shift the bookcase aside, and Daylen eyed the filled-in archway on the wall. “I told you! They did have another entrance, but they bricked it up.”

“Got a way to un-brick it?” Jowan asked, leaning on a statue behind Daylen.

“Not sure,” Daylen said, running a hand over the wall. “This isn’t as solid as the rest of the wall, but a rod of fire won’t even scratch this.” He thumped a fist on the wall. “Hm.”

“What are you thinking?”

“The mortar is already coming apart. Phylactery chamber is kept cold, I hear, so there’s probably moisture soaking into it. I wonder…” Daylen pressed the head of his staff to the wall, channeling frost magic into it. Ice crawled over the wall, and there were audible crackles as the mortar between the stones protested. Frost covered most of the wall before Daylen let up, rapping the head of his staff against it experimentally. “Still pretty solid. Hoped it would crumble if I froze the mortar.”

Jowan looked down, recognizing what he was leaning on. “What about this thing? It amplifies magic that goes through it.”

“The rod, you think?” Jowan nodded. “Well, stand back then.” Plugging the rod of fire into a slot on the back of the statue’s head, Daylen pushed a pulse of magic through the rod. A torrent of fire that would make a senior enchanter pyromage jealous poured from the statue’s mouth, and the wall crumbled under the assault. Daylen blinked away the afterimage as the steam slowly cleared. “I think we un-bricked it. I just hope that noise didn’t carry too far.”

“We must find Jowan’s phylactery quickly,” Lily said as they entered the room, their breath fogging in the cold air. Ice was gathered at the edges of the room, and Daylen shivered as the chill set in through his robes.

“Once the phylactery is destroyed, they’d have to make a new one to track me.” He looked at a rack of the tiny vials, each one clearly labeled. “Would you destroy yours too, if it were here?”

“Of course, but it’s already been sent to Denerim.” Two more sentinels began moving, and Daylen groaned. “Oh, great.” One of them, a heavily armored sentinel, dodged the bolt of arcane energy Daylen fired at it and barreled straight at him, ignoring the lightning that splashed across its chest from Jowan’s staff. Daylen’s next spell, a burst of frost, slowed the sentinel but didn’t stop it, and Daylen parried a crushing blow from the sentinel’s mace only to take a shield to the face. Daylen dropped to his knees, blood spurting from his nose, and as the sentinel’s mace hand came down Daylen reached up, grabbing and freezing the gauntlet, the arm, and a fair chunk of the breastplate solid. Lily thrust the blade of her dagger through the frozen metal, twisting the blade free and shattering the sentinel.

“Help!” Jowan yelped, running away from the remaining sentinel as it swung a sword at him. Spitting out a mouthful of blood, Daylen lobbed a blob of conjured grease on the floor, sending both Jowan and the sentinel skidding across the room. Jowan thumped against a bare section of wall without injury, but the sentinel clattered to a halt, the helmet rolling away. There was nothing underneath.

“Jowan, get clear!” Daylen ordered, drawing the rod of fire. Jowan scrambled away from the grease, slipping and sliding, as the sentinel struggled to its feet. Daylen knelt, the rod of fire heating up and a burst of flame setting the grease alight. The sentinel attempted to move through the burning grease, before the heat and damage to the armor disrupted it completely and it collapsed.

“Daylen?” Jowan turned, spotting Daylen holding his face, blood leaking through his fingers. “Daylen!” Skidding to a stop on his knees in front of his friend, Jowan pried his friend’s face away from his face. “Daylen, let me see.”

Daylen turned his head away, coughing and spitting out a mouthful of bloody phlegm. “Think it cracked part of my skull.”

“Well, your nose is broken, I can see that much,” Jowan said, pressing two fingers to the bridge of Daylen’s nose, healing magic gathering in his palm.

Daylen grunted in pain as his nose shifted back into place with a muffled crunch. “Andraste’s flaming nipples, that hurt!” Batting his friend’s hands away, Daylen shook his head. “I got it from here.” Readying a stronger healing spell, Daylen pressed a hand to his own forehead. He groaned as the magic took effect. “Oh, that stings.” He squinted at his friend. “You better really appreciate this, Jowan.”

“I do, my friend,” Jowan said softly. “Are you all right?”

“I need a minute,” Daylen admitted, scrubbing his face clean with a rag and waving at the racks of phylacteries. “Find your phylactery. Let’s finish this.”

“Jowan!” Lily called from elsewhere in the chamber.

Jowan hurried over, and gasped. “That’s it, that’s my phylactery! You found it! I can’t believe this tiny vial stands between me and freedom.” Picking it up, he looked at the phylactery, his eyes alight with hope. “Such a little thing, to cause so much trouble.” Dropping it, he stepped back as the glass shattered on the stone floor. The blood within trickled out, useless. “Let’s get out of here,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to be here any longer.”

“How are you going to get across the lake?” Daylen asked as they backtracked.

“Swim it. Kester would know if I was meant to leave or not.”

“You can swim?”

“It’s been a while. Ever since that one mage jumped in during the exercise period.” Daylen laughed at the memory. “It’ll be tough, but I can do it. I have to.”

“I will join him as soon as I can,” Lily added as they climbed the stairs to the ground level of the tower. “This was the hard part.”

A voice came from their right. “So what you said was true.” Irving, Greagoir, and a trio of Templars had been waiting off to one side.

Several moments passed as both parties simply stared at one another. “Well,” Daylen said, his voice coming out as a nervous squeak. “This is awkward.”

If they weren’t already standing on an island, Daylen would have said they were up the proverbial creek. Even assuming Irving didn’t get involved, the three of them stood no chance of making it out the door and to any semblance of a safe distance before the Templars killed them all.

“G-Greagoir,” Lily whimpered.

On his best day, Daylen couldn’t hope to knock out all four Templars – let alone the First Enchanter – before one of them took him out.

“An initiate, conspiring with a blood mage,” Greagoir shook his head. “I’m disappointed, Lily.” He looked closer at her. “She seems shocked, but fully in control of her own mind. Not a thrall of the blood mage, then.” He turned to the First Enchanter. “You were right, Irving. The initiate has betrayed us. The Chantry will not let this go unpunished.” He pointed at Daylen. “And this one, newly a mage, and already flouting the rules of the Circle!”

“I’m disappointed in you,” Irving said quietly. “You could have told me what you knew of this plan, and you didn’t.”

“You authorized the Rite of Tranquility on an innocent, and a friend of mine,” Daylen replied coldly. “Hard to trust after that.” Irving merely frowned at him.

“You don’t care for the mages! You just bow to the Chantry’s every whim!” Jowan spat.

Daylen set a hand on his shoulder. “Easy, Jowan.” His voice was even, but his eyes were flicking back and forth, measuring distances. Could he make it to the door before they were cut down? Daylen was screwed, but maybe Jowan could make it out.

“You are known to be a blood mage,” Greagoir said. “You have the right to confess to your crime. Pleas for leniency will not be heard.”

“He’s not a blood mage. He was sneaking around to meet a girl!”

Jowan jerked his shoulder away from Daylen, and Daylen yanked his hand back, his palm buzzing.

“Enough!” Greagoir boomed. “As Knight-Commander of the Templars here assembled, I sentence this blood mage to death!”

“Whoa, now, let’s not get hasty,” Daylen began.

Nobody listened, and Greagoir went on. “And this initiate has scorned the Chantry and her vows. Take her to Aeonar.”

“The…the mages prison,” Lily squeaked. “No…please, no. Not there!”

“No!” Jowan shouted. “I won’t let you touch her!” He ripped the dagger from Lily’s belt, slashing across his own hand. Blood flowed upwards into a burning cloud around him. He thrust his hands out, and Daylen staggered back from the force of the attack, falling hard onto his rear even as Irving and the Templars were knocked out. His entire body was buzzing, and for a moment Daylen almost blacked out.

Lily was staring at Jowan, her mouth slightly open. “By the Maker. Blood magic! How could you? You said you never…”

“I admit,” Jowan said, shuffling nervously as Daylen struggled back to his feet. “I dabbled! I thought it would make me a better mage!”

Lily stepped back, her hands up in front of her as if to ward him off. “Blood magic is evil, Jowan. It corrupts people, changes them!”

“I’m going to give it up, all magic!” Jowan said. “I just want to be with you, Lily. Please, come with me!”

“I trusted you,” Lily spat. “I was ready to sacrifice everything for you!” She kept backing away. “I…I don’t know who you are, blood mage. Stay away from me.”

Jowan turned to Daylen, tears shining in his eyes. “Daylen,” he started.

“Jowan, you lied to me,” Daylen said. “If you’re going to run, run now. But we’re done.” He sprinted for the doors, and Daylen knelt next to Irving, rousing the elderly man. “Irving, you hurt?”

Irving glared at him. “I’m fine. Where’s Greagoir?”

“I knew it,” Greagoir snarled, pushing himself to his feet. “Blood magic. But to overcome so many…I never thought him capable of such power.”

“I can’t believe he did that,” Daylen said, still on his knees. “He lied to me. Used me.”

“None of us expected this,” Irving said. “Are you all right, Greagoir?”

“As good as can be expected given the circumstances! If you had let me act sooner, this wouldn’t have happened! Now we have a blood mage on the loose and no way to track him down!” Daylen kept quiet, and Greagoir turned away, fire in his eyes. “And where is the girl?”

“I…I am here, ser,” Lily said, stepping out from the corner.

“You helped a blood mage! Look at all he’s hurt!”

“You forced Jowan’s hand,” Daylen said quietly.

“Knight-Commander, I…I was wrong. I was accomplice to a…a blood mage,” Lily stammered out. “I will accept whatever punishment you see fit. Even…even Aeonar.”

“Get her out of my sight,” Greagoir ordered, turning to Daylen. “And you. You know why the repository exists. Some artifacts – some magics – are locked away for a reason!”

“Did you take anything important from the repository?” Irving asked.

“No,” Daylen lied.

Either Irving didn’t care, or lacked the eyesight to realize that Daylen was wearing a blatantly different set of robes. “Very well.”

“But your antics have made a mockery of this Circle!” Greagoir cut in. “Ah…what are we to do with you?”

“I had no idea he was a blood mage!” Daylen protested.

“And you think that excuses you? You helped a blood mage escape! All our prevention measures for naught – because of you!”

Greagoir would only let this end one way. Might as well earn it. “If an initiate, an apprentice, and a mage Harrowed for less than a day can get past them without significant trouble, your ‘prevention measures’ aren’t worth shit to begin with!”

“How dare you-”

“Knight-Commander, if I may,” Duncan said from the door. “I am not only looking for mages to join the king’s army. You know I am also recruiting for the Grey Wardens. Irving spoke highly of this mage, and I would like him to join the Warden ranks.” A way out?

Greagoir half-turned towards the Warden. “No! Duncan, this mage has assisted a maleficar, and shown a lack of regard for the Circle’s rules. He is a danger. To all of us.”

“It is a rare person who risks all for a friend in need,” Duncan replied. “I stand by my decision. I will recruit this mage.”

“No!” Greagoir bellowed. “I refuse to let this go unpunished!”

“You don’t have a choice in the matter,” Daylen said, pushing himself to his feet. “I paid attention. If Duncan invokes the Right of Conscription, he can recruit anyone, mage or not, nobility or not.” Daylen looked to Duncan. “I offered before, and it still stands. If the Grey Wardens want me, I’ll join up. Gladly.”

“Greagoir, mages are needed,” Duncan pointed out. “This mage is needed. Worse things plague this world than blood mages. You know that.”

“This is a gross abuse of that privilege and authority, Duncan.”

Daylen scoffed. “And you’d know all about abuses of authority, wouldn’t you.”

Greagoir rounded on him, but Duncan held up a hand. “So be it. I invoke the Right of Conscription. I take this young mage as my recruit and bear all responsibility for his actions.”

“A blood mage escapes, and his accomplice is not only unpunished, but is rewarded by becoming a Grey Warden,” Greagoir spat. “Are our rules nothing? Have we lost all authority over our mages? This does not bode well, Irving!”

“Enough,” Irving replied tiredly. “We have no more say in this matter.”

“I’d hardly call joining the Wardens a reward.” Daylen turned to Duncan. “What lies in store for me now?”

Duncan nodded. “We must make our way to Ostagar, where the king’s army is camped. You will be initiated there. I will explain more when the time comes.”

“Perhaps the Grey Wardens will appreciate my talent more,” Daylen muttered, glaring at Irving and Greagoir.

“You will have ample opportunity to use your skills, I assure you,” Duncan replied.

—ROTG—

Daylen didn’t relax until they were back on dry land, and nodded to Kester as the ferryman tied up his boat before looking to Duncan. “So what’s the plan from here?”

“We will stay here until daylight, and then set out for Ostagar. We have an ox-drawn cart here.”

“Good,” Daylen said. “It’s been a long night.” He idly tugged at his beard. “Duncan, I want you to know, what I did for Jowan…”

Duncan cut him off with a shake of his head. “Wardens leave their pasts behind. What you were before, whatever mistakes you made, it does not matter. You are now a Grey Warden.”

“Fresh start?” Daylen shrugged. “Fair enough.” The two entered the inn, and the innkeeper nodded to Duncan, clearly familiar with the man. “Do innkeepers ever sleep? It’s a few hours until daylight and he’s still up?”

“I had word sent ahead,” Duncan remarked. “I imagine you must be hungry.”

In response, Daylen’s stomach growled. “I suppose,” he said sheepishly.

The innkeeper put out a hearty if simple spread – eggs, bread, butter, and the remnants of a roast, washed down with some tea.

“Despite all you have been through in the last day, you show little sign of fatigue.”

Daylen downed the last of his tea and stifled a burp, before holding up a hand, sparks dancing across his fingertips. “Rejuvenation spells. I can keep myself and others going for days.”

“Very useful,” Duncan said, eyeing the half-formed magic. “You know this from experience?”

“I’ve never had reason to test how far it can really go, but I’ve kept six people refreshed for a day and a half back in the Circle and barely felt it. It helps when a bunch of mages can stay up day and night to study for exams. Even I don’t know what my limits are.”

“I look forward to seeing your real potential, Daylen,” Duncan said. “The Grey Wardens ask much of their recruits.”

Daylen nodded. “I’ll try not to disappoint. Could you tell me about the Wardens?”

“There is a great deal about our order that must be kept secret until after your formal induction.”

“Understand that,” Daylen said. “Seems a lot about the Wardens has been carefully withheld from the history texts. There’s people not recording things, but when there’s a noticeable lack of information, that seems almost deliberate…” He shook his head. “What sets you aside from the normal rank and file, for example. I’ve got a few theories as to what that is, but nothing seems to hold up.”

“An interesting exercise,” Duncan allowed. “What conclusion have you reached?”

“Well,” Daylen said, scratching his beard. “We, er, non-Wardens, know that the Wardens spend all their time either hunting darkspawn, fighting darkspawn, looking for better ways to fight darkspawn, or training to fight darkspawn. However, despite the exposure Wardens face to darkspawn as an occupational hazard, no text ever mentions one suffering from Blight sickness, so there must be something about the Wardens that grants them immunity to the Taint and makes them effective against darkspawn.” Daylen nodded to the innkeeper as the man refilled his cup. “I can’t figure out what that is, beyond being magic-related.” Duncan gave a noncommittal grunt, and Daylen shrugged. “I don’t know. I could be completely wrong. Regardless, is there information you can give me?”

“Ask your questions,” Duncan said. “If I can answer then, I shall do so to the best of my ability.”

Daylen realized Duncan wasn’t going to hand over the information so easily. “How many Wardens are in Ferelden these days? After all, the order was only allowed back in Ferelden in the past couple of decades.”

“We have about two dozen Grey Wardens within Ferelden’s borders,” Duncan said.

Daylen looked at him in surprise. “Only two dozen? That’s all?”

“Recruiting has been slow,” Duncan said, his tone a bit frosty. “Almost all are currently at Ostagar, where the king’s army is massing. We will be meeting them there, traveling south through the Hinterlands to the ruin of Ostagar.”

“That Tevinter outpost on the edge of the Korcari Wilds?” Daylen asked. Duncan nodded. “Hasn’t it been abandoned for hundreds of years?”

“It remains a viable defensive position. The king’s forces have clashed with the darkspawn several times, but that is where the bulk of the horde will show itself. The Blight must be stopped there. If it spreads to the north, Ferelden will fall.”

“Well then, we’ll have to make sure that it gets stopped there.”

“It may not be that easy. As you noted, we have but a few Wardens in Ferelden, and no guarantee the Archdemon will show itself.”

“Then how do we plan on winning this?” Daylen asked pointedly. “You’ve told me a whole lot of bad news and yet we’re still walking into a situation that seems completely stacked against us.”

“The king’s chief advisor, Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, is forming a battle plan,” Duncan replied. “We have the terrain advantage and defensive fortifications. It is possible to win this battle and devastate the oncoming horde.”

“I’ll do what I can to help then,” Daylen said, clearly not convinced. “We’ll see what I can do when I don’t have a Templar eyeing me.”

“I sometimes wonder if the Chantry’s many laws regarding magic are even necessary,” Duncan admitted. “Darkspawn are a greater threat than blood mages, even abominations. It takes decades for the world to recover from a Blight.”

“The Chantry is blind,” Daylen said, before pausing. “All right, maybe that’s not entirely fair. They’re…focused. The same way the Wardens are.” Duncan merely raised an eyebrow, and Daylen went on. “Wardens focus on the darkspawn, to the exclusion of all else. That’s their job, fighting darkspawn and stopping Blights. The Chantry is the same way with mages. They focus on the potential dangers of mages and nothing else, because they think that’s their job. Difference is a mage can kill dozens. A darkspawn horde can kill hundreds of thousands.” Daylen stared into the inn’s fireplace. “I’ve read accounts from the First Blight. And the Second. We’re lucky to have survived at all, let alone won.”

“Such is the burden of a Grey Warden,” Duncan said, looking out the inn’s window. “The dawn is approaching. We should go.”

“How long to get to Ostagar?” Daylen asked as Duncan hitched the oxen to the cart. Despite the dim light, Duncan did it with practiced ease, calming the oxen with a quiet word.

“Depending on the oxen, anywhere from six to ten days to make the trip. We must make all possible speed.”

The two climbed into the wagon, and the steady pace of an ox took them away from Kinloch Hold, along the edge of Lake Calenhad.

Duncan looked over at his newest recruit. “I would know you better, young man.”

Daylen quirked an eyebrow. “Sorry, Duncan, but you’re not my type.”

For the first time since Daylen had met him, Duncan laughed. “I did not mean it that way, Daylen.”

Daylen smiled faintly. “I know. Can’t resist an opportunity like that, though. What would you like to know?”

“Your history matters little to the Wardens, but I need to know that you can follow my command when the time comes.”

Daylen looked down at his hands. “I don’t regret helping a friend. I don’t regret breaking the Circle’s rules to do it. I helped a friend in danger escape an authority that – to the best of my knowledge – had no idea that he was sneaking around to meet a girl, not practicing blood magic. Had I known?” Daylen shrugged. “I probably still would have helped him escape. But my best friend betrayed my trust and left me holding the bag. Was that the Jowan I knew? Or did he die the minute he cut himself the first time?”

“Whether you regret it or not, I can respect your initiative, regardless of what others deem right.” Daylen glanced at him, but Duncan’s face was difficult to read. “What do you think of the people of Ferelden and Thedas in general?”

“Kind of a broad question, isn’t it?”

“And the nature of your answer tells me as much as the answer itself.”

Daylen shrugged. “I think that people are flawed. Bastards, even. But that’s life. It’s like an uncleaned stable. Smelly, full of shit, and there’s an upset horse in there somewhere. But they deserve a chance to learn, to grow, to live. And if I can give that to them by blowing up a few thousand darkspawn, that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“You truly believe that?” Duncan asked.

Daylen nodded. “Give a man a chance to act honorably, without manipulation, and he usually will. For the sake of humanity, we have to believe that.”

“A noble attitude. I hope you can hold on to it. Conviction, I’ve found, is often a luxury of those on the sidelines.”

“What do you expect of me, Duncan?” Daylen asked. “As a Warden, I mean.”

“As it says in the creed. In peace, vigilance. In war, victory. In death, sacrifice. Fight until your weapons fail, until your armor rends, until the last drop of blood. And then, keep fighting. Victory may demand no less.”

“Sounds like a life of suffering.”

“Our world suffers, Daylen. We can only accept our own mortality and make the most of what time we have. Grey Wardens rely on our discipline, our duty, our unyielding will. We have failed in the past. Cities that might otherwise have been saved have fallen. Lives that might have been saved were lost. But our duty is the protection of Thedas against the darkspawn, and we lack the luxury to count the cost before we do so.”

It is said that in the midst of the Black Age, when werewolves stalked the lands of Ferelden in numbers that kept every farmholder indoors and a hound on every doorstep, a powerful arl of the Alamarri peoples stood and declared that he would put an end to the threat. His arling stood on the border of the dark forest on the southern border of the Ferelden Valley, and he claimed that the werewolves used the forest to launch their midnight assaults on humanity.

For 20 years, this arl led an army of warriors and hounds deep into the forest. In his hunt for the werewolves, he slew not only every wolf he came upon, but also every member of the Chasind wilder folk. Any one of them, he said, could harbor a demon inside and thus be a werewolf in disguise. For 20 years, the forest rang with screams, and the rivers ran red.

The tales say that an old Chasind woman found her sons all dead at the arl's blades. She pulled one of those very blades from one son's heart and plunged it into her own chest, cursing the arl's name as she did so. Where her blood touched the ground, a mist began to rise. It spread and spread until it was everywhere in the forest. The arl's army became lost, and it is said that they died there. Others say they wander still. The ruins of his arling stand to this day, filled with the ghosts of women waiting eternally for their husbands to return.

The forest of the legend is, of course, the Korcari Wilds. There are as many legends about the great southern forest as there are shadows, or so the saying goes. The Chasind wilder folk have made their home there since mankind first came to these lands, and the wildlands spread as far into the south as anyone has ventured. Beyond the mists are vast tracts of snow, white-capped mountains, and entire fields of ice. It is a land too cold for mankind to survive, yet the Chasind eke out an existence even there, and they tell of horrors beyond the Wilds that the lowland folk could not begin to comprehend.

To most, Ferelden simply ends with the Korcari Wilds: There is nothing beyond. The Wilds is a land of great trees, wet marshes and dangerous monsters. What more need be said?

-- “The Korcari Wilds,” From Land of the Wilders, by Mother Ailis, Chantry scholar, 9:18 Dragon.

Chapter Text

As the miles fell away, the Grey Warden and his recruit discussed Warden history, magical applications against darkspawn, and the issues with the Right of Conscription. More than once, Duncan had demurred from answering questions or casually changed subjects to avoid discussing something Daylen had asked about. More than once, Daylen found Duncan watching him warily, as if he had strayed too close to some secret. Covering almost ten miles a day with the ox team on the old Imperial Highway, the two made a quiet camp when they had to and stayed in inns when they could. On the sixth day, Duncan and Daylen left the highway and found themselves in a small village, with refugees flooding it.

“Lothering,” Duncan said by way of explanation. “This village will be amongst the first hit if the darkspawn are not stopped.”

“I can understand that,” Daylen remarked, looking at the map. “If the darkspawn get past Ostagar, there’s not much other place for them to go but north – here.” Looking at the activity in the village, he blinked in confusion, before looking to Duncan. “But why are these people still here? The residents, not the refugees.”

“People are often resistant to leave their homes and farms, even in the face of disaster. Especially in the face of disaster. They cling to what is familiar, and this is all they have.”

“Homes can be rebuilt, crops replanted, but dead is dead,” Daylen protested. “These people are standing in the way of a darkspawn horde. Do they think that the darkspawn will just go around them? If refugees came in these numbers, whatever made them refugees can’t be far behind.”

“Calm yourself, Daylen,” Duncan said quietly. “We must avoid inciting panic. Some have nowhere else to go. Others lack the means to leave. Still more hope that we will stop the darkspawn at Ostagar.” He gestured at the village. “They are what we must defend.”

Daylen crossed his arms, looking at the village. “Then we’ll have to make it happen. Do we look for a room in the inn?”

Duncan shook his head. “With so many souls in the village, finding a room will likely be impossible. And your abilities could raise a problem with the local Templars.”

Daylen hopped out of the wagon, the rough leather of his boots hitting the dusty highway. Magic glowing around his hands, he poked each ox in the flank, waves of magic splashing over the beasts of burden. Clambering back into the wagon, Daylen nodded to the older man. “Should be good for another ten, twelve miles. Provided the light holds out.”

“Excellent,” Duncan said. “We shall pick up water and a few additional Warden packages that are being held here before moving on.”

“Anything you need me to do?”

Duncan looked at him a moment. “Can you handle picking up the packages? I realize you may not have much experience outside of the Circle.”

“I…” Daylen’s face fell. “I suppose that’s true. I can give it a try.”

“Excellent.” Duncan handed over a token displaying a Warden insignia. “There is a Warden in the village. A young elven woman, by the name of Tamarel. Show her this token, she will give you the packages.”

“Young elf named Tamarel. Show her the token, take the packages, got it.” Daylen nodded. “Meet back here?”

“At the village’s stables.”

After almost two hours, Daylen found himself leaning against a fencepost, wondering how he was supposed to find a single elf in a village packed to bursting with refugees.

“Excellent, Daylen,” he muttered. “First job as a Warden and you’ve no idea how to do it.”

“I’m sorry, were you talking to me?” A passing woman asked.

Daylen looked her up and down casually. “No, but I’d like to.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Something I can help you with?”

“Plenty, but maybe some other time. For the moment, I need to find someone.”

“Congratulations, you did it.” Daylen laughed, and she gave him a winning smile. “Now, are you looking for someone in particular?”

Daylen found himself wondering why this young woman was brightening his mood so much. “Yes, a female elf named Tamarel.”

Her eyes hardened. “What do you want with her?”

Daylen shrugged, suddenly wary of the woman’s rapid change in mood. “She’s an associate of mine. Well, sort of. She will be an associate of mine.” He sighed, his shoulders sagging. “Look, it’s hard to explain. I’m just here to pick up a package from her. I’m new at this.”

She was watching him flounder with a smile. “She’s staying in our barn. About a half-mile, that way.” She pointed towards the outskirts of the village, and Daylen nodded.

“Thank you. I didn’t catch your name?”

“Bethany,” she said lightly. “Bethany Hawke.”

“Bethany,” Daylen repeated. “I’m Daylen. Nice meeting you.” He gave her a warm smile, and the woman turned slightly pink. “Maybe we’ll see more of each other sometime.”

—ROTG—

Shortly after, Daylen found himself at a small if well-kept farm. A mabari was dozing on its back on a rough patch of grass next to the cottage, its tongue lolling out to one side. As Daylen approached, he coughed politely, and the dog rolled over, tilting its head at him. Daylen dredged up what he remembered about mabari hounds and looked the hefty pooch in the eyes, trying not to smile at the dog.

“Sorry to interrupt your nap, but is there someone here I could talk to?” The dog snuffled, before scratching at the cottage door. “Thank you!”

A woman’s voice came from inside the structure. “Something wrong, boy?” The door opened, and a fit woman peered out, a shock of black hair hanging down over deep brown eyes. “Hello there. Something you need?”

“Sorry to bother you,” Daylen said. “I'm looking for an elf. Name of Tamarel. She’s an associate of mine. A girl named Bethany said I could find her here?”

“Oh, her,” the woman replied. “Can I ask what this is about?”

“Well, I’d say it’s confidential, but it’s your land, so…” Daylen shrugged. “She’s holding a package for my boss, I’m just here to pick it up.”

She gave him an appraising look for a moment, before nodding. “Sure. She’s out in the barn. I’ll show you.”

“Thank you,” Daylen replied, extending a hand. “I’m Daylen. I didn’t catch your name?”

“Dana Hawke,” the woman said, shaking Daylen’s hand. Daylen felt a tingle through her palm, and his eyes narrowed. Hawke gave him a look of her own, and the two slowly pulled back from each other.

“I get the feeling we both sense the same thing about each other,” Daylen began, spreading his hands nonthreateningly. “But I don’t feel the need to discuss it. I’m not looking for trouble.”

“Agreed,” Hawke replied. “My mother would be very upset if we ruined her rosebushes. Maker knows my dog does enough damage.”

Daylen snickered. “Your mabari picks flowers?”

“Oh, sure,” Hawke said airily, leading Daylen around the back of the cottage. Daylen noted that she didn’t quite turn her back on him. “He’s rather skilled at arranging them, too. He brings my mother a lovely bouquet every Satinalia.” She knocked on the barn door. “Hey, Tamarel? You decent in there? I’ve got someone here, says he’s a friend of yours.”

“Friend is kind of a strong word,” Daylen said.

“Acquaintance, then.”

Daylen gave her a pained look. “We’ve never met.”

Hawke quirked an eyebrow. “Secret admirer? Pen pal? Come now, you must know each other somehow.”

“Coworker, I guess? She works for my boss. Not sure I’m permitted to say more.”

“Duncan, finally!” The door swung open, and the elf started talking. “I’ve been waiting in this village for four…” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not Duncan.”

“Duncan sent me, gave me this to show you,” Daylen said, opening his hand to show her the item. “Said you had a package for me?”

“Two, actually.” The elf retreated into the barn, shifting a hay bale aside to reveal a pair of wooden boxes. “Everything he needs for his recruits is in here.”

“Got it,” Daylen said, accepting the packages. “Thank you.”

“I’m heading back to Denerim after this,” Tamarel went on. “My job here is done.” She looked to Hawke. “Hawke, please extend my warmest thanks to Leandra. She’s been wonderful.”

“Wait,” Daylen said. “Leandra?”

“Something wrong?” Hawke asked.

“No, nothing,” Daylen said, shaking his head. “I, ah, had an aunt named Leandra. But she wouldn’t have lived anywhere around here.”

Hawke shrugged. “Oh well. I’d ask you to stay for dinner, but I imagine you have things you need to do.”

“Too right,” Daylen said, tucking the boxes into his robes. “Hawke, it was nice to meet you.”

“Indeed it was,” Hawke replied with a smile.

Tamarel rolled her eyes. “Honestly, she’s been like this since I got here. It’s a disease.”

“Well, I must be off,” Daylen went on. “But we knew that.”

“And apparently it’s contagious,” Tamarel mumbled. “I’m out of here. Have fun, you lot.” Hefting a pack over her shoulder, the elf headed onto the road, quickly walking out of sight.

“Thanks for the assistance,” Daylen said. “I should go.”

“Glad to help,” Hawke replied. “Maybe we’ll talk more later.”

—ROTG—

“Duncan, I got the packages,” Daylen said, setting them in the back of the wagon. “Apparently everything you need for your recruits is in here, and Tamarel is going back to Denerim.”

“Good. Her task in Lothering is completed.”

“Is she a Warden as well?”

“Yes, but she will not be at Ostagar with us,” Duncan replied. “She is a specialist, and combat of the kind we will see at Ostagar is not suited to her abilities.”

Daylen shrugged. “Fair enough. We moving on, then?”

“Yes, we have what we need.”

—ROTG—

“So, that’s Ostagar,” Daylen said. “It’s…well, it looks like a shithole.” He wasn’t wrong – Ostagar presumably had been a formidable outpost at some point in the past, but walls had crumbled, ramparts had worn away, and the sudden presence of a large group of soldiers hadn’t had the time to repair it in any meaningful way.

“Defensive fortifications rarely take aesthetic appeal into consideration,” Duncan replied dryly. “This is a ruin of a defensive fortification. It’s not going to look like Val Royeaux.”

“Fair enough,” Daylen shrugged, eyeing the narrowing path ahead and a heavily-built man waiting for them. “I suppose we’re walking from here?”

Duncan nodded. “Leave the wagons here, this man will take care of him.”

“Someone we trust, I hope,” Daylen said.

“He’s a Warden,” Duncan explained, pulling the wagon to a halt. “Greetings, Richu.”

“Hail, Duncan,” the man said. “Good to see you here. You accomplish everything you set out to do?”

Duncan nodded. “Yes. We have everything we need now.”

“Except more Wardens,” Richu retorted.

“Actually,” Daylen chimed in, raising a hand in greeting. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Richu raised an eyebrow. “And who are you, boy?”

“Daylen Amell,” He grabbed his satchel and the backpack that held everything he had looted from the Circle tower and dismounted the wagon, drawing himself up to his full height and looking down at Richu. “Mage, Warden recruit, and your reinforcements.”

Richu looked him up and down. “Not impressed. How old are you?”

“Young enough I don’t want to answer.”

Richu nodded knowingly. “You fought before?”

“A little.”

“You bring a child, Duncan?” Richu asked. “You’re going to fight darkspawn, boy. Monsters, hard ones. You think you can take them? You’ll be in a group if you’re lucky, alone if you’re not. You going to freeze when the time comes? Will you make the sacrifices you have to if it means doing the job? Fight ‘til you bleed out and then keep going? This takes strength, boy! Discipline! Doesn’t matter how many times a Grey Warden gets hit, when you’re on the floor, when you got nothing left, a Warden gets back up.”

Daylen looked down at him. “This a challenge, or a to-do list?”

Richu gave him a slightly terrifying smile. “You’ll do.”

“Have any reinforcements arrived from Orlais?” Duncan asked.

“Plenty, Duncan,” Richu replied dryly. “It’s only a three-week trip from the border to here, but the Orlesian Wardens made it in time – of course we didn’t get any reinforcements.”

Duncan sighed. “I knew it was unlikely. But I had hoped we would get more Wardens.”

“Things that dire?” Daylen asked. “I understand that there are only a couple dozen Wardens in the entire nation, but…”

“The more Wardens we can throw into this, the better. There’s no such thing as overkill when it comes to darkspawn.”

“We need to check in with King Cailan,” Duncan said. “Richu, can you handle the wagon?”

“Why do you think I’ve been standing here, Commander? Certainly wasn’t for the weather. View’s decent enough.”

“Take care,” Daylen said as the two walked towards the bridge leading to the main section of the fortress. “Commander? Have I been traveling with the local commander of the Grey Wardens?”

“Effectively, yes,” Duncan admitted. “I do hold the post of Warden-Commander.”

“Ho there, Duncan!” a voice called. A tall, blonde man wearing massive, burnished golden armor with a greatsword strapped to his back approached, an honor guard at his back.

“King Cailan?” Duncan looked genuinely surprised as the two clasped hands, another first in the time Daylen had known him. Daylen was trying not to panic that the king was standing in front of him. “I didn’t expect…”

“A royal welcome?” Cailan interrupted with a smile. Daylen was wondering why he bothered with golden armor. “I was beginning to worry you’d miss all the fun!”

“Not if I could help it, Majesty.” Was it gold-plated? Why bother with so much added weight? It couldn’t be made of gold, that would be pointless besides a display item.

“Then I’ll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all!” Cailan looked at the valley the bridge overlooked. “Glorious! The other Wardens told me you’ve found a promising recruit.” He looked to Daylen. “I take it this is the one?”

“Yes. Allow me to introduce you, Majesty.”

Cailan waved him off. “No need to be so formal, Duncan. We’ll be shedding blood together, after all.” As Daylen fought to avoid mentioning he liked keeping his blood inside him, Cailan addressed him directly. “Ho there, friend! Might I know your name?”

“I doubt it, but anything’s possible,” Daylen blurted out before he could stop himself. Duncan facepalmed, a couple of the honor guard’s jaws dropped, and Daylen winced as he realized what he’d said and who he’d said it to.

Luckily for everyone involved, Cailan laughed. Whether it was at his words or the stricken look on his face, Daylen wasn’t sure. “You’ve got yourself a lively one, Duncan. And I was beginning to think the Wardens were all stodgy priests!” Duncan breathed a sigh of relief, and the honor guard relaxed marginally. “I understand you hail from the Circle of Magi. I trust you have some spells to help us in the coming battle?”

“A fair set, yes. I’ve shown aptitude at both blowing things up and healing wounds. Hoping there won’t be much need for the latter.”

“Excellent,” Cailan declared, clapping Daylen on the shoulder. “We have too few mages here, so another is always welcome. Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Ostagar. The Wardens will benefit greatly with you in their ranks.”

Daylen flushed slightly, unused to such attention. “You’re too kind, Your Majesty,” he mumbled.

Cailan shrugged. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I should return to my tent. Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies.”

“Your uncle sends his greetings and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week,” Duncan chimed in.

Cailan scoffed. “Eamon just wants in on the glory. We’ve won three battles against these monsters and tomorrow should be no different.”

“I didn’t realize things were going so well,” Daylen said. “You sound very confident.”

“I’m not even sure this is a true Blight. There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, but alas, we’ve seen no sign of an Archdemon.”

Duncan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Disappointed, Majesty?”

Cailan shrugged. “I’d hoped for a war like in the tales! A king riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god! But I suppose this will have to do.”

“Didn’t thousands die in those battles?” Daylen asked pointedly.

Cailan didn’t acknowledge his question, but turned his back to them. “I must go before Loghain sends out a search party.”

“He seems quite confident,” Daylen remarked as soon as they were out of earshot. “Maybe a little too much?”

Duncan started walking towards the main camp. “What the king said is true. They’ve won several battles against the darkspawn here.”

“But you don’t share his views.”

Duncan pursed his lips. “Their numbers continue to grow despite the casualties they’ve taken. At this point, they most likely outnumber us. With the size of the horde our scouts have reported, I know there is an Archdemon behind this. But I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling.”

“You can’t?” Daylen asked skeptically. “If he’s not going to listen to the expert on dealing with and killing darkspawn, who is he going to listen to? If there is an Archdemon directing the darkspawn like you feel, they won’t be some mindless horde. They’ll use tactics and strategy that a simple raid wouldn’t. You need to tell the king about this, if that’s the case.”

Duncan sighed and stopped walking, turning to look Daylen in the eye. “Amongst those in power, the Grey Wardens still bear the black mark on their reputation in Ferelden due to their exile ages ago. Pushing too hard could undo all that. It would appear that we are trying to influence those in power again. We must remain neutral. It is one of the core principles behind our order. We do not play politics. Our job is the destruction of darkspawn.”

Daylen nodded, properly chastised. “What would you have him do?”

“Wait for reinforcements. Amass the forces necessary to destroy the horde safely.”

“How is he supposed to wait if he’s on the defense?” Daylen asked. “He can’t very well control when the horde attacks. What reinforcements could he even call on?”

“We sent a call out west to the Grey Wardens of Orlais, but it will be many days before they can join us. Our numbers in Ferelden are too few. We must do what we can and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference. To that end, we should proceed with the Joining.”

Daylen’s stomach rumbled. “A hot meal might be nice, first,” he mumbled.

Duncan chuckled. “I agree. We have until nightfall to perform the ritual. Every recruit must go through a secret ritual we call the Joining to become a Grey Warden.” Duncan nodded at Daylen’s thoughtful look. “Yes, this is what sets us aside from others. The ritual itself is brief, but some preparation is required. We must begin soon. You are not the only recruit we have here, but we have been waiting for you.”

“And I take it that all or part of what I picked up from Tamarel is needed for the Joining?”

Duncan eyed him for a moment, and Daylen felt he was straying too close to secret information again. “Correct,” he finally said. “Make no mistake, the Joining is dangerous. But it is necessary to become a Grey Warden.”

“Wonderful. Let’s get it over with, then.”

“Feel free to explore the camp here as you wish. All I ask is that you do not leave it for the time being.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to run off,” Daylen said. “Not like I have any place to go.”

Duncan didn’t comment. “There is another Grey Warden in the camp, by the name of Alistair. Find him, and tell him it’s time to summon the other recruits. You will find me at the Grey Warden tent on the other side of this bridge.”

Nodding to the soldier at the end of the bridge as he passed by, Daylen felt a tingle of magic in the air and spotted several mages working in an enclosure guarded by a surprisingly skinny Templar. Daylen tucked his shoulders in, keeping his head down and avoiding the Templar’s eyes as he passed by.

“What do we have here?” he heard. Daylen flinched, before realizing it was a woman’s voice and looking up. The Circle robes told him the older woman was a mage, and he recognized her a moment later. “I heard the new Grey Warden recruit was from the Circle,” she said. “I don’t believe we’ve met, but I’ve certainly heard a lot about your talent.”

Daylen raised an eyebrow. “You’ve heard of me? I know who you are, Wynne, but I wasn’t aware I’d made that much of an impression.”

“When the First Enchanter takes a personal interest in the progress of a single apprentice, other enchanters take notice. I understand you’ve quite some skill as a healer as well as with primal magic.”

“My first magical release was directed at a healing burst,” Daylen admitted.

“Well, perhaps we can share notes later, but I must congratulate you on passing your Harrowing. Marvelous work, the Fade is a dangerous place.”

“I’m not sure how one measures that,” Daylen replied. “It didn’t seem that difficult, but I seem to be rather lucky.”

“Not difficult, eh?” Wynne gave him a skeptical look. “You know all there is to know already, do you? Irving said as much about you – remarkable self-confidence.” Daylen limited his reaction to a raised eyebrow rather than a raised finger, and she went on. “So, a Grey Warden…fighting alongside the king. Not too shabby for someone just out of apprenticeship.”

“King Cailan thinks the battle will go well,” Daylen replied. “I’m not convinced, but…”

“But the king must always seem confident,” Wynne interrupted. “His behavior affects the troops’ morale. He does seem to find his enthusiasm easily, though. Reminds me of a puppy, and I say that with both respect and affection. He is a fine man. To defeat the darkspawn, we will have to work together. It’s not an idea that everyone seems able to grasp.”

“You can say that again,” Daylen said, wondering why Wynne felt the need to try correcting him on everything. “But I should be going. Lots to do.”

“Well, don’t let this old mage distract you from your duties. I’m sure Duncan has much for you to do.”

Daylen nodded, moving deeper into the camp, mumbling under his breath. “Old mage? She’s in her forties.”

Spotting the quartermaster, Daylen shifted his backpack, overhearing a nearby archer talking to an unimpressed female soldier. “So…any last wishes I can help fulfill before you head into battle? Life is fleeting, you know. That pretty face could be decorating some darkspawn spear this time tomorrow.”

“Nothing to charm a woman’s heart like telling her she could get her head cut off,” Daylen deadpanned as the woman glared at the archer. As the archer looked away, the woman took the opportunity to stalk off, shooting him a grateful look as she did.

“Well, you’re not what I thought you’d be.”

“What’d you think I’d be?” Daylen asked. “And how do you know who I am?”

“I knew the last recruit was a mage, but I was hoping for a comely lass with golden hair and terrible eyesight,” he replied with a chuckle. “The name’s Daveth. It’s about bloody time you came along. I was beginning to think they cooked this ritual up just for our benefit.”

“Maybe they did,” Daylen said conspiratorially.

“Just to give us a good scare?” Daveth considered it for a moment before shaking his head. “No, they don’t really seem the type.”

“That would require a sense of humor, and I haven’t seen much of one amongst the Wardens yet.”

Daveth snorted. “Too right. I happened to be sneaking around camp last night, see, and I heard a couple of Grey Wardens talking. So I listen in for a bit. I’m thinking they plan to send us into the Wilds. It’s all too secretive for me. Makes my nose twitch.”

“I hear that. I haven’t been able to get a straight answer out of Duncan since he recruited me.”

“I guess we’ll have to wait and see,” Daveth sighed. “Like we have a choice.”

“They’re forcing you to be here?” Daylen asked. “Well, in that case, I’ll watch your back if you watch mine.”

“I suppose I could do that,” Daveth said, extending a hand. Daylen clasped hands with him the way he’d seen Duncan do with Cailan, and the two shook hands. “Anyway, I expect it’s time to get back to Duncan. That’s where I’ll be, if you need me for anything.” Daylen nodded, before turning to the quartermaster.

“Something you need?” The man asked.

“Supplies,” Daylen replied bluntly. “I’m a Grey Warden.”

“Good to have you here, what with those slavering monsters about.”

Daylen looked around. “Who, the darkspawn?”

“No,” the quartermaster replied quietly. “Them nobles. Wicked beasts, they are.” He waggled his eyebrows, and Daylen laughed. “Anyway, I’ve got some weapons, armor, poultices and potions about if you need ‘em.” Daylen hocked just about everything he could spare – a handful of amulets and belts he had looted from the Circle’s repository and the weapons had gathered in the tower – for a half-dozen elfroot infusions, a handful of watered-down lyrium potions, and whatever useful reagents the man had in stock. A fistful of silvers made up the difference.

“I’m looking for another Warden,” Daylen said, tucking the items into his satchel, along with his healthier coin purse. “Name of Alistair. You seen him?”

“Oh, him?” The quartermaster pointed up a nearby ramp. “He went that way. Bit of an odd duck, that one.”

As he approached, Daylen heard an angry male voice. “What is it now? Haven’t Grey Wardens asked more than enough of the Circle?”

“I simply came to deliver a message from the revered mother, ser mage,” a man in splintmail was saying soothingly. “She desires your presence.”

“What Her Reverence ‘desires’ is of no concern to me! I am busy helping the Grey Wardens – by the king’s orders, I might add!”

The armored man raised an eyebrow. “Should I have asked her to write a note?”

“You can tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!”

The man rolled his eyes. “Yes, I was harassing you by delivering a message.”

“Your glibness does you no credit,” the mage snapped.

“Here I thought we were getting along so well. I was even going to name one of my children after you. The grumpy one.”

“Enough!” The man turned to leave to find Daylen in his way. “Get out of my way, fool!”

“Has the Circle lost so much tact that our own enchanters can’t keep their tempers?” Daylen asked delicately, looming over the man. His slight build detracted from the effect, but having a full head’s height over the senior enchanter helped. “With our allies, or even our own? I imagine the First Enchanter would be annoyed to hear how one man cost the Circle so much goodwill.”

The man glowered at him, but huffed. “I will speak to the woman if I must.” He pushed past, and Daylen let him go.

“You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together,” the other man remarked as the senior enchanter stormed off.

Daylen gave him a pained smile. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“It’s like a party,” he went on. “We could all stand in a circle and hold hands. That would give the darkspawn something to think about.” He looked closer at Daylen. “Wait, we haven’t met, have we? I don’t suppose you happen to be another mage?”

“Besides innate abilities, membership in the Circle, and a passed Harrowing I wouldn’t,” Daylen said, assuming this was Alistair. “What, the robes and staff didn’t tip you off?” Alistair – Alistair? – winced, and Daylen gave him a sympathetic look. “Would that make your day worse?”

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” the man Daylen could only assume was Alistair admitted. “And here I thought I’d been yelled at by every mage in camp. Wait, I do know who you are. You’re Duncan’s recruit from the Circle of Magi. I should have recognized you right away. I apologize.”

“No offense taken, but how could you recognize me?”

“Duncan sent word ahead. He spoke quite highly of you.”

“He did?” Daylen asked, scratching his beard. “I didn’t realize I’d impressed him.”

The man who was most likely Alistair shrugged. “You wouldn’t be here if he didn’t think you were worth recruiting. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Alistair, the newest Grey Warden, though I guess you knew that.”

“I didn’t know anything besides your name, but I’d figured. Duncan sent me looking for you.” At least this was, in fact, Alistair.

“I’ll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining.”

“How’d you pull that duty?”

“Tradition,” Alistair said. “I’m the junior member of the order.”

Daylen extended a hand. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you,” he said, as Alistair clasped hands with him. “Daylen Amell.”

“Right, that was the name,” Alistair replied, shaking his hand. “So, I’m curious. Have you ever actually encountered darkspawn before?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure. You?”

Alistair nodded, his eyes dark. “When I fought my first one, I wasn’t prepared for how monstrous it was,” he said quietly. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to encountering another.”

Daylen tilted his head. “Hate to break this to you, but you may be in the wrong line of work.”

Alistair snorted. “I do enjoy the camaraderie. If you’re ready, let’s head back to Duncan. I imagine he’s eager to get things started.”

“I look forward to working with you.”

“You do?” Alistair looked genuinely surprised. “That’s a switch. If you have any questions, let me know. Otherwise, lead on!”

“Shouldn’t you be leading?” Daylen asked. “Probably know the way around better than I do.”

“Consider it a test of ability.” Daylen shrugged and took the lead.

A man in leathers addressed them as they passed the kennels. “Say, you’re Grey Wardens, aren’t you? Would you mind helping me out?”

“What do you need?”

“I’ve got a sick hound,” the kennel master explained. “I have medicine that might help, but I need him muzzled.”

Daylen eyed the warhound in the pen. The dog was barely able to stand, but had backed into a corner. “Maker, he’s a big one.” He looked to Alistair, who held up his hands and gave a firm shake of his head. “Well, I’ll give it a shot.”

“Go in the pen and let him smell you. We’ll know right away if he’ll respond.” He handed Daylen the muzzle. “Let’s hope this works. I would really hate to have to put him down.”

Daylen entered the pen, and the mabari growled weakly at him. “Hey there,” Daylen said soothingly, crouching down. “Look, I’m not here to hurt you. He can help, but I’m going to need to muzzle you, all right?” The hound snuffled. “If we don’t help you, you’ll die.” The mabari whimpered, lying down on the straw in the pen. “Good boy.” Daylen gave him a quick scratch behind the ears and held the muzzle out for him to sniff. “What’s your story?”

“His master was killed, on a scouting patrol. He made his way back with the survivors. Apparently he savaged a dozen darkspawn – some that attacked his master, some that approached the body. He fell sick not long after they got back.”

“Well, that’s terrible.” The dog snuffled at the muzzle. “See? It won’t hurt you.” He gently strapped it on the dog and patted him on the head. “Hang in there, boy.” The dog’s stubby tail thumped weakly.

“Well done! Are you heading into the Wilds anytime soon?”

Daylen glanced at Alistair, who remained remarkably straight-faced. “Might be, not sure.”

“There’s a particular herb I could use – it’s a flower that grows in the swamps here. Could improve the dog’s chances. I’d get it myself, but my dying out there wouldn’t help anyone. You lot are Wardens, fighting darkspawn is what you do. It’s very distinctive – all white with a blood-red center.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Daylen promised.

“Good. I’ll do what I can here.” Daylen gave the man a nod, before heading up another ramp.

“This is the infirmary,” Alistair said. “Duncan’s tent is that way.”

“I know. I want to know if I can help.” He looked around, spotting an herbalist. “I’m a mage with training in herbalism and healing. Is there something I can do to help?”

“I don’t have time to attend to everyone,” the man said bluntly. “I’d appreciate the help. Most of the mages haven’t had time to assist us. Most that needed magic haven’t survived this long.”

Daylen nearly threw up when he saw the first patient, a man who had had half his leg crushed. Any aversion to magical treatment was a non-issue if the patient was in a coma. “What did this?” Daylen asked, tasting bile as he looked beneath the bandages. “No sign of gangrene. This happen in the last day or two?”

“A darkspawn maul,” the herbalist said. “He was a scout. We don’t have the supplies to treat him, even if we could save the leg.”

Daylen cracked his knuckles, sparks jumping across his fingers. “I can help.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “With the leg in that condition?”

“Most of the bits and pieces are still there, even if they’re not in the right places,” Daylen replied, a bluish-white cloud gathering around his hands. He began pumping healing magic into the wounded leg, flesh and bone moving back into the proper places. “He’ll still need a week or so to recover from this, however.”

“A week or so,” Alistair deadpanned. “Because they thought he’d live at all.”

“He should wake up within a day.” The leg began turning pink again as blood flow resumed, and Daylen exhaled slowly. “He’ll never walk right again, that leg is crippled. But he’ll live.”

The second wounded man that Daylen treated was clinging to the cot, shaking and sweating. “This man was poisoned with an unknown toxin less than a day ago,” the herbalist said. “The blade wasn’t recovered, so we can’t identify the agent.”

“Help me, ser,” the wounded man said. “Please.”

“I’ll do what I can.” Daylen put a hand on his shoulder, feeling a feverish heat coming from him. “What’s your name?”

“Ian.”

“Ian, my name’s Daylen. I’m a Grey Warden, I’m here to help you. I’m a Grey Warden, I’m here to help you. I’m just going to take a look.” Daylen looked under the bandage on the man’s belly, frowning. “Hm. Yeah, I can fix that. Do me a favor, Alistair. Fish around in my satchel, see if you can find a vial with blue liquid inside.”

“You want a lyrium potion?”

Daylen glanced at him in surprise. “You know what it is? Doesn’t matter. Grab me a dose. This is going to be draining.” Shaking out his hands, he placed them on either side of the wound. “Ian, I want you to take a deep breath and brace yourself, this is going to hurt.” As Ian nodded and took a tighter grip on the cot, Daylen began pumping healing magic into the wound. The dead tissue around the wound began to burn away, steam rising from the wound, and the man cried out in pain. “Hold on, Ian, hold on, just a moment more!” The steam ceased, and Ian went limp on the cot, gasping for air. “All right, I think I’ve neutralized the poison.”

“Amazing,” the herbalist murmured.

Daylen nodded, weaving slightly as he stood up. Alistair caught his arm, helping him sit on the edge of the cot. “Where’s that vial?” Alistair handed him the potion, and Daylen tipped it back. After a few moments to catch his breath, Daylen nodded, standing again. “Let’s get that wound closed. I’m going to have to heal it slowly, and it’s going to itch like you wouldn’t believe. But you’re going to be just fine.” Daylen took his time, focusing more on healing properly rather than quickly. As the skin finally knitted closed, Ian let out a half-delirious laugh as the pain faded away. Daylen finished up with a quick rejuvenation spell, and the man sat up. “Easy,” Daylen warned, sitting down next to him to catch his breath. “Get a few hours of rest and a hot meal, but you should be just fine.”

“Thank you, Warden,” Ian replied, brushing a hand over the knotted scar on his belly. “I won’t forget this.”

Daylen patted him on the shoulder. “Just doing what I can.” He glanced at the herbalist. “Anyone else?”

“Yes, one,” he said, pointing out a man who was thrashing on a cot.

“My wounds!” The man howled. “They burn!”

“Alistair,” Daylen murmured. “Is this Blight sickness?”

“Yes,” Alistair replied. “Nothing that can be done about this, I feel.”

“Do you have any lyrium dust?” Daylen asked. “This is beyond my ability to heal.”

“The lyrium dust will help?” The herbalist asked, waving to another worker.

“He’s beyond help,” Daylen said quietly. “But the lyrium will make an elfroot potion more effective. He’ll be comfortable, at least.” The necessary reagents were brought out, and Daylen mixed as strong a concoction as he knew how to make. “This ought to do the trick.”

“Thank you, Warden.”

A man in chainmail was nearby, waiting as Daylen and Alistair made to leave. “Greetings,” he said. “You must be the third recruit we’ve heard about?”

“Daylen Amell. Who are you?”

“Ser Jory is my name,” he replied. “I hail from Redcliffe, where I served as knight under the command of Arl Eamon.” He looked Daylen over. “You have the bearing of a man who knows how to fight. If I may ask, were you a soldier before you came here?”

Daylen glanced down at his outfit and equipment, before looking back up at Jory. “I’m a mage, not a soldier,” he replied, a bit thrown by Jory’s oddly formal way of speaking.

Jory flinched as if he had been slapped. “I…had heard mages had joined but…I had not…that is…”

Daylen stared at him. “What? Is something wrong?”

“Yes, I…I apologize. I have always found magic unnerving. I should be pleased that, in this case, it will be on our side. I suppose since you’re finally here I’d best get back to Duncan. I shall see you there.” The man practically ran off, and Daylen shook his head, looking to Alistair.

“People like that are a part of the problem,” he said. “I have to ask – do you have an issue with my being a mage?”

“Not particularly,” Alistair said. “You seem a decent enough sort. I can only hope you won’t turn me into a frog without reason.”

Daylen stroked his beard in thought. “I can’t see defeating the Blight requiring a transformation into a frog, but I’ll let you know.”

The next half hour passed quickly. Daylen talked a guard into giving a suspected deserter a meal in exchange for a questionably obtained key, looted a chest full of valuable amulets, belts, and rings from behind a Tranquil watchman, and studiously ignored a Chantry sister loudly offering blessings every time they passed by.

“I suppose we had best get back to Duncan,” Daylen said.

“Indeed,” Alistair agreed, looking at the sun. “It’s getting a bit late.”

Daylen spotted a nearby tent. “Or we could go bother these men.”

“You approach the tent of Teyrn Loghain,” the guard challenged. “State your business.”

“Sorry to bother you,” Daylen said. “I’m a Grey Warden. Could you tell me about Teyrn Loghain?”

The guard looked surprised. “How can you not know of Loghain? He helped free Ferelden. He was the brains behind King Maric’s armies and drove out those damned Orlesians. King Maric rewarded him by making him a teyrn. A commoner became a high nobleman just like that. Without Loghain, you can bet the king wouldn’t be winning against these darkspawn.”

“Well, I’m here from the Circle,” Daylen explained. “I know of Teyrn Loghain, but besides the basic information we don’t hear much. Is the teyrn inside? What’s he doing?”

“He’s inside, but I don’t think it’s my place to discuss his activities.”

“Surely you can tell me a little more about him,” Daylen pressed.

The guard sighed. “I suppose, so long as we talk quietly. He and the king have been arguing for days. The teyrn’s known the king since he was swaddled, so they don’t stand on ceremony. The teyrn speaks his mind, and the king yells right back. Personally, I think the king should do what Teyrn Loghain tells him. Without the teyrn, we wouldn’t be doing as well we are.”

“Clearly you respect him deeply.”

“None more,” the guard said proudly. “Without him, none in Ferelden would enjoy the freedoms we do now.” He glanced over his shoulder. “That is all the time I can give you, Warden. Please, move along.”

—ROTG—

The first Blight had already raged for 90 years. The world was in chaos. A god had risen, twisted and corrupted. The remaining gods of Tevinter were silent, withdrawn. What writing we have recovered from those times is filled with despair, for everyone believed, from the greatest archons to the lowliest slaves, that the world was coming to an end.

At Weisshaupt fortress in the desolate Anderfels, a meeting transpired. Soldiers of the Imperium, seasoned veterans who had known nothing their entire lifetimes except hopeless war, came together. When they left Weisshaupt, they had renounced their oaths to the Imperium. They were soldiers no longer: They were the Grey Wardens.

The Wardens began an aggressive campaign against the Blight, striking back against the darkspawn, reclaiming lands given up for lost. The Blight was far from over, but their victories brought notice, and soon they received aid from every nation in Thedas.

They grew in number as well as reputation. Finally, in the year 992 of the Tevinter Imperium, upon the Silent Plains, they met the Archdemon Dumat in battle. A third of all the armies of northern Thedas were lost to the fighting, but Dumat fell and the darkspawn fled back underground.

Even that was not the end.

The Imperium once revered seven gods: Dumat, Zazikel, Toth, Andoral, Razikale, Lusacan, and Urthemiel. Four have risen as Archdemons. The Grey Wardens have kept watch through the ages, well aware that peace is fleeting, and that their war continues until the last of the dragon-gods is gone.

--From Ferelden: Folklore and History, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

Chapter Text

A few moments’ walk had them by the bonfire by Duncan’s tent, Duncan himself emerging to greet them with Jory and Daveth in tow. Daveth looked casual as ever, but Jory was still pointedly keeping his distance from Daylen. “Ah, welcome back. I see you found Alistair, so I’ll assume you are ready to begin preparations. Assuming, of course,” he looked at Alistair, “that you’re quite finished riling up mages.”

“We’re under orders to cooperate,” Alistair protested. “And the revered mother ambushed me! The way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army.”

Daylen shrugged. “That’d be interesting to see. A revered mother guilting the darkspawn into surrendering.”

“She forced you to sass the mage, did she? We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair. We’re already on shaky ground.”

Alistair sighed. “You’re right, Duncan. I apologize.”

Duncan nodded. “Now then, since you are all here, we can begin.”

“Well, wait,” Daylen broke in. “He hasn’t sassed me or riled me up. I feel left out.” Daveth snickered, and Alistair was fighting a smile as Duncan rolled his eyes.

“Perhaps later. You four will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks. The first is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit.”

Daveth crossed his arms. “And the second task?”

“There was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts. It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls have been left behind, magically sealed to protect them. Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can.”

Daylen perked up at the thought of fresh knowledge. “What’s on these scrolls?”

“Old treaties, if you’re curious. Promises of support made to the Grey Wardens long ago. They were considered only formalities. With so many having forgotten their commitments to us, I suspect it may be a good idea to have something to remind them with.”

“Shame that we need to remind them,” Daylen muttered. “You’d think they’d have a vested interest in, you know, not having their world destroyed by darkspawn.”

“You might think that,” Duncan said dryly, “but you’d be surprised.”

“What if the scrolls aren’t there anymore?” Daylen asked.

“It’s possible the scrolls may have been destroyed or even stolen, though the seal’s magic should have protected them. Only a Grey Warden could break such a seal.”

“I don’t understand,” Alistair broke in. “Why leave such things in a ruin if they’re so valuable?”

Duncan shrugged. “It was assumed we would someday return. A great many things were assumed that have not held true.”

“Find the archive and three vials of blood,” Daylen summed up. “Understood.”

“Then may the Maker watch over your path,” Duncan said. “I will see you when you return. Dismissed.”

The group passed the kennels, and Daylen quietly wondered whether going with three strangers into wild territory filled with darkspawn was a good idea.

“Hail!” The gate guard said as they approached. “I’m told you all have business in the Wilds. The gate’s open for you.” He glanced into the wilderness beyond the gate. “Just be careful out there. Even a Grey Warden won’t be safe in the forest tonight.”

Alistair nodded. “We should be back before then.”

—ROTG—

Alistair didn’t quite guide them into the wilderness, but he did provide some basic directions to the section of the wilds they were looking for, where darkspawn had been previously sighted. Presumably being able to find one’s way was another test.

The first threat they faced was not darkspawn, however.

“This,” Daylen ducked the wolf’s lunge, whacking it across the flank with his staff, “makes no sense! Wolves don’t attack people like this!”

“Try telling them that!” Alistair replied, stabbing one of the wolves in the side. Another lunged at him, and he caught it on his shield, levering the animal up and over his head, letting its own momentum carry it past him. Unfortunately, Daylen happened to be standing behind him, and he went down hard under the wolf’s weight. Ser Jory’s greatsword kept a trio of other wolves at bay, and Alistair lunged, stabbing one in the neck as Jory caught another in the ribs, sending the yelping wolf flying across the trail.

“Little help down here?” Daylen hollered, crying out as the wolf managed to get its teeth around his wrist. The wolf shook its head, and Daylen screamed as his arm broke. There was a crackle as he let a burst of elemental lightning loose, and the scent of burning hair flooded his nostrils as the wolf’s pelt caught fire. The beast howled, letting his arm loose. Whimpering and clutching his injured arm to his chest, Daylen flung another bolt of lightning, hitting the burning wolf and sending it flying limp into a section of the bog.

Jory sank his greatsword into the back of the final wolf, and Daveth reached down, rolling Daylen onto his back. “You all right, then?”

Magic flared around Daylen’s hand. “I’ll live,” he grunted, eyeing the teeth marks gouged deep into his flesh. Blood pumped freely from the wounds, and Daylen flooded his arm with healing magic, flesh knitting back together. Jory looked distinctly uncomfortable at the sight, and Daylen groaned in pain as the bone fused. “Oooh-hoh, that hurts.”

“Maker’s breath,” Daveth said quietly, helping Daylen to his feet. “Can all mages do that?”

“Some,” Daylen said. “I have a talent for it. Lucky, since I get hurt a lot.” Shaking out his healed wrist, Daylen looked to his companions. “Anyone else injured?”

The party had only gone another minute or two before Daveth sniffed the air. “I smell a corpse.”

Daylen gave him a concerned look. “You know what a dead body smells like?”

“Smelled them enough times,” Daveth said quietly, looking around. “Ah, here we go.” Slinging his bow and rooting around in a bush, Daveth hauled a relatively fresh corpse out of the edge of a pond, pulling a letter from the dead man’s pocket. “Some missionary, off to meet his father.” Daveth looked up. “Some goodies there, apparently, we may want to reclaim that if we can.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” Daylen said. “Let’s keep moving. Darkspawn to kill and treaties to find.”

Two minutes later, Daylen sighed, looking at the dead body in front of them. “This is neither of those things.” He jumped as the corpse rolled over and looked up.

“Who…is that?” The soldier asked. “Grey Wardens?”

“Ah.” Daylen glanced at the others, who shrugged. “Recruits, but yes.”

Alistair knelt, examining the man. “Well, he’s not half as dead as he looks, is he?”

“My scouting band was attacked by darkspawn!” The man hissed in pain. “They came out of the ground. Please, help me! I’ve got to…” he gasped and clutched at the wound in his side. “I’ve got to return to camp.”

“Hold still,” Daylen said softly. “We’ll patch you up. Alistair, can you bandage some of this? I’ll see if I can get him back on his feet.” Daylen closed the worst of the injuries before the soldier stood shakily. “Head back to the camp. Take your time. You lost a lot of blood.”

“Thank you. I’ve got to get out of here!”

“Did you hear?” Jory said after the man left. “An entire patrol of seasoned men killed by darkspawn!”

“Calm down, Ser Jory,” Alistair said soothingly. “We’ll be fine if we’re careful.”

“Nobody said those men were seasoned,” Daylen added. “Could have been raw recruits for all we know.”

“Those soldiers were careful, and they were still overwhelmed. How many darkspawn can the four of us slay? A dozen? A hundred? There’s an entire army in these forests!”

“Who said they were careful, either?”

“There are darkspawn nearby, but we’re in no danger of walking into the bulk of the horde,” Alistair insisted.

“How do you know?” Jory challenged. “I’m not a coward, but this is foolish and reckless. We should go back.”

“Jory, overcoming these dangers is part of our test,” Daylen said. “Being a Warden has ‘dealing with darkspawn’ in the job description.”

“I am simply trying to stay alive,” Jory replied defensively. “You do not see me fleeing, do you?”

“I see you arguing that we should all flee!”

“A bit of fear isn’t unnatural, you know,” Alistair broke in. “Few relish meeting darkspawn up close. I know I don’t. But if it’ll put you at ease, all Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. I guarantee they won’t take us by surprise. That’s why I’m here.” Another piece of the puzzle fell into place for Daylen.

“You see, ser knight?” Daveth joked. “We might die, but we’ll be warned about it first.”

Jory didn’t look any more confident for knowing. “That is…reassuring?”

“But that doesn’t mean I’m here to make this easy,” Alistair said. “So let’s get a move on.”

The group moved farther into the Wilds, and Daylen spotted the flower the kennel master had asked him to look for. Gathering as much as he could, Daylen tucked the samples into his satchel.

“The hound?” Alistair asked as Daylen carefully put the samples away. “Good. Would hate to see that dog get put down.”

“I still don’t think we should be out here right now,” Jory blurted out as they found the rest of the wounded man’s patrol. Most of them were in pieces.

Daylen ignored Jory’s panicky chattering, looking around. “I don’t think we’re alone,” he said quietly. “Keep your eyes open.”

Alistair’s head came around, his eyes narrowing. “He’s right. Darkspawn, that way.” Daveth nocked an arrow and Jory’s greatsword cleared its scabbard easily.

Daylen’s eyes widened as he saw a group of darkspawn charging down a hill. Jory gasped, Daveth blasphemed, and Alistair drew his sword, falling into a defensive position. “Time to prove yourselves.”

Jory easily batted aside a hurlock’s strike, before slicing through its simple armor with a heavy blow from his greatsword. Bracing the blade, he cracked a genlock in the head with the pommel, a sickening crunch coming from the creature’s skull as it fractured. Daveth put an arrow through the genlock’s neck, taking it down for good.

Daylen, meanwhile, was frozen in terror. “Daylen, move!” Alistair yelled, blocking a genlock archer’s arrow with his shield. “Anytime would be good!”

Daylen shook himself, drawing his staff and freezing the genlock with a burst of elemental frost. Following up with a conjured lump of stone, he shattered the genlock into bloody chunks. Weaving another spell, he let the magic flow and felt a steady drain on his mana. “I’ve enchanted your weapons,” he called. “Elemental frost.”

“I see it,” Alistair replied as Daveth put an arrow through the genlock archer’s face. “I think that’s all of them. I’ve brought some flasks.” Drawing a knife, he sliced open the neck of one of the darkspawn, carefully draining some blood that hissed and bubbled as it hit air into the flask.

Jory took a half-step back. “Maker’s breath!”

Alistair passed out the flasks, and Daylen began filling his. “So, Alistair,” Daylen began as he capped the flask. “What happens after we go through the Joining?”

“You become Wardens.”

“Cute. I meant what’s in store for us?”

“You’d have to ask Duncan about that.”

“Right, because he’s been so forthcoming with information,” Daylen muttered.

“There’s quite a bit of secrecy involved, out of necessity,” Alistair said defensively. “But at a guess, you’ll be fighting alongside the other Wardens in the battle tonight. Assuming the Archdemon shows itself, we’ll kill it.”

“And if the Archdemon doesn’t show?” Daveth asked.

“I don’t know,” Alistair admitted. “That’s really Duncan’s decision.”

“Duncan’s?” Jory asked. “Not the king’s?”

“We’re not technically the king’s subjects,” Alistair said, clearly uneasy. “Wardens renounce all ties. It’s part of our political neutrality.” Jory looked distinctly uncomfortable, but said nothing.

“So the Archdemon is what makes a Blight.”

“Correct. It gives a unified purpose to the darkspawn. Brings them to the surface and hey, you have a Blight.”

“And killing it ends the Blight.”

“Yes. The darkspawn return to being disorganized. They’ll flee back to the Deep Roads, even turn on each other.”

“Can’t say I know much about strategy or tactics,” Daylen said, “but it sounds like the entire point of ending a Blight is an assassination strike. Take out the Archdemon, and you’ve ended the current threat.”

“That’s not inaccurate,” Alistair said. “But considering that an Archdemon is a giant dragon, killing it is no easy task. And even if you do, you’ve still got all the darkspawn on the surface to worry about.”

“I can imagine. But I don’t expect that the Archdemon is going to walk up and let us get a shot at it,” Daylen said. “Maybe if you asked nicely…”

“Of course!” Alistair laughed. “All this time we’ve been fighting the darkspawn, when we could have simply asked them nicely to go away!”

“That’s me,” Daylen said proudly. “Innovating new and simple ways to end worldwide threats.”

“Tell you what, you go up to a hurlock and ask it to leave, and you tell me how that goes for you,” Daveth snarked.

The group crested the hill, and Alistair held up a hand. “Wait,” he said quietly. “There’s another group of darkspawn ahead.”

Daylen peeked over the edge, seeing a group of darkspawn milling around a locked chest. A wicked grin spread across his face. “Say, Daveth. You got any pitch or naphtha on you?”

“I always carry a flask, yes. What you got in mind?”

“Can you dip an arrow in it and light it?”

“Yes, but it’s less effective than you’d think,” Daveth warned.

“You don’t have to kill with it, just hit the target I’m going to give you,” Daylen said. Daveth pulled a scrap of cloth from his pocket and tied it around the shaft of an arrow, dribbling some pitch on the rag. Alistair offered flint and steel, and the arrow blazed to life.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Daveth said, pulling back on his bow’s drawstring.

Daylen twirled his staff, lobbing a hefty blob of conjured grease into the midst of the darkspawn. The grease splattered, and several of the creatures fell to the ground, while others recoiled from the attack. “Now!” Daveth let the arrow fly, landing amidst the darkspawn.

“Uh.” Daylen scratched his head. “I thought that would…” The grease burst into flames, and the creatures screamed and flailed about, slipping and sliding on the grease. Daveth snickered at the sight, and Daylen hooked an arm around his shoulders, grinning as the darkspawn burned. “It’s the simple things in life you treasure.”

“You worry me,” Alistair said, looking at them from the side. “But good job, very creative.”

As the blaze died out, the group approached the burn mark. Alistair kicked over one of the charred corpses, prodding it with his sword. “Unorthodox, but effective,” he admitted. “I’ve seen mages cast fireballs before, but that grease spell is new to me.”

“Fire’s not my strong suit, so the grease spreads it better,” Daylen admitted, examining the chest the darkspawn had been interested in. “Daveth, can you get this open?”

“I can give it a try.” He gingerly picked a darkspawn dagger out of the ash and jammed the blade between the chest’s hinge and lid. A swift blow from his boot snapped the hinge off, and he repeated the action on the other side, before working the chest’s lid off.

“You have some experience with this sort of thing,” Daylen remarked, looking through the contents. An amulet went into his pocket, a shortbow was tossed to Jory, who slung it over his back, and a field journal had a quick perusal before being tucked into his satchel.

Daveth shrugged. “I grew up in a village about a few day’s trip to the east. Little blot you wouldn’t even find on a map. Haven’t been back in years. I struck out for the city as soon as I could outrun my pa, and I’d been in Denerim for about six years. Never liked it much, but there’s more purses there than anywhere else.”

“You’re a cutpurse?”

“And a pickpocket, thank you very much,” Daveth replied archly. “Or was, anyhow. Who’d ever guess I’d end up a Grey Warden?”

“I’ve picked a pocket or two, but I’d hardly call myself an expert,” Daylen admitted. “How’d they get you? Big net, or recruited out of prison?”

“I found them, actually. Cut Duncan’s purse while he was standing in a crowd. Old bugger can run, but the garrison caught me first. Now, I’m a wanted man in Denerim, you see, so they were going to string me up right there, but Duncan stopped them. Invoked the Right of Conscription. Don’t know why he wants someone like me, but he says finesse is important, and I’m fast with a blade.” He paused a moment. “Besides, it beats getting strung up.”

“Imagine it does.”

Another group of darkspawn fell to the group, between blades, arrows, and a handful of Daylen’s more utilitarian primal spells. “Jory, you drain this one,” Alistair ordered. “Daylen, you and Daveth keep an eye out.”

“Got it,” Daylen replied, spotting a group of darkspawn fighting another pack of wolves in the near distance. “Ooh, look!” He leaned over to speak to Daveth. “I’ll give you two to one on the wolves.”

“Ten coppers say the wolves win.”

“Deal,” Daylen said, shaking hands with him. As Jory handed the filled flask back to Alistair with a distasteful look on his face, Daylen felt a prickling on the back of his neck. Frowning, he glanced around. There was nobody around, but the feeling of being watched remained.

“Blast it,” Daveth groused as the last wolf fell to a darkspawn’s blade. “Oh well.” He counted out the coins. “Here you are.”

“Great,” Daylen said. “Now can I have the rest of my money back?” Daveth gave him a sheepish grin and handed him back his coin purse. “Points for audacity.”

The group headed for the pack of dead wolves. Daveth and Daylen took down the two remaining genlocks at range, and the rogue knelt next to one of the bodies, filling a flask with blood.

Daylen prodded a corpse with his staff. “Uh, Alistair? This one’s human.”

“So it is,” Alistair replied, leaning over the body. “He’s not a soldier. See if there’s anything you can use to identify him.”

Daylen patted down the corpse, finding a sheaf of papers stuffed into a pocket. “It’s a will,” he announced after a quick perusal. “That missionary’s note we found, Rigby? This is Rigby.” He looked at the badly-mauled body. “Or it was, I suppose.” Folding it up, Daylen slid it into his satchel. “His wife is in Redcliffe, and he left a lockbox back at his camp.”

“We should recover it,” Jory declared. “It is only proper.”

“Small compensation for a dead husband.” The group quickly backtracked to the camp, digging up the lockbox, before heading deeper into the Wilds, taking a different route. Passing some old ruins, Daylen sighed as he saw several corpses hanging from a half-ruined arch. “Well, that’s pleasant.”

“How smart are darkspawn, anyway?” Daveth asked. “I’ve heard they’re supposed to be mindless, but that’s meant to scare people.”

“They usually are more or less mindless, but things change during a Blight,” Alistair replied.

“Oi!” Daveth called. “I think there’s something over here!”

Five minutes later, Daveth gave the mage a sheepish look. “Sorry about this,” he said, as Daylen healed the bite marks on his leg.

“There’s something over here,” Daylen mocked as he helped the archer to his feet. “Yes, there was something. Wolves. Lots of wolves. Next time, keep it to yourself!”

“Darkspawn nearby,” Alistair sighed.

A fireball nearly blew the entire group off their feet. “Bugger me,” Daylen groaned, sitting up. “They’ve got mages?”

“Emissaries,” Alistair corrected. “They draw magic from the Taint itself.”

Grabbing his singed staff off the ground, he thrust it into the air, and a burst of frost froze the emissary solid. Jory charged, bringing his greatsword down in a shattering blow. The rest of the darkspawn fell in short order, and Alistair peered into the distance.

“I think I see the tower,” he announced. “Hard to tell, but it’s too large to be a hill.” The only trouble the group encountered on the way up the hill was a handful of darkspawn stragglers, along with a hurlock alpha that nearly brained Jory before Daylen froze it and Alistair ran it through. “I think that’s all of them,” he said, yanking his sword free. His brows furrowed as he noticed Daylen breathing heavily. “Daylen, are you hurt?”

“That last scrap took a bit out of me,” Daylen replied. “Ran out of mana. I just need a moment.” He caught his breath a few moments later and hit the group with a rejuvenation spell, bringing fresh strength to everyone’s limbs.

“This definitely is the tower,” Alistair said as they reached the structure. “But where’s that chest?”

Daylen knelt next to a pile of rotted wood. “This may have been it,” he said. “No sign of any treaties.”

Alistair groaned. “Wonderful. The seal on that should have kept them from being removed!”

“They must have been here for at least a couple of centuries, and that’s assuming they were placed when the Wardens were last here,” Daylen replied, standing up and dusting his hands off. “No normal magical seal can last that long, especially in a place like this.” He looked around again, feeling a prickling on the back of his neck again. “The Veil seems pretty thick around here, so the seal would wear off even faster.”

“What do you mean by ‘normal’ magical seal?” Jory asked.

Daylen sighed. “There’s dwarven runic enchantments, of course, but the Tevinters have devised seals that can last for decades or even centuries. The issue is you typically power them with a hefty blood sacrifice.” Jory recoiled as if Daylen had just waved a snake in his face. “I have no idea how to do that sort of thing, but there are documented records of the Tevinters doing just that. I doubt that the Wardens’d use blood magic to protect a handful of scrolls.”

A smooth, low voice rang out. “Well, well, what have we here?” The quartet turned. A svelte young woman with shaggy black hair and striking golden eyes was approaching them. Her robes looked to be assembled from scraps of clothing, adorned with glossy feathers and colored stones. “Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?” She crossed her arms, raising her chin slightly. “What say you, hm? Scavenger or intruder?”

Daylen scratched his beard, considering the question. “The two aren’t really exclusive. Both, I suppose. We’re Grey Wardens, and the Wardens once owned this tower.”

“And ‘tis a tower no longer,” she scoffed, circling around the group. Daylen watched her casually, noting her lack of apparent weapons. Was she a mage? “The Wilds have obviously claimed this desiccated corpse. I have watched your progress for some time. Where do they go, I wondered, why are they here?” She looked out over the Wilds, her back to Daylen. “And now you disturb ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?”

“Don’t answer her,” Alistair murmured. “She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?”

“Yes,” Alistair replied flatly. “Swooping is bad.”

“And if they wanted us dead, we’d be dead,” Daylen said. “They’d take us down with archers from cover, not send in one person to talk to us.”

“She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is!” Daveth hissed. “She’ll turn us into toads!”

Daylen paused. “Now that seems more likely. Well, the Witch of the Wilds part, not the toads part. I’ve never seen a spell that can turn someone into a toad.”

“Witch of the Wilds?” Morrigan sighed. “Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?” She eyed Daylen. “You there, handsome lad. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilized.”

“Civilized? I can do that.” Spreading his hands, he gave a polite half-bow. “I am Daylen Amell, Grey Warden recruit, recently of the Circle of Magi. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Now that is a proper civil greeting, even here in the Wilds,” she replied. “You may call me Morrigan.” Daylen nodded, and she continued. “Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?”

“Here no longer?” Alistair echoed. “You stole them, didn’t you? You’re some kind of sneaky witch-thief!”

“How very eloquent,” Morrigan replied dryly. “How does one steal from dead men?”

“Quite easily, it seems,” Alistair growled. “Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them.”

“I will not, for ‘twas not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish. I am not threatened.”

“Easy, Alistair. If it wasn’t you, do you know who removed them?”

“My mother, in fact.”

Daylen perked up. “Does she still have them? And would you take us to her?”

“There is a sensible request,” Morrigan replied. “I like you.”

“I’d be careful,” Alistair warned. “First it’s ‘I like you,’ but then zap! Frog time.”

“What is it with you people and assuming that mages are going to turn you into frogs?” Daylen asked. “I’ve only heard rumors of shapeshifting using magic, and that’s only a mage shifting their own form!”

“She’ll put us all in the pot, she will,” Daveth protested weakly. “Just you watch.”

“If the pot’s warmer than this forest, it’d be a nice change,” Jory quipped.

“Now you find a sense of humor?” Daylen asked. He shook his head. “Please, Morrigan, lead on.”

—ROTG—

The group followed a narrow path that led between a pair of hills, revealing a hut nestled away from prying eyes. “You must know this area well,” Daylen said, shaking out a damp boot from where he’d stepped in a puddle. “Don’t think I could find this place with a map.”

“I grew up in these Wilds,” Morrigan said. “This place is no more foreign to me than your home is to you.” An elderly woman exited the hut, and Morrigan spoke again. “Greetings, Mother. I bring before you four Grey Wardens who…”

“I see them, girl,” the crone interrupted. “Mmm. Much as I expected.”

“Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?” Alistair asked skeptically.

“You are required to do nothing, least of all believe,” the woman snapped. “Shut one’s eyes or open one’s arms wide, either way, one’s a fool!”

Daveth had remained panicky the entire way there. “She’s a witch, I tell you! We shouldn’t be talking to her!”

“Quiet, Daveth!” Jory urged. “If she’s really a witch, do you want to make her mad?”

“There is a smart lad,” the witch in question commented. “Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will.” Her eyes flicked over to Daylen. “And what of you? Do you possess a different viewpoint? Or do you believe as the others do?”

“Not sure what to believe, actually,” Daylen admitted.

“A statement that possesses more wisdom than it implies,” she said. “Be always aware…or is it oblivious? I can never remember. So much about you is uncertain…and yet I believe. Do I? Why, it seems I do!”

“So this is a dreaded Witch of the Wilds?” Alistair asked.

“Witch of the Wilds, eh?” she laughed. “Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales, though she would never admit it! Oh, how she dances under the moon!”

Daylen ignored the urge to ask what she wore during those dancing sessions.

“They did not come to listen to your wild tales, Mother,” Morrigan said, exasperated.

“True,” her mother allowed. “They came for their treaties, yes? And before you begin barking, your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected these.”

“Told you so.”

“You…oh,” Alistair said. “You protected them?”

“And why not?” the crone sniffed. “Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight’s threat is greater than they realize!”

Daylen accepted the scrolls, carefully stowing them in his satchel. “Thank you for protecting them, and for returning them.”

“Such manners!” the crone remarked. “Always in the last place you look. Like stockings!” She waved a hand. “Oh, do not mind me. You have what you came for!”

“Time for you to go, then,” Morrigan said happily.

“Do not be ridiculous, girl,” the crone snapped. “These are your guests.”

“Oh, very well,” Morrigan sighed. “I will show you out of the woods. Follow me.”

—ROTG—

It was twilight before the group got back to the camp at Ostagar. Morrigan had guided them to the edge of the swamp and vanished into the growing shadows before Daylen could even thank her. They grabbed a quick meal from the mess, Daylen hocked as much of the recovered equipment and goods they had found as he could, and after passing the harvested flower off to the kennel master, the group returned to Duncan’s post at the fire.

“So, you return from the Wilds,” Duncan said. “Have you been successful?”

Daylen bit back the remark that they would probably still be out in the Wilds had they not found the treaties and blood yet. “We have.”

“Good. I’ve had the Circle mages preparing. With the blood you’ve retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately.”

“And what if we have second thoughts?” Daylen asked, thinking of Jory.

Duncan’s face turned hard. “Let me be very clear on that point. You are not volunteers. Whether you were conscripted or recruited, you were chosen because you are needed. There is no turning back now. You must gather your courage for what comes next.”

“Courage?” Jory echoed. “How much danger are we in?”

“I will not lie,” Duncan said. “We Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later.”

“You’re saying this ritual can kill us?” Daylen asked. “That’s great news, that is.”

“As could any darkspawn you might face in battle,” Duncan retorted. “You would not have been chosen, however, if I did not think you had a chance to survive.”

“A chance to survive?”

“Let’s go, then,” Daveth said as Daylen silently mouthed ‘a chance?’ at Alistair. “I’m anxious to see this Joining now.”

“I agree,” Jory seconded. “Let’s have it done.”

—ROTG—

Jory’s boots were beginning to wear a track in the stone floor. “The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it.”

It was beginning to wear on Daveth. “Are you blubbering again?”

“Why all these damned tests? Have I not earned my place?”

Daveth rolled his eyes. “Maybe it’s tradition. Maybe they’re just trying to annoy you.”

“Calm down,” Daylen said soothingly, leaning against a wall with his eyes closed and listening for anything worth hearing around the temple. “Nothing we can do about it now. This Joining…it’s magical, I know that much. Figured as much before. It being dangerous I hadn’t expected. I’m not any happier about this than you, but we’re stuck here.”

“I only know that my wife is in Highever with a child on the way. If they had warned me…” he shook his head. “It just doesn’t seem fair.”

“Did you know anything about the Wardens when you were recruited?” Daylen snapped. “They renounce all ties. All ties. Titles, organizational memberships, familial ties. You leave everything behind when you become a Warden. I’m no longer a Circle mage, you’re no longer a knight of Redcliffe. We’re Wardens now.”

“Would you have come if they’d warned you?” Daveth asked. “Maybe that’s why they don’t. The Wardens do what they must, right?”

“Including sacrificing us?” Jory challenged.

“I’d sacrifice a lot more if I knew it would end the Blight,” Daveth shot back. “You saw those darkspawn, ser knight. Wouldn’t you die to protect your pretty wife from them?”

Jory looked stricken. “I…”

“Maybe you’ll die,” Daveth pressed. “Maybe we’ll all die. If nobody stops the darkspawn, we’ll die for sure.”

“I’ve just never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade,” Jory said weakly.

Duncan entered the temple before Daylen or Daveth could respond, carrying a large, ornate chalice. Whatever was in it, the smell reached them first, and Daylen blinked away burning in his eyes. Was that blood? “At last, we come to the Joining. The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was then that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered the taint.”

Daylen’s jaw dropped as several puzzle pieces clicked into place, and Jory paled. “We’re going to drink the blood of those…those creatures?”

Duncan nodded. “As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you. This is the source of our power and our victory.”

“Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint,” Alistair explained. “We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it slay the Archdemon.”

“Those who survive?” Daylen repeated. “Sorry, hung up on the survive part there.”

“Not all who drink the blood will survive,” Duncan said quietly. “And those who do are forever changed. This is why the Joining is a secret. It is the price we pay.”

“And an awful lot of people would get nervous if they saw you mucking about with blood like this,” Daylen muttered.

“We speak only a few words prior to the Joining,” Duncan said, either not hearing or not acknowledging Daylen. “But these words have been said since the first. Alistair?”

Alistair bowed his head. “Join us, brothers and sisters,” he said quietly. “Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that one day, we shall join you.”

Duncan held out the chalice. Daylen caught a whiff of lyrium, along with the stink of blood and something that smelled deeply wrong. “Daveth, step forward,” Duncan said, holding it out.

Daveth took the chalice, gazing down at the contents. “If this is what it takes,” he murmured, before drinking deeply. He barely had enough time to pass it back to Duncan before he doubled over, wheezing and choking, before falling to the ground. Daylen stepped forward, healing magic swirling around his hands, but Alistair stopped him.

“He’s beyond our help now.”

“Can’t we do something?”

“He is beyond help,” Alistair repeated. Daylen watched in horror as Daveth in front of him. The man didn’t go quietly, writhing and coughing and gagging on the ground, arching so hard it seemed his spine would snap, before he finally fell still. Daylen could distinctly hear gurgling as Daveth’s last breath came out in a rattle.

“I am sorry, Daveth,” Duncan murmured. “Step forward, Jory.”

Jory’s sword rasped against the leather of its scabbard as he drew it, and Jory backed up, holding the blade out in front of him defensively. “But I have a wife. A child! Had I known!”

“There is no turning back,” Duncan insisted, setting the chalice down.

“No!” Jory cried, brandishing his sword. “You ask too much! There is no glory in this!”

Duncan drew a wickedly curved dagger, and parried two wild strikes from Jory before his dagger sank into Jory’s chest, up under the armpit. “I am sorry,” he whispered.

“There is no…” Jory rasped out, blood flecking his lips.

“That it had not come to this,” Duncan said, easing the corpse to the ground. He closed the dead man’s eyes, before standing. “But the Joining is not yet complete.” He picked up the chalice again, turning to Daylen. “You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good.” Daylen took the chalice with shaking hands. “From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden.”

“Here goes nothing,” Daylen muttered, drinking.

It tasted like the inside of a revenant’s helmet, and burned all the way down his throat like nothing he’d ever felt. Daylen heard screaming but couldn’t tell whether it was him or someone else. He felt something hit him in the face and smelled dirt before realizing he had fallen to the ground. His vision blurred and blacked out, and he shook. The cold and the darkness felt like it would swallow him entirely.

Then he saw it.

Big.

Dark.

Staring right at him.

A giant dragon, a deep purple in color, its snout curled upwards with teeth protruding raggedly from its jaw. There was a hissing in his ears, almost like whispered words he couldn’t make out.

It roared at him.

—ROTG—

Daylen opened his eyes. His head felt like a Templar’s training post, and he scrubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. From the sore spot on his forehead, he’d fallen forward, but they must have rolled him onto his back to check his breathing. His voice came out as a pained croak. “Ow.”

“It is finished,” Duncan said. “Welcome.”

“Two more deaths,” Alistair sighed. “In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was…horrible. I’m glad at least one of you made it through.”

“How do you feel?”

“Nothing you said prepared me in any way for that,” Daylen said, sitting up. “Can’t believe you killed Jory.” He glanced over, but both bodies were gone. How long had he been out?

“He could not be allowed to leave with what he had witnessed, and he would not drink,” Duncan said. “As soon as he drew his blade, his fate was sealed.” He sighed. “Such is what it takes to be a Grey Warden.”

“Murder?” Duncan merely shook his head.

“Did you have dreams?” Alistair asked, helping him to his feet. “I had terrible dreams after my Joining.”

“Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do,” Duncan explained. “That and many other things can be explained in the months to come.”

“Not going to wait months,” Daylen said. “After this mess, if there’s more secrets, I want them immediately.”

“You’ll be told soon enough. We lack the time to explain fully right now.”

“Before I forget, there’s one last part to your Joining.” Alistair held out a pendant. “We take some of that blood and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us of those who didn’t make it this far.”

“Take a moment, but only a moment,” Duncan said. “When you are ready, I’d like you to accompany me to a meeting with the king. He is discussing strategy for the upcoming battle.”

—ROTG—

The Chasind "wilders" have lived in the Korcari Wilds since the first wars with the Alamarri drove them southward a millennium ago. According to their own lore, they had always been a forest-dwelling people that adapted quickly to their new home. Game and fish are plentiful in the wetlands, and the Chasind thrived.

For a time, they and the hill-dwelling Avvars were true threats to the northern lowlands. The Tevinter Imperium had arrived and was hard-pressed to keep back the waves of invasions from the south and the west. The fortress of Ostagar was built specifically to watch for Chasind hordes venturing north of the tree line. It was not until the legendary warrior Hafter soundly defeated the Chasind in the first half of the Divine Age that the question of their ability to contest the lowlands was settled permanently.

Today, the Chasind are considered largely peaceful, though their ways are still primitive compared to our own. In the Korcari Wilds they live in strange-looking huts built on stilts or even built into the great treetops. They paint their faces and are split into small tribes ruled by shamans like those amongst the Avvars. There are many tales of these shamans having learned their magic from the "Witches of the Wilds," witches that inspire as much terror as they do awe and gratitude even if there is no definitive proof they exist. In particular, the tale of Flemeth, the greatest witch of the wilds, is celebrated amongst all tribes.

While there is no way to know how many there are in the Wilds today, few travelers that pass through the forests tell of Chasind eking out an existence even in the frozen wastelands of the far south. One can assume that should the Chasind ever organize themselves once more, we might have reason to fear them here in Ferelden. We ignore them at our peril.

--From Ferelden: Folklore and History, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

Chapter Text

“Loghain, my decision is final. I will stand by the Grey Wardens in this assault.”

“You risk too much, Cailan!” Loghain snapped. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, but with the pale skin that comes from the noble privilege of staying out of the sun. He and Cailan had been arguing since Duncan and Daylen arrived at the council. “The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines.”

“If that’s the case, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us, after all.”

Loghain’s face twisted. “I must repeat my protest to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves!”

“It’s not a ‘fool notion.’ Our arguments with the Orlesians are a thing of the past, and you will remember who is king!”

Loghain touched his gauntleted fingertips to his forehead. “How fortunate Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century!”

“Then our current forces will have to suffice, won’t they?” Cailan said archly. “Duncan, are your men ready for battle?”

“They are, Your Majesty.”

“And this is the recruit I met earlier?” Cailan asked, looking to Daylen. “I understand congratulations are in order.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Daylen mumbled, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. Magic hadn’t dispelled it, and it felt like his brain was about to leak out of his ears.

“Every Grey Warden is needed now,” Cailan said. “You should be honored to join their ranks.”

Loghain grimaced. “Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan. We must attend to reality.”

Privately, Daylen agreed with Loghain, but was well-aware the decision was nowhere near in his hands. Cailan rolled his eyes. “Fine, speak your strategy. The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines and then?”

“You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signaling my men to charge from cover,” Loghain supplied.

“To flank the darkspawn, I remember,” Cailan said. “This is the Tower of Ishal in the ruins, yes? Who shall light the beacon?”

“I have a few men stationed there,” Loghain said. “It may be dangerous.”

“Then we should send our best,” Cailan interrupted. “Send Alistair and the new Grey Warden to make sure it’s done.”

Daylen raised an eyebrow at the sudden decision. “I’ll do my best, Your Majesty.”

“You rely on these Grey Wardens too much,” Loghain groused. “Is that truly wise?”

“Enough of your conspiracy theories, Loghain!” Cailan snapped. “Grey Wardens battle the Blight, no matter where they’re from.”

Duncan spoke up. “Your Majesty, you should consider the possibility of the Archdemon appearing.”

“There have been no signs of any dragons in the Wilds,” Loghain replied tersely.

“Isn’t that what your men are here for, Duncan?” Cailan asked.

“I…” Duncan paused. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

A man in mage robes stepped forward, and Daylen recognized him after a moment. Uldred, leader of the Libertarians at the Circle. A woman in a Chantry robe – a Revered Mother, he realized after a moment – scowled at him. “Your Majesty, the tower and its beacon are unnecessary. The Circle of Magi…”

The Revered Mother cut him off. “We will not trust any lives to your spells, mage!” She hissed. “Save them for the darkspawn!”

“Enough!” Loghain barked. “This plan will suffice. The Grey Wardens will light the beacon.”

Cailan nodded, a warm smile on his face. “Thank you, Loghain. I cannot wait for that glorious moment! The Grey Wardens battle beside the king of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!”

“Yes, Cailan,” Loghain replied halfheartedly. “A glorious moment for us all.”

—ROTG—

Duncan seemed content to walk back to his fire in silence. “So, that was a mess,” Daylen finally said. “Why was there a Chantry priestess at a war council?”

“The Chantry feels it needs to have a representative, especially when mages are involved,” Duncan replied delicately.

“Then why not send a Templar? Someone capable of making informed decisions about something combat-related? A Knight-Captain or even a Knight-Commander would have fit right in. Whoever that Revered Mother was, I’m not sure she could add much, even before shouting at Uldred like that. Faith doesn’t stop fireballs.”

“You know Uldred?”

“Spoke with him once or twice at the Circle. Never taught any apprentices, really didn’t add much to discussions. Always came off like he felt he was doing us a favor by showing up.” Daylen paused a moment. “The Wardens are gambling a lot on this battle, aren’t they.”

“More than you realize,” Duncan said softly.

Daylen raised his eyebrows. “Really? We’re expected to stop the horde cold here. Don’t see how it can be done, not with what I’ve seen here and no Archdemon, but almost every Grey Warden in the country are going to be on the front lines – where the heaviest combat is going to be – and we’re also going to be expected to protect the king, who put himself quite literally in harm’s way. On top of that, two more Wardens – junior ones, too – will perform a crucial task during the battle.” He looked at Duncan. “Sounds to me like everything the Ferelden Grey Wardens have is staked on this one battle.” He spread his hands, looking at the Warden-Commander. “I miss anything?”

“You are…observant,” Duncan allowed. “It is one of the reasons I recruited you.”

“Speaking of which, Duncan,” Daylen asked quietly, looking at the fire. “Why did you pick me?”

“You were the best candidate.”

Daylen scoffed. “Don’t give me that. There were other mages in the tower, ones that are older, smarter, more efficient with their mana. I’m literally less than two weeks past my Harrowing. There were mages back there who’ve forgotten more than I know. Sure, I’ve got power, but not the experience or finesse they have. What made you pick me?”

“It was that or watch you executed for a mistake that was not your fault.”

Daylen immediately turned on him, looking down at Duncan. “Bullshit. You selected me before that. Probably even before my Harrowing?” Duncan tilted his head, nodding. “I thought so. Level with me, Duncan. You’ve withheld a lot of information, and are still hiding things. This, I know you can tell me. Why did you pick me?”

Duncan smiled faintly. “Daylen, how old are you?”

“Nineteen. What’s your point?”

“You’ll learn that sometimes, there is no clear answer. Sometimes, something simply draws you to a person. You cannot explain it. You cannot question it. You can only trust that feeling and hope that it will work.”

“And that’s why you picked me?”

“You may not have been the smartest mage at the Circle, or the strongest, but there is something about you that I feel may be vital in ending this Blight.”

“And you have no idea what that is?”

“I have my theories, as you do,” Duncan said. “Part of it may be that you remind me of an old friend. But I feel that when the answer to your question arises, you will no longer need to ask.”

“What are you saying?”

Duncan checked his armor over, tightening the buckles on a vambrace. “I will be dead, soon. Within a year at most. Likely less. Richu, and the rest of the Grey Wardens who will be in this battle? Most of them are not likely to survive this Blight.”

“And I am?”

“You stand a chance. As does Alistair. That’s all, a chance. And even after you are gone, the work will not be finished. It is all that lives on. The work. Not your personal honor, not glory as Cailan thinks, but the work. Protecting Thedas in general, and Ferelden in particular. Do you understand?”

“No.”

“You will. Daylen, everything I’ve seen of you, everything I’ve heard of you, tells me that you possess abilities few do. You’re still young – you’re half my age. The future of Ferelden will be decided in these next few months. The Wardens can preserve it, protect it…or it may collapse into a Blighted wasteland, nothing more than the grave of a nation. If you make it out of all of this, I need you to take up where we left off. To preserve, to protect, to build. Can you do that?”

“Duncan…what am I walking into, here?”

“A life of pain and sacrifice for which you shall not be well-rewarded or long-remembered. But we are Grey Wardens. That is our task in life. We realize that the foundations of society are fragile against the encroaching tide of darkspawn, and we must be the light against the darkness, the protectors of our civilization. We are the architects of our actions. We do what we must – whatever that may be – and we must live with the consequences, for the alternative is the destruction of our world. The path of the Warden has been placed before you, but how you walk it? That choice is yours alone.”

Alistair appeared out of the darkness, his face grim. “The others are moving. What are your orders, Duncan?”

“Alistair, you and Daylen will go to the Tower of Ishal. When the signal comes, ensure the beacon is lit.”

“What?” Alistair squawked. “I won’t be in the battle?”

“This is by the king’s personal request, Alistair. If the beacon is not lit, Teyrn Loghain’s men won’t know when to charge.”

“So he needs two Grey Wardens standing up there holding the torch? Just in case, right?”

Daylen looked at Duncan. “I thought it was weird too. Especially when he has, you know, an entire army to draw from.”

“That is not your choice,” Duncan admonished. “If King Cailan wishes Grey Wardens to ensure the beacon is lit, then Grey Wardens will be there. We must do whatever it takes to destroy the darkspawn, exciting or no.”

“I get it, I get it,” Alistair said with a sigh. “But just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I’m drawing the line. Darkspawn or no.”

“I don’t know,” Daylen mused. “That could be a great distraction. And I can dance the Remigold, so…”

“You and me, shimmying down the darkspawn line? Sure, we could kill them while they roll around laughing.”

Duncan gave a long-suffering sigh. “The tower is on the other side of the gorge from the king’s camp, the way we came when we arrived.”

“Where will you be?” Daylen asked.

“I will be fighting beside the king with the rest of the Grey Wardens. Again, at his request. We will signal you when the time is right. Alistair will know what to look for.”

“How much time do we have?”

“The battle is about to begin,” Duncan said. “Once I leave, move quickly. You’ll have less than an hour.”

Daylen nodded. “And if our friend the Archdemon appears?”

“We soil our drawers,” Alistair said.

“If it does, leave it to us,” Duncan ordered. “I want no heroics from either of you. After you light the beacon, stay with the teyrn’s men, and guard the tower. If you are needed, we will send word.”

“Right. Don’t attack the giant dragon. Got it. Alistair, you have any questions?”

“Can I have a raise?”

Duncan gave him a look that made it clear this wasn't the first time Alistair had asked. “No.”

“No further questions,” Alistair said meekly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Then I must join the others. From here, you two are on your own. Remember, you are both Grey Wardens. I expect you to be worthy of that title.”

“Duncan,” Alistair said suddenly as the older man turned to leave. “May the Maker watch over you.”

Duncan looked at Alistair fondly. “May He watch over us all.”

—ROTG—

Daylen snickered.

“This isn’t funny,” Alistair groused.

“Sorry,” Daylen said, clearly not sorry. “But this rain making you rattle just tickles me.”

Alistair grumbled under his breath as the two looked over the edge of the bridge, and Daylen fought a brief bout of vertigo. “Look, it’s about to begin.”

“I see archers, hounds, the troops in defensive positions…” Daylen dropped to a squat and looked closer. “The obligatory priestess with the censer…” He pointed. “There’s Duncan and King Cailan.”

Alistair squinted. “You can see that far?”

“Not clearly, but there’s only one person on the field wearing gold armor. He’s a bit noticeable.” He looked out at the lights emerging through the mist and his jaw dropped. “Oh. Oh…ooooh shit.”

What seemed an unending tide of torches were emerging from the forest, the dim light revealing scabby, filthy skin and jagged teeth. Tall, burly hurlocks shoved the shorter, ape-like genlocks aside as they strode forward, lumbering ogres stomping along heedless of any obstacles.

Not every darkspawn approaching had a torch, but enough did that a sea of flame was coming their way.

“That’s a lot of darkspawn,” Alistair gulped.

A hurlock alpha roared, and the horde charged.

“Here we go,” Daylen breathed.

“Archers!” came the call. Arrows blazed to life, rags soaked in flammable liquids tied around their shafts. The archers released a volley, and the first several rows of darkspawn fell, arrows piercing and igniting flesh and armor. More stomped forward, breaking into a run, charging at the Ferelden defensive line.

“Hounds!” Over two dozen mabari wardogs leapt from their positions, charging the onrushing horde. Genlocks and hurlocks fell, their throats ripped out by leaping mabari, and Alistair and Daylen winced as an unfortunate hound found itself spitted on a hurlock’s sword. The hounds savaged the front lines, helping break the front ranks of the darkspawn charge, and then retreated quickly.

“FOR FERELDEN!”

Daylen stood. “Wait, why are they breaking from their positions?”

“Move now, debate tactics later!” The two flinched as a boulder flew by, taking out one of the ruined towers across the gorge. Daylen stumbled forward as an archer shoved past him. “Let’s get across the bridge and light that beacon!”

The two began running across the bridge, but Daylen pulled up to a halt halfway across as the full horde came into view. “Oh, fuck me. Alistair…”

“I know. Even more reason to get that beacon lit! Move!” Daylen remained where he was, staring at the horde with undisguised terror in his eyes. “Daylen, move!” A ballista at the other end of the bridge exploded, and Alistair spotted a group of ogres flinging boulders at the siege weapons, including a rock already in the air. “Get down!” Alistair tackled Daylen to the ground as the nearest ballista was reduced to flying shrapnel. The splinters pinged off his armor, and Alistair got to his feet, pulling Daylen up. “Come on, come on! Snap out of it!”

The two sprinted across the bridge, ducking flying boulders, and made for the ramp leading up to the tower’s entrance. Two soldiers ran out, spattered with blood. “You! You’re Grey Wardens, aren’t you? The tower…it’s been taken!”

“What are you talking about?” Alistair demanded. “Taken how?”

“The darkspawn came up through the lower chambers! They’re everywhere! Most of our men are dead!”

“Then we have to get to the beacon and light it ourselves!”

“What, just the four of us?” Daylen asked.

“That’s our job!”

Daylen took a deep breath and nodded. “Time to go to work, then.” He pointed at the two soldiers. “Come with us. Try not to die.”

The group fought up the hill, finding soldiers alone or in pairs and outnumbered at least two to one by darkspawn. They gave help where possible, but most of the soldiers were beyond assistance by the time Alistair and Daylen got to them.

“Maker’s breath,” Alistair gasped as they entered the tower. “What are these darkspawn doing ahead of the rest of the horde? This tower was meant to be secure!”

“You could try telling them they’re in the wrong place,” Daylen offered.

“Right, because clearly this is all just a misunderstanding. We’ll laugh about this later.”

“We need to hurry,” one of the soldiers behind them said. “Teyrn Loghain will be waiting for the signal!”

The first room the group ran into, Daylen accidentally set off a grease trap. He resolved to be more alert as the quartet slipped and slid around, and arrows pinged off the ground around them. The others were on their feet first, and Alistair beheaded a genlock as the creature charged him. Daylen froze an emissary, and one of the soldiers put a crossbow bolt through its neck, shattering it.

The fight up the tower was a slog, tangling with packs of darkspawn in close quarters. Multiple times, Daylen called the others back and flooded a doorway with a torrent of lightning or blasts of frost, disabling groups of darkspawn so the others could finish them off. More than once, Daylen had to help someone back to their feet, dropping an elfroot potion in their laps so they could get back in the fight while he provided cover with elemental bursts.

“That switch!” Alistair hollered, pushing back through his shield against a particularly aggressive hurlock. “It’ll release the hounds in those cages!” Daylen sprinted over, sliding under a hurlock’s wild swing and tripping it with his staff on the way, and yanked the lever, setting the dogs loose even as he slammed the end of his staff into the hurlock’s skull.

The hounds ran free, baying as they ripped into the darkspawn nearby, and Daylen channeled lightning through his staff and into the hurlock’s head. The darkspawn thrashed, bellowing in pain as lightning coursed through it. It finally went still, the body smoldering.

“Up the stairs!” Alistair shouted, knocking a hurlock’s sword aside and putting his own blade through the creature’s sternum. Twisting the blade and pulling it free, the Warden caught a genlock’s arrow on his shield. Daylen fired a burst of arcane energy, the bolt zipping over Alistair’s shoulder and setting the genlock’s head on fire.

Daylen swapped his staff to his other hand, tugging one of the soldiers to his feet. “Stick with it, man, we’re almost there.”

The group stormed up the last set of stairs, and immediately skidded to a stop. A massive creature was crouched before them, facing away. Obscene crunching noises echoed across the chamber.

“What is that?” one of the soldiers whispered.

“An ogre,” Alistair said. “Um…bollocks.” The creature stood, blood dribbling from its mouth. The group could see a half-eaten corpse on the ground next to it.

“Andraste’s blood,” the other soldier squeaked.

The ogre charged, and Daylen drew his staff, lobbing a blob of grease in a panic. Most of the grease missed, but the ogre caught some of it, slipping and falling.

“Charge!”

“Wait!” Daylen said, holding out a hand. “Don’t get too close, you’ll slip on the grease.” He launched a torrent of lightning, and the ogre thrashed, before struggling to its feet and bulling forwards again. “Crap. Now charge!” Drawing deeper on his mana, Daylen unleashed a heavy blast of frost, freezing the ogre. The warriors got in close around the ogre, hacking and slashing at its legs and whatever other body parts they could reach. Daylen sagged slightly, rooting through his satchel for a lyrium potion and downing it.

One of the soldiers flew past him, backhanded by the ogre, blood flying from his mouth. Daylen cursed, running after him as Alistair and the tower guard drew the ogre’s attention. Kneeling next to the fallen man, Daylen bit his lip as he saw the extent of the man’s injuries.

“Am I going to be all right?” The man asked, blood trickling down his chin.

“Oh, sure,” Daylen lied, quickly healing what he could and numbing the rest. “You don’t get out of this that easy!” Pulling the man to his feet, Daylen handed the soldier his sword back. “Come on.”  The man limped back into the fight, lunging and stabbing the ogre in the hamstring. The beast bellowed, falling to one knee, before swatting the man across the room again. Daylen took a single look at the man’s head pointing the wrong direction and turned back to the fight.

Alistair ducked another swipe from the ogre and leapt as it’s guard fell, stabbing his sword into the beast’s neck. The creature fell backwards, and Alistair rode it down, ripping his sword free and stabbing it into the ogre’s skull as it thrashed. “It’s dead,” he rasped, dismounting the corpse. “The beacon is over there! We’ve surely missed the signal…light it before it’s too late!”

Daylen limped over, lobbing a quick burst of fire into the pit. The signal fire caught, and the flames were funneled upwards by the architecture of the tower.

“We did it,” Daylen gasped, turning to Alistair, “I just hope we were in…” he grunted as several arrows thudded into his body. Staggering backwards, he bounced off the wall, flinging a hand out and seeing a wall of ice erupt from the ground, sealing off the stairs to the lower floors. The strain blurred his vision, and he collapsed, knocking Alistair to the ground.

—ROTG—

Elsewhere in the valley, Loghain and his second-in-command watched as the signal fire blossomed – far too late.

“Cauthrien. Sound the retreat,” Loghain ordered.

“But…what about the king? Should we not…”

Loghain grabbed her arm. “Do as I command,” he growled.

She glared at him a moment, before nodding and yanking her arm free. “Pull out! All of you, let’s move!” The troops obediently moved out, taking the majority of the army’s numbers with them.

For a moment, Loghain watched, before turning and walking away into the night.

—ROTG—

Duncan rolled off the ogre as it collapsed and grimaced, feeling two of his ribs stabbing through the skin. Half his ribcage had been shattered when the ogre he had just killed had swatted him aside to get to King Cailan. Spotting the king lying on the ground nearby, he crawled over to him.

One look was all he needed. Cailan’s chest was crushed. His breastplate had done little against the ogre’s mighty grip. The young man’s eyes were open in death, his face locked in a rictus of agony. Duncan patted the body down, finding a dagger sheathed at Cailan’s side and drawing it. It was a simple spike of silverite, adorned only with a wrapped wire handle and a pair of Hale runes folded into it. A simple, efficient weapon. It would do.

Duncan staggered to his feet, ducking a swing from a hurlock alpha’s battleaxe and spitting a genlock through the skull. Grabbing the dead darkspawn’s waraxe, Duncan caved in the hurlock’s helmet with a single stroke, before flinging the axe overhand and splitting an emissary’s head open. Another hurlock swung a sword at him, and Duncan slithered to one side, ignoring the screaming in his side and stabbing the hurlock in the neck, relieving the corpse of its sword as the body fell.

Duncan was no stranger to battle. He had felt the rage and aggression of combat, but he had passed beyond that, here. Perhaps knowing that no help was coming, and that his wounds were likely mortal, was freeing. Perhaps he simply felt there was a job in front of him to do, and was ready to do it, no matter what state his body was in. His anger at Loghain’s evident betrayal, at the brutal death of Cailan, at his fellow Wardens being butchered around him, did not burn. It was beyond that, the glacially cold fury found past berserk rage.

The Warden-Commander stepped forward, a sword and dagger in hand. And the darkspawn began to die. The next few minutes were a frenzy of flashing blades, the howls of the horde, and the screams of the wounded and dying as Duncan made his final stand. Hurlocks, genlocks, and shrieks fell in droves before the weapons of the Warden-Commander.

But one man – even a Grey Warden – can only do so much in the face of a horde.

A genlock archer’s arrow punched through his pauldron, and the dagger dropped from his hand.

A hurlock parried two of his strikes and left a deep gash on Duncan’s thigh even as the looted sword took the hurlock’s head off.

A backhand from an ogre fractured his jaw and spun him around, the broken ribs he had sustained puncturing his lung. Duncan dropped the sword, coughing hard as blood flooded his lung, and scrabbled across the ground, finding the dropped dagger. The ogre’s massive hand closed around him, driving the bones in further, and lifted him off the ground, holding him a mere foot away from its face and roaring.

Duncan’s final conscious action was to ram the silverite dagger into the ogre’s eye up to the hilt.

—ROTG—

Pain.

Daylen’s first sensation upon awakening was pain. Most everything hurt. Bruises, sprains, and a dull throbbing across his chest were all making themselves known as his body informed him how bad his life choices had been. But pain meant he was still alive, a surprise considering his last coherent memory.

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, beating quickly, but strong and regular. His lungs ached when he breathed in, and he pushed himself up on one elbow, trying to breathe deeply and noticing he’d been stripped to his smallclothes. “Ah, your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased.” He looked over, seeing the young woman he had met at the Warden outpost walking towards him.

He opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was a dry, croaking rattle. The woman rolled her eyes and passed him a cup. He took a few slow sips of water, before coughing. “Thank you.” He cleared his throat, looking up at her. “I remember you. You’re the woman from the Wilds. Morrigan.” He scrubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. “Where are we? What happened?” She took the cup and pushed him back flat on the bed with one hand, surprising him with her strength.

“We are in the Wilds, where I am bandaging your wounds.” She checked under the bandage on his shoulder and nodded, before removing the dressing. “You are welcome, by the way.” Daylen probed the healed skin and nodded approvingly, managing to sit up again. “How does your memory fare? Do you remember Mother’s rescue?”

“I remember being overwhelmed by the darkspawn,” Daylen said, trying to remember what happened. “Hit by arrows, I think. You said your mother rescued me from the tower?”

“Mother managed to save you and your friend, though ‘twas a close call. What is important is that you both live.” Morrigan paused, before continuing more slowly and gravely. “The man who was supposed to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned were massacred. Your friend…he is not taking it well.”

Daylen looked up. “My friend? Alistair’s alive?”

“The suspicious, dim-witted one who was with you before, yes. He is outside by the fire. Mother asked to see you when you awoke.”

Daylen swung his legs out of the bed, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. “That’s a relief. Why does your mother want to see me?”

“I do not know.” She pulled up the room’s single chair. “She rarely tells me her plans.”

Daylen took a moment to check himself over properly. Besides the various aches and an interesting pattern of half-healed bruises, he was mostly uninjured. The arrow wounds had healed into puckered scars, and he brushed his fingers over the scar tissue. “Looks like I’m still in one piece. Were my injuries severe?”

“Yes, but I expect you shall be fine,” Morrigan replied. “The darkspawn did nothing Mother could not heal.”

“And Alistair? Is he all right?”

“His leg was broken, but Mother healed him easily enough.” She paused. “I suppose it would be unkind to say he is being childish.”

“Most of his friends were on the front lines in that valley.”

“And you think they would encourage his blubbering? If so, they are not the sort of Grey Wardens the legends note.”

“There were an awful lot of darkspawn in that tower,” Daylen said. “How did your mother manage to rescue us?”

“She turned into a giant bird and plucked the two of you from atop the tower, one in each talon.” At Daylen’s skeptical look, she shrugged. “If you do not believe that tale, I suggest you ask Mother yourself. She may even tell you.”

Daylen opened his mouth, and then closed it and shrugged. “Leads right into my next question. Why did she save us?”

“I wonder at that myself, but she tells me nothing. Perhaps you were the only ones she could reach. I would have rescued your king. A king would be worth a much higher ransom than you.”

Daylen nodded, taking another drink. “A king versus two rookie Grey Wardens? Oh, much, much higher.”

“A sensible attitude,” Morrigan remarked. “Mother is seldom sensible, however.”

“Are we safe here?” Daylen asked, standing up and immediately collapsing as his knees gave out. He hauled himself back onto the bed. “Graceful. How long was I out?”

“Oh…I would say roughly two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” Daylen asked incredulously, casting a rejuvenation spell on himself and managing to stand. “I was out for two weeks? Where are the darkspawn?”

“We are safe, for the moment. Mother’s magic keeps the darkspawn away. Once you leave, ‘tis uncertain what will happen. The horde has moved on, so you might avoid it.” She gestured to a chest at the foot of the bed, and Daylen found his equipment inside.

Daylen frowned at the growing number of holes in his robes as he tugged them on. “Are there any survivors besides us?”

“Only stragglers that are long gone. You would not want to see what is happening in that valley now.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Daylen said, shaking his head as he buckled on the rest of his equipment. “What I can’t understand is, why did Teyrn Loghain abandon the king?”

“I do not know who this Loghain even is. Perhaps ask Mother of it.”

“Hm?” Daylen looked up from tightening a strap. “Oh. Sorry. I think I’ve asked enough questions.”

“Then ‘tis time you speak with Mother, and be on your way.”

“Agreed. Thank you for helping me, Morrigan.”

“I…” Morrigan paused. “You are welcome, though Mother did most of the work. I am no healer.”

Daylen stepped outside, squinting against the morning light. “See?” He heard. “Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man.”

“You…you’re alive!” Alistair looked even more relieved than shocked at Daylen being alive and upright. “I thought you were dead for sure.”

“Considering I’ve been unconscious for two weeks, I’m not surprised.”

“Two weeks?” Alistair asked. “It’s only been a day or two.”

Morrigan’s mother laughed. “Ah, my daughter does enjoy her jokes.”

Daylen winced. “Well, now that I’ve embarrassed myself, I do want to thank you. If any of what else Morrigan said is true, we both owe you our lives.”

“That much is true, you do owe me your lives.”

“I never caught your name.”

She snorted. “Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do.”

“The Flemeth?” Alistair asked. “From the legends? Daveth was right – you’re the Witch of the Wilds, aren’t you?”

“And what does that mean?” Flemeth asked, amused. “I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?”

“I’ll say. I took two arrows to the chest, not many Circle mages could have saved me from that.” He paused, absently rubbing at his chest. “But why did you save us?”

“Well, we cannot have all the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we? Someone must deal with these darkspawn. It has always been the duty of the Grey Wardens to unite the lands against the Blight. Or did that change when I wasn’t looking?”

“Course not,” Daylen scoffed. “But we’re a bit short on numbers these days. Most of the Wardens were in that valley. Which is the next question. Loghain never charged?”

“The reinforcements from the flank? No. They never came. Their leader took them and departed.”

Alistair shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would Loghain do that? Why leave the Wardens and the King to die?”

“Now that is a good question,” Flemeth said. “Men’s hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature. Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat.”

“The Archdemon,” Alistair said quietly.

Daylen raked his fingers through his hair, brushing it back out of his eyes. “We need to contact the rest of the Grey Wardens. You and I can’t do this alone.”

“I don’t know how to contact them, or even if they’re on their way,” Alistair replied. “The king and Duncan had already sent for reinforcements, but I expect Loghain has taken steps to stop them. We need to do something now.”

“We can’t take on the darkspawn by ourselves. We need an army.”

“We could go to Arl Eamon, at Castle Redcliffe,” Alistair suggested. “He wasn’t at Ostagar, and he’s a good man, an honorable man. He would believe us.”

“Loghain was an honorable man too,” Daylen pointed out. “One arl’s forces won’t be enough.”

“You have more at your disposal than you think,” Flemeth pointed out.

“Of course!” Alistair realized. “The treaties! Grey Wardens can demand aid from dwarves, elves, mages, and other places! They’re obligated to help us during a Blight!” He looked at Daylen. “Wait, you had them. Do you…”

Daylen rooted around in his satchel. “Yes, they’re still here, thank goodness.”

Flemeth smiled. Daylen tried not to recoil at the sight. “I may be old, but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon, and who knows what else…this sounds like an army to me.”

Alistair looked unsure. “So can we do this? Build an army?”

“Why not?” Daylen shrugged. “Isn’t that what Grey Wardens do?” He paused a moment. “It’s either that or skip town to Antiva to go whoring, and I don’t think that’s really an option.”

Flemeth sighed. “So you are set, then? Ready to be Grey Wardens?”

“Yes,” Daylen said, sounding far more resolved than he was. “Thank you for everything, Flemeth.”

“No, no, thank you,” Flemeth said. “You are the Grey Wardens here, not I. Now, before you go, there is yet one more thing I can offer you.”

“The stew is bubbling, Mother dear,” Morrigan said, joining the group. “Shall we have two guests for the eve, or none?”

“The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl,” Flemeth said matter-of-factly. “And you will be joining them.”

“Such a shame – what?” Morrigan goggled at her mother.

“You heard me, girl,” Flemeth chuckled. “The last time I looked, you had ears!”

Daylen cleared his throat. “I won’t turn down help, but shouldn’t that be her decision?”

“Indeed,” Morrigan said. “Have I no say in this?”

“You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance.” She looked to Daylen and Alistair. “As for you, Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives.”

“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but won’t this add to our problems?” Alistair asked. “Out of the Wilds, she’s an apostate.”

Flemeth raised an eyebrow. “If you do not wish help from us illegal mages, young man, perhaps I should have left you on that tower.”

“Technically, I’m an apostate too. Outside the Circle’s control and all that.”

“Point taken,” Alistair sighed.

“Mother…” Morrigan paused. “This is not how I wanted this. I am not even ready.”

“You must be ready,” Flemeth said. “Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight. Even I.”

Morrigan looked to be fighting the urge to argue more. “I understand.”

Flemeth nodded, before affixing Daylen with a pointed stare. “And you, Wardens? Do you understand? I give you that which I value above all in this world. I do this because you must succeed.”

“While I’m still breathing, she won’t come to harm with us,” Daylen promised.

“Allow me to get my things, if you please,” Morrigan said. She was back shortly, a satchel at her side and a staff of gnarled wood in her hands. “I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens. I suggest a village north of the Wilds as our first destination. ‘Tis not far, and you will find much that you need there. Or, if you prefer, I shall simply be your silent guide. The choice is yours.”

Daylen shook his head. “No, I prefer you speak your mind.”

Flemeth laughed. “Oh, you will regret saying that.”

“Dear, sweet mother, you are so kind to cast me out like this,” Morrigan said, her tone cloying. “How fondly I shall remember this moment.”

“Well, I always said if you want something done, do it yourself, or hear about it for a decade or two afterwards.”

“Well, not to interrupt this charming family moment,” Daylen said, “but we really must be going. Flemeth, thank you again for all that you’ve done for us. Morrigan, if you’d be so kind, could you lead us on out of here? With no map and me in the lead we’d wind up in Nevarra.”

“Do try to have fun, dear,” Flemeth called as the group walked away from the hut. “Try not to die!”

“Charming woman,” Daylen mused. “Is she really your mother?”

“Born from her womb or not, ‘twas she who raised me and thus I consider her my mother. ‘Tis what you meant, yes?”

“Close enough, yes.”

—ROTG—

Most of the nobility had gathered in the Royal Palace, and already things were in a stir after Loghain’s report of the Battle of Ostagar and his announcement.

“And I expect each of you to supply these men,” Loghain was saying, addressing the gathered nobles. “We must rebuild what was lost at Ostagar, and quickly. There are those who would take advantage of our weakened state if we let them. We must defeat this darkspawn incursion, but we must do so sensibly and without hesitation!”

Bann Teagan Guerrin stepped forward. Unlike everyone else in the hall except Loghain and the royal guards, he was wearing armor. “Your lordship, if I might speak?” Loghain nodded. “You have declared yourself Queen Anora’s regent, and claim that we must unite under your banner for our own good.” He paused a moment. “But what of the army lost at Ostagar? Your withdrawal was most…fortuitous.” There were gasps and murmurs at his words, but Loghain remained stonefaced.

“Everything I have done has been to secure Ferelden’s independence,” Loghain snapped. “I have not shirked my duty to the throne, and neither will any of you!”

Teagan’s face darkened. “The Bannorn will not bow to you simply because you demand it!”

“Understand this,” Loghain said, glaring around the room. “I will brook no threat to this nation – from you, or anyone!” Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the room, and the assembled nobles began trailing out.

Teagan turned to leave, but hesitated when he heard a voice calling his name. Turning back, he spotted Queen Anora, and immediately tried to make his case. “Your Majesty. Your father risks civil war. If Eamon were here…”

“Bann Teagan, my father is doing what is best,” Anora said coldly.

Teagan’s reply was as pointed as it was succinct. “Did he also do what was best for your husband, Your Majesty?” Not waiting for a response, he turned and left.

—ROTG—

To our neighbors, Ferelden seems utterly chaotic. Unlike other monarchies, power does not descend from our throne. Rather, it rises from the support of the freeholders.

Each freehold chooses the bann or arl to whom it pays allegiance. Typically, this choice is based on proximity of the freehold to the lord's castle, as it's worthless to pay for the upkeep of soldiers who will arrive at your land too late to defend it. For the most part, each generation of freeholders casts its lot with the same bann as their fathers did, but things can and do change. No formal oaths are sworn, and it is not unheard of, especially in the prickly central Bannorn, for banns to court freeholders away from their neighbors--a practice which inevitably begets feuds that last for ages.

Teyrns arose from amongst the banns, warleaders who, in antiquity, had grown powerful enough to move other banns to swear fealty to them. There were many teyrns in the days before King Calenhad, but he succeeded in whittling them down to only two: Gwaren in the south, Highever in the north. These teyrns still hold the oaths of banns and arls who they may call upon in the event of war or disaster, and similarly, the teyrns still hold responsibility for defending those sworn to them.

The arls were established by the teyrns, given command of strategic fortresses that could not be overseen by the teyrns themselves. Unlike the teyrns, the arls have no banns sworn to them, and are simply somewhat more prestigious banns.

The king is, in essence, the most powerful of the teyrns. Although Denerim was originally the teyrnir of the king, it has since been reduced to an arling, as the king's domain is now all of Ferelden. But even the king's power must come from the banns.

Nowhere is this more evident than during the Landsmeet, an annual council for which all the nobles of Ferelden gather, held for almost three thousand years except odd interruptions during Blights and invasions. The sight of a king asking for--and working to win--the support of “lesser” men is a source of constant wonder to foreign ambassadors.

--From Ferelden: Folklore and History, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

Chapter Text

“…And since the Chantry controls the lyrium trade with the dwarves, well,” Alistair shrugged. “I’m sure you can put two and two together.”

“We knew the Circle had more lyrium on hand than the mages could ever need, of course, and I knew the Templars had some use for it, but I didn’t know exactly what they were doing with it. Makes sense, though. It’s horrible, but they want control. Addiction’s a great way to do it.” He worked his jaw. “If you’re a heartless bastard, of course.”

“Well, they do it,” Alistair replied. “And they feel perfectly justified. You don’t need lyrium in order to learn Templar talents, it just makes them more effective. Or so I was told. Maybe it doesn’t even do that. The Chantry doesn’t usually let their Templars get away, either, so they can spread their secrets. I’m a bit of a lucky exception as an escapee.”

“Well, I’m glad to be working with you,” Daylen said, shading his eyes and looking into the distance. “Is that…is that a dog?”

“Looks like,” Alistair replied. Sure enough, a mabari hound was running toward them, paws thudding against the dirt road.

“Hey, pup,” Daylen said, kneeling in front of the mabari. Before he could pet the dog, it turned around, growling. A pack of darkspawn were approaching, led by a hurlock alpha. “Well, time to earn our pay.”

“We still get paid?” Alistair asked as he drew his sword.

A quickly-lobbed blob of grease knocked the entire group flat, and Daylen followed it up with a torrent of lightning that ended several hurlocks and wounded the alpha. Morrigan added her own burst of lightning, and Alistair moved in close, finishing a wounded hurlock with an economical stab. The hound literally leapt into battle, tackling the alpha and ripping it’s throat out.

The remaining few darkspawn in the band fell quickly between the two mages, and Daylen turned to the mabari, who was sitting nearby, panting and happily wagging his stumpy tail despite the dark blood dripping from his muzzle. “I think this is the mabari I helped cure back at Ostagar,” Daylen said, taking a closer look at the dog and scratching him behind the ears. “Surprised he made it this far.” He grinned at the dog. “Those darkspawn didn’t hurt you, boy, did they?”

The dog licked his face and gave a happy “whuff!”

“I think he was out there looking for you,” Alistair said as Daylen wiped his face. “He’s chosen you. Mabari are like that, they call it imprinting.”

“Does this mean we’re going to have this mangy beast following us around now?” Morrigan asked archly. “Wonderful.”

“He’s not mangy,” Alistair scoffed.

“No, he’s not,” Daylen agreed. “He’s a big sweetheart.” The hound was flat on his back, one leg kicking as Daylen scratched his chest furiously. “I’ve always wanted a dog like this.”

“Well, you have to name him something,” Alistair said. “Can’t go around calling him Dog.”

“Well, he’s a great big sweet lump,” Daylen said. “What are those pastries the Orlesians came up with?”

“Cupcakes?” Alistair asked. “You’re going to name a two hundred-pound warhound Cupcake?”

“Absolutely,” Daylen said. “You are Cupcake!”

“Whuff!”

“What’s that, Cupcake?” Daylen asked. “Little Timmy fell down a well?” The dog snuffled, and Daylen nodded. “Oh, I’m sorry. You see something, boy?” The dog ran off, and Daylen knelt, nudging one of the darkspawn corpses over. “Huh. Do darkspawn trade or anything like that?”

“Not that I know of,” Alistair said. “They loot when they raid, and from what I’ve heard they’ll fight each other for stuff. Why?”

“Because I’m seeing coin and other valuables on these things,” Daylen reported. “Maybe they just like shiny objects.”

All in all, a handful of silvers and a couple of coppers were recovered from the bodies, by which time Cupcake had returned. Daylen gingerly took the slightly dirty pair of silk pantaloons, noticing the dog’s expectant look. “One can never have too many pairs of pantaloons,” he said, pasting a smile on his face. The dog ran off again, and Daylen shrugged. “I guess he can find us. Come on, then.”

It wasn’t long after that that Cupcake returned, this time with a slightly damaged cake in his jaws. “Cake! Excellent! Good boy!” Daylen took the cake, noting that the teeth marks were confined to one side. “You just…found this, then? There isn’t a small child crying over a lost cake?”

—ROTG—

“Look alive, gentlemen!” A man in leathers called as the group walked down the highway. “More travelers to attend to.” He pointed to Daylen. “I’d guess that fellow is the leader.”

The second man looked barely capable of tying his boots without assistance, and shook his head as Daylen eyed him. Then he opened his mouth and confirmed Daylen’s suspicions. “Er…they don’t look like them others, you know. Uh…maybe we should just let these ones pass!”

“Nonsense!” the leader said brightly. “Greetings, travelers!”

“Highwaymen,” Alistair muttered. “Preying on those fleeing the darkspawn, I suppose.”

“They are fools to get in our way,” Morrigan sighed. “I say we teach them a lesson.”

“Is that any way to greet someone?” The leader chided. “A simple ten silvers and you’re free to move on.”

Daylen tilted his head, looking down at the man. “You’re toll collectors, then?”

“Indeed! For the upkeep of the Imperial Highway!”

“It is a bit of a mess, isn’t it?” Daylen fought the urge to smile at the implausibility of the man’s lie. “So you’re fixing the highway?”

“Nothing much gets past you, I see.”

“It’s not really a toll,” the denser one added. “We’re just robbing you, see?”

“Do shut up!” the leader hissed. “Even a genlock would have understood that.”

Daylen examined his nails, picking a bit of dirt from under one. “And if we can’t pay? Or won’t?”

“We get to ransack your corpse, then!” The bonehead chimed in. “Those are the rules!”

Daylen leaned forward slightly, his face hard. “Takes a lot of balls to try to rob a Grey Warden.”

The dumb-looking one blanched. “Did he say he’s a Grey Warden? Them ones killed the king!”

“Wait, what?” Alistair yelped.

“Traitors to Ferelden, I hear,” the leader said, greed lighting in his eyes. “Teyrn Loghain put quite a bounty on any who are found.”

The temperature dropped sharply around them. “Going to want to rethink that.”

“You have a point,” the leader conceded, his breath suddenly fogging in the air. “Well, let’s forget about the toll. We’ll just leave you to your darkspawn-fighting, king-killing ways.”

Daylen looked over the pile of stolen good behind them. There was a surprising amount of furniture, in addition to assorted personal belongings. The idea of how much equipment they were going to need was already weighing on him. “You know, the Grey Wardens could use a donation.”

The leader was sweating despite the chill in the air. “You don’t say?”

“They is really good, boss, remember.” The knucklehead said.

“Well, yes,” the leader agreed, clearly realizing Daylen had him over the proverbial barrel. “Twenty silvers? That’s all we’ve…collected today.”

Daylen had seen the level of refugees moving along the highway. “You’ve been threatened with death and you’re still trying to short-change me?”

“And just when we had things settled,” the leader groaned. He gasped as the head of Daylen’s staff rammed into his chest, falling flat on his back. Daylen followed up with a blast of frost, freezing almost the entire pack of men solid. The dumb one was the only bandit still mobile, and he drew his axes, only for Alistair to smash him in the face with his shield and stab him under the armpit. The man dropped, coughing from a punctured lung as blood spurted from a severed artery in his arm. Morrigan unleashed a torrent of lightning on the frozen bandits, and most of them dropped dead, ice crackling under the assault. The smell of burning hair spread, and Daylen set a boot on the leader’s neck.

“All right!” The man squeaked. “We surrender! We-we-we’re just trying to get by, before the darkspawn get us all!”

“Picked the wrong target,” Daylen snapped. “I mean, really, man.”

“Yes, yes, of course!” the man frantically said as Daylen applied a little more pressure. “We should have been more careful. I’m sorry!”

“Everything you’ve stolen. Hand it over.”

“Yes! Yes, of course,” the man pleaded. He ripped a coin purse from his belt, throwing it to Alistair. “The coins we collected are right there, just over a hundred silvers! The rest is in the chests we brought! I swear!”

“Good,” Daylen growled. “I’m turning you in.”

The man began thrashing. “There aren’t any guards or constable! Just the Templars, and they’ll execute me!”

“That is what Templars do.”

“I’m not going down without a fight!” Wriggling around, he kicked Daylen in the groin, sending him staggering away clutching his bits. The man scrabbled for his weapon, only for Alistair’s blade to cleave open the front of his neck. Blood sprayed, and the man collapsed, gurgling.

“You all right there, Daylen?” Alistair asked as the man thrashed out his last breath.

Daylen replied by throwing up on the highway. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Daylen took a shaky breath. “Ow.”

“Rather succinctly put,” Morrigan said. “I must remember that trick.”

Daylen focused on numbing the pain as he staggered over to the railing, trying not to whimper too loudly. Forcing a pained smile, he nodded to Alistair. “Let’s look through this mess, see if there’s anything to salvage.”

A brief perusal found items of use to the group – a tent, blankets, a backpack Alistair donned and stuffed what little they had into. Daylen retrieved a locket and a note from the body of a dead man wearing Templar armor and another handful of silvers from the stash the bandits had made. Their loot secure, the group looked out at the village. “Well, there it is,” Alistair said. “Lothering.”

“Pretty as a painting,” Daylen remarked.

“Beats being dead.”

Morrigan looked over at him. “Falling on your blade in grief seemed like too much trouble, I take it?”

Alistair scowled at her. “Is my being upset so hard to understand? Have you never lost someone important to you? Just what would you do if your mother died?”

“Before or after I stopped laughing?”

Daylen coughed out a laugh, before groaning. “Oh, please, don’t make me laugh, it hurts.”

“Is a twisted sense of humor just a mage thing?” Alistair asked. “Never mind. I was just…thinking.”

“No wonder it took so long, then,” Morrigan said dryly.

Alistair glared at her. “Oh, I get it. This is the part where we’re shocked to discover how you’ve never had a friend your entire life.”

“I can be friendly when I desire to,” Morrigan replied. “Alas, desiring to be more intelligent does not make it so.”

“Morrigan, please,” Daylen said. She huffed and rolled her eyes, but fell silent.

“Anyway,” Alistair went on. “I thought we should talk about where we intend to go, first.”

Daylen finally managed to stand up straight, groaning. “You have some thoughts on that point, I take it.”

“So using those treaties, we’ll be able to ask for assistance, maybe even raise an army. There’s the Dalish elves, the dwarves of Orzammar, and the Circle of Magi. But I also think that Arl Eamon is our best bet for help. We might even want to go to him first.”

“You’re the senior Warden here,” Daylen replied. “Why are you leaving it up to me?”

“Well, I don’t know where we should go,” Alistair admitted. “Arl Eamon is a good man, but I don’t know for sure he’s where we should go. I’m not going to fight about it.”

“And I’ve been a Warden for less than a week, most of which I spent unconscious,” Daylen pointed out. “Neither of us is qualified to lead. We need more Wardens. How do we contact them?”

“If we’re going to send word, the only place I know of would be Weisshaupt Fortress, and that’s thousands of miles away. If we go in person, leave Ferelden? We could wander through Orlais hoping to run into someone who knows where to find Wardens, but you heard – Loghain put a bounty on our heads. Even if we got across the border, we wouldn’t be able to come back.”

“Shit. Well, you’re right then. We need to get the resources we can access. Dalish elves, dwarves, mages, Arl Eamon. You mentioned a Castle Redcliffe?”

“That’s the seat of power in the arling, yes. The Dalish elves would be the hardest to find. If we head eastward towards the Brecelian Forest, we should hear word of one of the clans that wanders that area. Hopefully, they’ll still be there.”

Daylen nodded. “They might be our first stop. I’m worried about the mages, though. The Chantry might or might not support us, which could cause problems.”

“If we speak to the First Enchanter, he should see that his responsibility to the Grey Wardens supersedes anything the Chantry – or even Teyrn Loghain – might have to say about it.”

“Irving might grasp the significance, but if the Templars decide to not let the mages go, we won’t be getting their assistance. Greagoir was already bitching about sending mages to help the war effort. And the dwarves?” Daylen asked. “Orzammar, I suppose.”

“Right. But we would need to speak to their king, and that means heading west into the Frostback Mountains, which won’t be easy.”

Daylen nodded, considering the issue. “Morrigan? Any thoughts?”

“Go after your enemy directly. Find this man, Loghain, and kill him. The rest of this business with the treaties can then be done in safety.”

“The direct approach, eh?” Daylen stroked his beard. “Getting to him might be an issue. Tempting as it is, I don’t know if ‘murdering a teyrn’ is a good thing to add to our list of crimes, especially if we’re already up on regicide and treason.” Daylen sighed. “At least I know the situation.”

“Then you have a plan?” Alistair asked.

“I have something that might grow into something that could be tentatively called a plan, yes,” Daylen replied. “I’m not sure any of this is a good idea.”

“I’m not sure I like any of it either, but we don’t have a lot of choice in the matter.”

“Of course you have a choice,” Morrigan scoffed. “You could run and forget about it all. Let the darkspawn do as they wish until other Grey Wardens come, if they come.”

“Like I said,” Daylen agreed. “Skip town to Antiva to go whoring.”

Alistair scowled at her. “That’s what you call a choice?”

“It may not be a good choice, but a choice nevertheless. We all choose our path, even when it seems there is only one direction we should go.”

Daylen took a slow breath. “Someone around here has to get things done, and unfortunately, it’s going to be us.”

Alistair snorted out an undignified laugh. “What an auspicious beginning!”

“Right? We’re going to get this done, because apparently, there’s nobody else left. So let’s go. I can feel the horde getting closer.”

As they walked through the refugee camp, Daylen felt a growing sense of dread. People were laying down, trying to gain a few moments rest before either moving on or trying to wait out the crisis. Dirty, downcast faces stared at him as he strode through the camp.

Morrigan spoke up. “I have a wonder, Alistair, if you will indulge me.”

Alistair sighed. “Do I have a choice?”

“Of the two of you that remain, are you not the senior Grey Warden here? I find it curious that you allow another to lead, while you follow.”

“You find that curious, do you?”

“In fact, you defer to a new recruit. Is this a policy of the Grey Wardens? Or simply a personal one?”

Alistair glared at her. “What do you want to hear? That I prefer to follow? I do.”

“So very defensive.”

“Could you crawl into a bush somewhere and die? That would be great, thanks.”

Daylen sighed, stopped, and turned around. “Are you two going to be like this the whole time?”

The two looked at each other a moment, before nodding. “Yes, probably.”

Daylen groaned. “This is going to be a long trip.”

“You there!” A Templar called. Daylen flinched, before the Templar went on. “If you’re looking for safe shelter, I’ll warn you there’s none to be found.”

“Eh?” Daylen asked, still cringing.

The Templar was either dense or willfully oblivious to the fact that he was looking at not one, but two mages. “Move on if you can. Lothering’s lost.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve had refugees streaming from the south for the last two days. The chantry and tavern are full to bursting. There simply isn’t enough food to go around, and we Templars can barely keep order. You’d be better off elsewhere, my friend.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Daylen replied, trying not to sweat too obviously. His heart was pounding and his face felt numb.

The Templar shrugged under the heavy plate. “Best of luck wherever you might go.”

Daylen strode forward purposely, before cutting to the left and stepping behind a house, leaning against the wall and scrubbing his forehead with his sleeve.

“Are you all right?” Alistair asked.

“You get raised in a prison where everyone with a flaming sword on their chest is looking for a reason to put a mace through your skull, you get a little nervous around Templars,” Daylen explained, trying to slow his breathing. “I’ll be all right. I just need a moment.” A few minutes later, Daylen stepped out, pale but composed.

“Greetings to you, ser,” an elf standing with his family said as they passed by. “If it…isn’t too much to ask, might you spare some bread? Or anything?”

“No food to be had,” Daylen apologized. “But…” He thought about what they had reclaimed from the bandits.

They needed it. Their little trio would need supplies. Backpacks, food, tents, bedrolls, all sorts of equipment…

But the elves needed it too.

“I can spare fifty silvers.”

The elf coughed in surprise, and Daylen pressed the coins into his hand. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “That’s very kind.”

“Bless you!” his wife exclaimed. “This will help us a great deal!”

“Thank you again for helping us,” the male elf said. “It’s been difficult since we were robbed.”

“You were robbed?”

“Wasn’t everyone?” The elf spat. “Those bandits have jumped every wagon and caravan in sight of Lothering.”

“Oh, them,” Daylen looked down. “I, uh, met those bandits. We had a slight…disagreement. They suffered terminal complications from our strenuous argument.” The elf looked at him blankly. “They’re dead now.”

“You…killed them?”

“That’s wonderful news!” his wife said. “Perhaps our belongings are still there!”

“I can’t thank you enough, friend. Even if we don’t get everything back, it’s good to know others will be safe.”

Daylen nodded, and the family headed for the highway, looking to reclaim their valuables. “Right, let’s find a pub or something, some place to sit down, and plan our next move,” he said, before stopping short. “Oh, now what.”

A merchant was arguing with a Chantry sister. “Back off! I have the right to charge what I wish!”

“You profit from their misfortune!” The woman scolded. “I should have the Templars give away everything in your carts!”

“You wouldn’t dare!” The man sneered. “Any of you step too close to my goods, and I’ll…”

“It’s so nice to see everyone working together in a crisis,” Alistair said. “Warms the heart.”

“You there!” The merchant called. “You look able! Would you care to make a tiny profit helping a beleaguered businessman?”

“Why?” Daylen asked. “Is your profiteering ruffling some feathers?”

“You could say that, yes.”

“The nerve of these people!” Alistair mocked.

“He is charging outlandish prices for things people desperately need!” The sister broke in. “Their blood is filling his pockets!”

“Ah, ‘tis only survival of the fittest,” Morrigan said. “All of these cretins would do the same in his shoes, given the chance.”

“I have limited supplies,” the merchant objected. “The people decide what those supplies are worth to them.”

The sister threw up her hands. “You bought most of your wares from these very people last week! Now they flee for their lives, and you want to talk business?”

The merchant sighed. “Look, stranger, I’ve a hundred silvers if you’ll drive this rabble off,” he pointed to the sister, “starting with that priest. I’m an honest merchant, nothing more.”

“You don’t think you’re even being a little unscrupulous?”

“Would it help these folks if they could buy no goods at all?”

“They spend their very last coin because they are desperate,” the sister interrupted again. “And this man preys on them as surely as the bandits outside the city!”

Daylen shrugged. “Well, I killed them, so…”

“I’m not arguing anymore!” The man spat, perhaps recognizing he was about to come down with a terminal case of Warden. “Drive off this woman and get your hundred silvers. Otherwise, I’m taking my wagon and leaving!”

Daylen held up a hand. “I think you can compromise and still make a profit, don’t you? It’s better than these people swarming you and just taking your goods, and leaving you strung up as an example.” He looked to the sister. “After all, a man who takes advantage of the desperate in a time like this…”

“Maker’s breath!” The man sighed. “Sometimes it’s truly not worth operating this far south!”

“Just charge what you would have before this tragedy,” the sister urged.

“Fine, yes, just stop complaining.” The merchant rolled his eyes. “You’re giving me a headache.”

“So, we have come to solve every squabble in the village, personally?” Morrigan asked. “My, but the darkspawn will be impressed.”

“We’re going to be buying from him,” Daylen pointed out. “This is relevant.”

“Thank you for your generous assistance,” the sister said. “May the Maker watch over your path.”

Daylen shrugged, turning to the merchant. “Want to do some honest business?” Some coin rapidly changed hands as Daylen bought some reagents and whatever health poultices the man had, selling off the assorted items he had salvaged since Ostagar. Checking his rapidly shrinking stock of lyrium potions, Daylen shook his head. “I’m going to have to ration these. Five basic lyrium potions are not going to sustain me through the Blight.”

“Lyrium trade is rather tightly controlled,” Alistair said. “As you well know. We may not be able to restock for a while.”

“Wonderful,” Daylen groused. “Let’s find that pub.”

It was only when they entered Dane’s Refuge that things really hit the fan.

—ROTG—

As they entered the tavern, Daylen noticed several soldiers drinking. He briefly entertained the notion that the soldiers were friendly, until one of the soldiers looked over, and the man’s eyes narrowed in recognition.

“Well, look what we have here, men,” the soldier said, standing up. “I think we’ve just been blessed.”

“Loghain’s men,” Alistair murmured, recognizing the heraldry. “This can’t be good.”

The soldier turned to the man next to him. “Didn’t we spend all morning asking about a fellow by this very description? And everyone said they hadn’t seen him?”

“It seems we were lied to,” the other soldier replied.

“We just got in,” Daylen said. “Can’t say I have any idea why you’re looking for me.”

An accented voice broke in. “Gentlemen, surely there is no need for trouble,” a redheaded woman said, a faint Orlesian accent audible. “These are no doubt simply more poor souls seeking refuge.” Daylen spied a dagger sheathed at the small of her back, and his eyes narrowed.

“They’re more than that,” the soldier snapped. “Now stay out of our way, Sister. You protect these traitors, you’ll get the same as them.”

“Let’s talk about this before things get out of hand,” Daylen said, holding up his hands placatingly and taking a step back.

“I doubt he would listen,” the sister replied, her hand closing around the handle of her dagger. “He blindly follows his master’s commands.”

“I am not the blind one!” The soldier barked. “I served at Ostagar, where the teyrn saved us from the Grey Wardens’ treachery! I serve him gladly!” He glared at Daylen, before speaking to the soldier next to him. “Enough talk. Take the Wardens into custody. Kill the sister and anyone else that gets in your way.”

“Right!” The second soldier said cheerfully. “Let’s make this quick!”

“Damn,” Daylen hissed, his hands still up. Clenching his fists, he unleashed a sustained blast of frost on the men in front of him, even as the sister’s hand lashed out, a soldier gurgling and clutching his throat as her dagger slashed it open. Alistair bulled forward, the point of his sword slipping between the splints of the man’s armor. Daylen kicked another soldier in the crotch as Morrigan grabbed the nearest soldier by the helmet, channeling lightning directly into the man’s skull. Blood spurted from the helmet’s eyeholes, and she dropped the twitching corpse as it began to smolder. The sister’s dagger opened another artery, and more blood splattered across the tavern floor as Alistair knocked the leader flat.

“Enough!” The soldier screamed, as Alistair’s sword pressed into his neck. “We surrender!”

“Good,” the Chantry sister said. “They’ve learned their lesson and we can all stop fighting, now.”

“The ones that are alive, at least,” Daylen said. “We weren’t the ones who started this fight.” He nodded to Alistair, who eased off the man’s neck. The soldier breathed deeply, only for Daylen’s boot to land on his chest. “Take a message to Loghain,” he growled, doing his best to ignore the other soldier twitching his last on the floor.

“W-what do you want me to tell him?” The soldier squeaked.

“The Grey Wardens know what really happened at Ostagar. We’re going to stop this Blight, and then we’re coming to make him pay for his betrayal. If he wants us dead, he’ll have to do better than this.”

“I’ll tell him,” The man babbled as Daylen stepped off of him. “Right away. Now. Thank you!” He flipped onto his front, scrambling to his feet and all but sprinting out of the tavern, and the Chantry sister nodded to Daylen.

“I apologize for interfering, but I couldn’t just sit by and not help,” she said.

“It’s all right,” Daylen said happily, dusting his hands off. “I was happy to save your life.”

“Save my life?” the woman asked indignantly. “I assure you I can handle myself!”

“You must, butting into others’ business all the time,” Daylen replied dryly. “That only escalated when you got involved.”

“So now you know all about me?” she snapped. “We just met!”

“Well, we haven’t met at all, actually,” Daylen said, “But let’s see. From the accent, you were born and raised in Orlais, probably close to the nobility by the way you carry yourself. But you’re not a noble yourself, you certainly wouldn’t be in a tiny Fereldan village. Guessing either your mother was a servant of an Orlesian noble or your father was a chevalier. Maybe both. From how you fight, you’ve had training, and while a dagger isn’t your weapon of choice,” he looked around the blood-stained floors, “you certainly know how to use one. Why you’re out here,” he finished, looking at her, “is the only real question.” He paused a moment as the woman gave him a wary look. Her face said ‘innocent,’ but the bodies at her feet lessened the effect. Her eyes were dark, the sort of darkness that a person gets where they’ve done wrong and been wronged.

“Daylen,” Alistair said quietly. “How in the world do you know all that?”

“One of the enchanters at the Kirkwall Circle used to be at the White Spire in Orlais. She taught me how to figure stuff like that out about people.” He looked to the redhead. “But as I said, we haven’t actually met.”

“Well, that can quickly be remedied,” she said brightly. Daylen blinked at the sudden change in her mood, and she spoke quickly. “Let me introduce myself. I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters of the Chantry here in Lothering.”

Daylen nodded, suspicious at how quickly she was trying to change the subject. “Daylen Amell.”

“Those men said you’re a Grey Warden. You will be battling the darkspawn, yes? That is what Grey Wardens do?” Daylen gave her a wary nod. “I know after what happened, you’ll need all the help you can get. That’s why I’m coming along.”

Daylen snorted. “I’m sorry, Sister, but you are very mistaken.”

“Ah, I thought you might say that,” she replied. “But you see, the Maker wants me to join you.”

“Right…” Daylen said dryly, dragging out the word. “I believe this is where I back away slowly.”

“I know that sounds absolutely insane, but it’s true!” The redhead stammered, clearly aware she wasn’t helping her case. That they were discussing this after killing several men, with the fresh and bleeding corpses at their feet, and a tavern full of already-terrified refugees watching them only made things worse. “I had a dream, a vision!”

Alistair shook his head. “More crazy? I thought we were all full up!”

“Look at the people here,” Leliana urged. “They are lost in their despair, and this darkness, this chaos will spread. The Maker doesn’t want this. What you do, what you are meant to do, is the Maker’s work. Let me help!”

“If the Maker doesn’t want this, he should have stepped in at Ostagar,” Daylen said bitterly. “I’m supposed to believe the Maker wanted all those people dead? I need more than prayers.”

“I can fight,” she pleaded. “I can do more than fight. As you have guessed, I was not always a lay sister. I put aside that life when I came here, but now…if it is the Maker’s will, I will take it up again. Gladly. Please, let me help you.”

The others in the bar were still giving the group the eye, and Daylen realized he wasn’t going to win this argument. “Very well,” he sighed. “I won’t turn away help when it is offered.”

“Perhaps your skull was cracked worse than Mother thought,” Morrigan mused.

“Thank you!” Leliana gushed. “I appreciate being given this chance. I will not let you down!”

“This isn’t even the weirdest thing to happen to me this week,” Daylen groused, before raising his voice. “Anyone in here selling or buying goods?”

“Over ‘ere,” a man grunted. “Looking for food, take it up with that bleedin’ runt by the Chantry. I got other gear to sell. Name’s Barlin.”

Daylen eyed his inventory, before shaking his head. “No way I can afford this. You know of any well-paying work in Lothering?”

“You know anything about poison?” the man asked bluntly.

“A bit,” Daylen bluffed. “What use have you got for poisons?”

“I’m looking to put traps on my land, make those darkspawn regret coming here,” Barlin replied. “Three flasks of poison ought to do it.”

“I’ll look into it,” Daylen promised.

The next couple hours passed quickly. The group helped around the village for spare coin. Alistair used his rudimentary knowledge of traps to help a rather skittish woman who wanted to defend her property. “I was learning to hunt food for the Wardens,” he explained. Morrigan’s knowledge of woodland poisons came in handy after they fought a pack of giant spiders and used their toxin glands to provide poisons for Barlin.

“Shall we next begin rescuing kittens from trees?” Morrigan asked acerbically as they picked up another handful of odd jobs.

“Depends,” Daylen replied. “Is there money in it? We need supplies, and these are paying jobs.”

Daylen talked down a Chasind doomsayer who had escaped the destruction of his village. A dozen bandits went down to an ice blast and some lightning from Daylen and Morrigan, and they salvaged a set of worn leathers for Leliana and a set of heavy chainmail, as well as another backpack.

“Oi, Alistair,” Daylen said, dragging a greatsword out from under the large man they had looted the chainmail from. “Can you use this?”

“I can,” Alistair replied hesitantly. “But I’m nowhere near as good with a two-handed sword as I am with using a sword and shield.”

“Fair enough,” Daylen mumbled. “Suppose it’ll be worth a few silvers. Looks to be in good condition.” Strapping the blade across his back, he looked over, spotting a giant man sitting in a cage and watching them. “And whaaaaat have we here?”

“You aren’t one of my captors,” the man in the cage rumbled. Even seated, his incredible build was obvious, and the violet of his eyes stood out sharper against his dark skin.

“My, he’s a big one,” Daylen muttered.

“You’re almost as tall,” Alistair pointed out.

“I will not amuse you any more than I have the other humans,” he snapped. “Leave me in peace.”

“Other humans?” Daylen echoed. “What are you?”

“A prisoner,” he replied laconically. “I’m in a cage, am I not? I’ve been placed here by the Chantry.”

“The revered mother said he slaughtered an entire family,” Leliana said quietly. “Even the children.”

“It is as she says,” the prisoner confirmed. “I am Sten of the Beresaad – the vanguard – of the Qunari peoples.”

“A Qunari?” Daylen said. “Here? You’re far from home.”

“Indeed.”

Daylen looked the giant over, noting the physique of a warrior. “I am Daylen. Pleased to meet you.”

“You mock me,” Sten growled. “Or you show manners I have not come to expect in your lands. Though it matters little, now. I will die soon enough.”

“This is a proud and powerful creature, trapped as easy prey for the darkspawn,” Morrigan said to Daylen. “If you cannot see a use for him, I suggest releasing him for mercy’s sake alone.”

“Mercy?” Alistair scoffed. “I wouldn’t have expected that from you.”

Morrigan smiled sweetly at him. “I would also suggest that Alistair take his place in the cage.”

Alistair nodded. “Yes, that’s what I would have expected.”

“I suggest you leave me to my fate,” Sten said.

“If that’s what you want, but I find myself in need of skilled help,” Daylen replied. Sten remained silent. “I don’t know much about your people. But I’ve heard of the efficiency and skill of the Beresaad.”

“Undoubtedly. What help do you seek?”

Daylen the sense that only the unvarnished truth would carry him through. “I am sworn to the defend the land against the Blight.”

Sten seemed to perk up marginally at that. “The Blight? You are a Grey Warden, then?”

“Yes, I am. One of the last in Ferelden.”

“Surprising. My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens’ strength and skill…though I suppose not every legend is true.”

Daylen blinked. “I get the distinct feeling I’ve just been insulted. Would the revered mother let you free?”

“Perhaps if you told her the Grey Wardens need my assistance. It seems as likely to bring my death as waiting here.”

“To be left here to starve, or to be taken by the darkspawn…” Alistair shook his head. “No one deserves that, not even a murderer.”

“Well then, on to the Chantry,” Daylen said, a sour look on his face. “Where all the Templars will be.”

“You sound thrilled about that.”

“We’re wanted men, we have two mages here, and we’re trying to recruit a known murderer,” Daylen replied. “The Templars may have bigger problems, but I couldn’t tell you what those might be.”

Daylen avoided eye contact with the Templar at the door of the Chantry as they entered. Leliana offered a few words of comfort to some refugees clustered in a corner as Daylen and the others headed towards the altar.

“Yes?” A Templar asked as they approached. “Who might you be?”

Daylen’s voice cracked as he started talking. “You can call me Daylen.”

“I am Ser Bryant, commander of Lothering’s remaining Templars. You don’t seem like the other refugees. Are you one of Arl Eamon’s knights?”

Daylen glanced down at his mage-style robes and the staff across his back and wondered if Bryant had had his eyes checked recently. “Do many of his knights come here?”

“Some have, in recent days,” Bryant replied. “Arl Eamon has fallen ill, and his knights are on a quest for the sacred urn filled with Andraste’s ashes, said to cure any malady. He must be very ill if they chase miracles as the only cure. One of the arl’s knights, Ser Donall, is here searching for fantasies while…” He paused, before frowning. “Never mind. Ask him if you care about this foolishness.”

“I’m hoping you can help me,” Daylen said, before deciding to throw caution to the winds. “I’m a Grey Warden.”

Bryant paused. “I…see. That is certainly worthy of notice.” He looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Teyrn Loghain declared all Grey Wardens traitors, responsible for the king’s death. You know this, I hope?”

“Sort of,” Daylen admitted. “It’s an outright lie.”

“And set a bounty on all who survived,” Bryant added. “I don’t believe the Grey Wardens would be as careless or malicious as the teyrn claims, but either way, there it is. It is best you not linger, though. Just in case.”

Daylen nodded. “We weren’t planning on stay long. For the record, all but two of the Wardens were standing with the king on the front line. Whether that was his idea or Loghain’s, I don’t know. But Loghain abandoned us when the time came.”

“I find that somewhat easier to believe,” Bryant said slowly. “But again, you have been declared traitors. My ability to assist you is limited. I cannot openly help you, I fear, but…here.” He handed over a bronze key, worn with use. “It opens the large cabinet on the far wall. There is more there than we can carry when we evacuate, so take what you need.”

“Things seem very dire in the village,” Daylen remarked, tucking the key away.

“With the bann having taken his men north, the village is left to its fate. We will evacuate as many as we can before the horde reaches us. I will stay as long as I am needed.”

“You may be one of the last out, then,” Daylen said. “The darkspawn are unchecked. I’m sure the other Wardens did some damage, but…” Daylen shook his head. “They will come, sooner rather than later.”

Bryant looked less than encouraged at his words. “Can we stop this Blight?”

Daylen shrugged. “Stopping a Blight with two junior Wardens who haven't been in for more than six months at the most? Impossible. We’re going to do it anyway.”

“You certainly don't lack for confidence.”

“When you’re all that’s left, confidence is a great weapon. And right now, we need all the weapons we can get. Lots of pointy things will help.” He gave the Templar a sad look. “Bryant, you’re effectively the leader of this village now. If you have any regard for the lives of these people, you’ll get them out of here, fast. That darkspawn horde isn’t going to stop and smell the flowers. Neither should we.”

“Well put.”

“Ser Bryant, thank you for the information, and your assistance.”

“I am sorry I could not do more,” the Templar said, extending a hand. Daylen took it, trying to disguise the shaking in his hands, and the group moved to the cabinet the Templar had indicated.

“Let’s see,” Daylen mumbled, sorting through the mess in the cabinet. “Some elfroot potions, and a couple of old rings.” He shook his head. “Don’t know what I expected. Wonder why these weren’t given to that lady helping the refugees.” He passed out the health potions, before turning to Leliana. “Any idea where we would find the revered mother?”

—ROTG—

In ancient times, Lothering was little more than a trading post that served the fortress of Ostagar to the south. Nowadays, it is larger, serving Redcliffe and the community of merchants and surface dwarves near Orzammar. Its location on the North Road gives it strategic value, so control of Lothering has historically been a matter of contention between the Southern Bannorn and the South Reach Arling. King Calenhad himself stepped in and awarded the town to South Reach in the Exalted Age, which has largely ended the feud, or at least the appearance of it.

--From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi

Chapter Text

The Revered Mother was an elderly woman, sitting in a small room off the main hall. Why she wasn’t helping the refugees like the rest of the Chantry sisters, Daylen couldn’t tell. “Will you be making a donation to the chantry, my friend?” she asked. “You look like you have salvaged more of value than most who make it here.”

Daylen blinked. “What would you use the money for?”

“Why, to buy food for the refugees, of course,” she said brightly.

“From who?” Daylen asked. “The only one in town who had any food left to sell was that vendor outside, and he’s been picked clean.”

There was a brief, yet incredibly awkward silence as the Revered Mother stared at him. “What can I do for you, then?”

“I’m a Grey Warden,” Daylen replied. “I need your help.”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “A Grey Warden? Here? Oh, dear. You put me in a difficult position. You must know that Teyrn Loghain declared the Grey Wardens to be outlaws.”

“I’ve heard he claimed we murdered King Cailan, but it was Loghain who betrayed him, and us.” He looked to Alistair. “Maybe we should get cards made.” His brow furrowed. “Wait, does Loghain even have the authority to declare us outlaws?”

The Revered Mother scoffed. “Teyrn Loghain? That is as hard for me to believe as his condemnation of the Wardens. There is a price on your head. Lay low and I promise to keep your presence a secret. That is the best I can do.”

“You misunderstand,” Daylen said. “We’re just passing through, we’re not asking for shelter. That giant Sten, the one in the cage. What’s his story?”

“We found him amongst the dead bodies of an entire family. When asked, he confessed to their murders, and did not resist as we put him in the cage. It might have been kinder to execute him, but I leave his fate to the Maker. Why does he interest you?”

“Is there any way I can convince you to release him?”

“Then his next victims might count you and me as their murderers.”

“Rather hoping they do,” Daylen said bluntly. “Those victims being darkspawn. I could use someone of his talents. I was thinking you might release him into my custody. If nothing else, he’ll be off your hands.”

“And what do you say on this, Leliana? You know your friend better than I.”

Leliana looked distinctly uncomfortable. “These are…unusual times, your Reverence. With us, the Qunari might do some good.”

The Revered Mother sighed and nodded. “Were things not so desperate. Very well, I trust you. Take these keys to his cage, and Maker watch over you.” Daylen noted that she handed the key to Leliana, not him.

“Thank you, your Reverence,” Leliana replied. “Your trust is not misplaced.”

“Also, speaking as someone who actually fought at Ostagar…you need to evacuate the village,” Daylen said quietly. “The darkspawn are coming. I beg of you – get these people out. As many as you can.”

The Revered Mother looked him over. “There is truth in your eyes, young man. I will do what I can.”

“So what,” Daylen muttered as they walked away. “Was she just going to let the man starve in there if nobody else came along?”

“Presumably,” Alistair replied. “They don’t have the resources to move him with all the refugees, there’s no ruling authority to decide his fate legally, and…Ser Donall?” Alistair stopped in surprise, looking at a man examining a rack of books. “Is that you?”

The knight turned around, his heavy chainmail clinking faintly. “Alistair? By the Maker, how are you? I heard about the disaster at Ostagar, I was certain you were dead!”

“Not yet,” Alistair said darkly. “No thanks to Teyrn Loghain.”

Donall shook his head. “If Arl Eamon were well, he’d set Loghain straight soon enough.”

Alistair scowled deeper at the mention of the arl’s illness. “So you’re here looking for the Urn of Sacred Ashes, then?”

“I am, indeed. Andraste’s ashes are said to cure any illness. But I fear we are chasing a fable. With each day, my hope dims.”

“Can’t imagine why you’d look here, of all places,” Daylen said.

“Nothing I have found leads me to believe that this was anything more than a quest of desperation,” Donall admitted. “I expected to take advantage of the chantry’s library, but my skills are better suited to battle than chasing down tales. It seems there is little here to help us, and I fear I shall be returning to Redcliffe with nothing to show for my efforts. I intend to return to Redcliffe soon and tell the arlessa exactly that, once Ser Henric arrives.”

“Wait, Ser Henric?” Daylen asked, thinking back to one of the corpses on the road. “Who is he?”

“My fellow knight and traveling companion. He is delayed, though.”

“Henric,” Daylen said slowly. “Big man, blond hair, wears shiny Templar armor?”

“You’ve seen him?”

“Yes,” Daylen said uncomfortably. “He, ah, might be a while. Last I saw him, he was laid up with a bad case of dead.” Rooting around in his satchel, Daylen held out the locket and note that he had retrieved from the body.

Donall looked started as Daylen handed him the items. “What? And you have his locket? And a note?”

“Well I’d have brought you the whole body, but the Templars might have had a problem with me dragging a corpse through town.”

“Maker’s mercy,” Donall sighed. “Thank you for giving me these. I would never have known otherwise.”

“On the bright side, the bandits that killed him won’t be bothering anyone else.”

Donall nodded. “Thank you. I wonder how many of us have met similar fates on this mad quest. With Henric gone, I need to return to Redcliffe. Perhaps later I will seek out the scholar his note mentions. But I must go. Thank you again, good ser. You have been most helpful.”

“Before you go,” Daylen said. “I was hoping to meet Arl Eamon.”

Donall stopped, gathering his belongings and notes. “Why is that, if I may ask?”

“We need his help. Besides Loghain abandoning us and the king at Ostagar, we need troops to fight the Blight.”

Donall looked uneasy. “The arl is a popular man, it’s true. Teyrn Loghain, however, is a hero throughout Ferelden. Whatever the teyrn has done or not done, the arl remains ill, or worse. That is my primary concern.”

“Do you think Loghain is involved with the arl’s illness?”

Donall rubbed his chin in thought. “The arl fell ill before the king died. But what if Loghain planned that, too? Ah, such thoughts do not sit well with me.”

“We should see what’s happening in Redcliffe ourselves,” Alistair declared. “I believe that now more than ever.”

“If nothing else, I am certain you would be welcomed at Castle Redcliffe,” Donall agreed. “The arlessa is there, and she could tell you more than I could.”

“Good luck, Ser Donall.”

—ROTG—

Sten straightened minutely as they approached. “You return.”

Daylen nodded. “We will be fighting darkspawn, and plenty of other things as well. Will you follow?”

“Yes.”

Daylen nodded to Leliana and watched as Sten slowly stepped from the cage, straightening up slowly. “Glad to have you with us, Sten.”

“May we proceed?” Sten said bluntly. “I am eager to be elsewhere.”

“First things first. You won’t get far without armor. We salvaged some heavy chainmail, it should fit you. What’s your weapon of choice?”

Sten frowned deeper for a moment. “A greatsword.”

“Perfect,” Daylen said, unstrapping the heavy sword from his back. “I just happen to have one lying around.” Watching as Sten strapped on the armor and gave the greatsword a test swing, Daylen nodded approvingly. “Blind luck we just happened to find a set of heavy armor and a giant sword right before we found someone to use them.” As Sten sheathed the sword, Daylen looked him up and down. “Are you all right? You were in that cage for some time.”

“You are concerned?” Sten asked, frowning harder at the blade as if it had personally offended him. “No need. I am fit enough to fight.”

Daylen nodded as the group set off, heading for the highway. “Good. I need you at top form if we’re going to…” he trailed off as he noticed a group of men standing in front of them, armed with a motley collection of salvaged weapons. A similar group closed in behind them. “Oh, dear.”

“We done heard what was said,” the lead man rasped. “You’re a Grey Warden. I don’t know if you killed King Cailan, and Maker forgive me, I don’t care. But that bounty on your head could feed a lot of hungry bellies. Attack!”

Daylen let loose with a blast of ice that froze most of the group in front of them solid, before burning one man’s skull to cinders with a spirit bolt. Sten drew his greatsword, crushing a man’s skull with the pommel and immediately following up with a swing that nearly cleaved another man in half. Alistair was handily fighting off two other men, and Leliana’s daggers were opening arteries and severing muscles left and right. The fight only truly became one-sided when Morrigan unleashed a blast of electricity that finished most of the grouped-up men behind them.

Daylen swallowed back bile as he looked at the carnage. “Anybody hurt?” he asked, pulling a longbow out from under one of the corpses. Nobody had more than a bruise, and he passed the bow to Leliana, who checked it over briefly and nodded gratefully.

“Foolish, to think they could handle us,” Morrigan sniffed.

“They had numbers and were desperate,” Alistair said. “Look, none of them even had armor.”

“This was just so unnecessary,” Daylen said softly.

Leliana nudged him. “Are you all right?”

“I never…I never killed anyone before. I’ve killed darkspawn, hostile spirits, creatures in the wild. Never anything from our world that could talk back. I’d hurt people here, earlier today, but never killed.”

“It can be tough, the first time,” Alistair said. “Sad to say it gets easier. To deal with, at least.”

“It was easy. I expected it would be harder. I had hoped it would be harder.”

Alistair nodded, before suddenly turning, his eyes narrowed. “Everyone stay alert. Darkspawn.”

Daylen stood, drawing his staff again. “How many? What direction?”

Alistair drew his sword, pointing in the direction of the highway. “No more than a dozen. That way.”

“Time to go to work.”

It was half a dozen hurlocks with a pair of genlocks. They were nicely bunched up, although the group leader was charging at a pair of dwarven merchants cowering next to their spilled wares. Daylen snapped off a blast of frost that disabled the archers, ice crystals crackling as they spread across darkspawn flesh. Alistair slid into the space next to Daylen, whistling at the hurlock alpha and beckoning with his shield. The creature roared a challenge and swung a wickedly curved sword, the blow glancing off Alistair’s shield as he stepped forward to meet it.

Meanwhile, Leliana had knocked out both archers, arrows to the neck and head disabling them quite handily. Then a giant spider leapt onto one of the hurlocks, ripping out its throat with its fangs and tackling another. Daylen conjured a lump of stone, planting it square in the remaining genlock’s chest. The creature squealed as its ribcage shattered, and Leliana put an arrow through its skull, silencing the beast. The spider halted, before flowing back into Morrigan’s form.

The other three rounded on the alpha, finding Alistair trading blows with the darkspawn, neither one finding an opening in the other’s guard. “Leliana?” Daylen asked, glancing at Morrigan, who seemed no worse for wear despite the magic she had just performed.

Leliana nocked an arrow, drawing the bowstring. “Alistair, jump back whenever you can!” Alistair leapt backwards, ducking a wide swing from the alpha, and Leliana let the arrow fly, the barbed head spearing through the alpha’s neck and splattering tainted blood across the highway. The hurlock dropped like a bag of wet sand, twitching spasmodically before falling still.

“Nice shot,” Daylen said, checking the bodies over. He grunted in disappointment after only finding a handful of coppers. Spotting the flash of color from a mage’s robe amongst the bodies, Daylen tugged a dead genlock off the corpse, finding a dead woman underneath. Patting down the woman’s pockets, Daylen found a sealed letter and an empty vial that smelled faintly of lyrium. Shrugging and breaking the seal on the letter, Daylen read aloud. “I won’t go back. Let them hunt, and dread finding me. But you, Melis, should not live this life. It would please me if you found a life in the Circle Tower. I left a few things there, mostly stolen from the enchanters. Sell them to fund a new path. The cache is in the study area, middle alcove. Goodbye. Bel Gruce.” Daylen looked up from the note. “Bel Gruce is…well, was, a Circle mage. She went apostate a few months back. Guess she didn’t make it.” Bending down, he tugged up one sleeve, hissing out a breath as he saw a line of half-healed cuts. “Shit.”

“Blood magic?” Alistair asked.

“There were rumors she had been dabbling,” Daylen replied, standing up. “Most of the mages didn’t believe it until she vanished. They figured she’d just been executed.”

“People disappear that easily?” Leliana asked.

“At the Circle? Absolutely. There’s no accountability, we can’t question the Templars on any of their decisions without running the risk of vanishing ourselves. Sometimes people just get taken upstairs and don’t come back.” Daylen scowled a moment, before shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m out of there and I won’t be going back.” He turned around, spotting the two dwarves poking through the wreckage of their wagons. “You all right there?”

The older dwarf turned, nodding gratefully. “Mighty timely arrival there, my friend. I’m much obliged.” Daylen smiled at the unexpected courtesy, and the dwarf went on. “The name’s Bodahn Feddic, merchant and entrepreneur. This here is my son, Sandal. Say hello, my boy.”

“Hello,” the younger dwarf said cheerily.

“Road’s mighty dangerous these days. Mind if I ask what brings you out here? Perhaps we’re going the same way.”

“It’s a bit…complicated,” Daylen said delicately. “But you’re welcome to come along.”

“Complicated?” Bodahn laughed. “Somehow, I imagine that only says half of it. Thank you for the offer, but there may be more excitement on your path than is good for my boy and me. Allow me to bid you farewell and good fortune.”

“Goodbye,” Sandal waved.

“Now then, let’s get this mess cleaned up, shall we?”

“Let’s find a place away from the city to make camp,” Alistair suggested. “It’ll be getting dark soon, and we both need some time to rest. It’s been an eventful day.” He shook his head. “I’ve known you for less than a week and we’re this deep in trouble already.”

“Imagine what I could do if I was really trying.”

—ROTG—

Caves, dark and dank, the stench of death and mold.

Looking down into a chasm that seemed to be filled with fire.

Darkspawn. Thousands of them.

Standing on a bridge, overlooking the horde, it roared.

The archdemon.

Blasting out a gout of fire, a hissing whisper barely reached his ears.

—ROTG—

Daylen rolled over and sat up, mopping his forehead with his sleeve and brushing his hair back out of his eyes.

“Bad dreams, huh?”

Daylen looked over to see Alistair sitting next to the campfire, watching him. Daylen wiped sweat from his face, nodding and swallowing back bile. “Seemed so real.”

“Well, it is real, sort of. Part of being a Grey Warden is being able to hear the darkspawn. That’s what your dream was. Hearing them. The archdemon, it…talks to the horde, and we feel it just as they do. That’s why we know this is really a Blight.”

Daylen stood and stretched. “Why didn’t Duncan just tell everyone that?”

“He did,” Alistair said quietly. “He said he felt the archdemon’s presence. Everyone just assumed he was guessing. It takes a bit, but eventually you can block the dreams out. Some of the older Grey Wardens say they can understand the archdemon a bit, but I sure can’t. When I heard you thrashing around, I thought I should tell you. It was scary at first for me, too.”

Daylen rolled his eyes, uncomfortable with how much had been kept from him. “Any other surprises I should know about?”

“I don’t know what Duncan did or didn’t tell you, so I’ll have to fill in the blanks when I can. Anyhow, you’re up now, right? It’s light, so let’s pull up camp and get a move on.”

Their ‘camp,’ such as it was, consisted of little besides their bedrolls and a fire that Daylen quenched with a burst of frost. Turning around, he almost ran into Leliana. “Oh, hello there. Almost didn’t see you.”

“Well, here I am,” she replied brightly. “Something you wanted to talk about?”

“What was someone like you doing in Lothering’s chantry?”

“What do you mean by ‘someone like me,’ exactly?”

“They don’t teach you to fight like that in a cloister.”

“Did you think I was always a cloistered sister? The Chantry provides succor and safe harbor to all who seek it. I chose to stay and become affirmed.”

Daylen fought the urge to say no, I think you were a bard, and tried a different tack. “And why were you seeking safe harbor?”

“The Chantry does not pry, and you should?” Daylen didn’t back down, and Leliana scowled. “I desired time apart from the world. I was a traveling minstrel, in Orlais. Tales and songs were my life. I performed, and they rewarded me with applause and coin. And my skill in battle? Well, you pick up different skills when you travel, yes?”

Daylen nodded. “All right. One day I want the truth. The Chantry might not pry, but the Chantry isn’t counting on you to watch their back while they fight darkspawn.”

Spotting Morrigan glaring at Cupcake with something in her hand, Daylen walked over. “Look at what you fool dog placed in my pack!” She brandished a half-crushed rabbit, and Daylen took a step back as the smell reached his nose. Cupcake wagged his tail happily, tongue lolling, and Morrigan glared at him some more. “A putrid, half-eaten hare is not something a woman wants to find in her unmentionables!”

Daylen scoffed in mock offense. “Why doesn’t he ever share his food with me?”

Morrigan held out the rabbit again. “You are welcome to this, if you really want it.” Daylen shook his head, and Morrigan dropped it in front of Cupcake. “Then the dirty mongrel can have this back. And tell him not to do it again.”

“You heard the lady,” Daylen said, scratching the dog behind the ears. “Don’t do it again. You’re a wardog, not a nursemaid.” Cupcake hung his head, and Morrigan rolled her eyes, turning to leave. “Wait, hold up!”

Morrigan stopped, glancing over her shoulder. Her eyes gleamed in the morning light. “What do you wish of me?”

“I’d like to ask you something.”

“If you must,” she sighed. “Walk with me.”

“How did you become a shapeshifter?” Daylen asked as they walked towards her bedroll, remembering her demonstration at the highway.

“I was not born such. ‘Tis a skill of Flemeth’s, taught over many years in the Wilds. The Chasind have tales of we witches, saying that we assume the forms of creatures to watch them from hiding. When a child is alone and separate from his tribe, that is when we strike, dragging the young boy kicking and screaming to our lair to be devoured. A most amusing legend.”

Daylen fought a smile at the idea of lithe, lean Morrigan fighting with some strapping Chasind boy. “Your mother has been doing this for a long time, then?”

“Changing her form, certainly. Devouring lost children, I cannot say. She has not done it in my experience, though in truth my lifespan is but a fraction of hers.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why do you ask? Is there something specific you wish to know?”

“Several things, it’s amazing. Can anyone learn to do it? Do you spend a lot of time as an animal? Can you change into other human forms, as well?”

“Anyone with sufficient skill and magical power can learn the skill,” Morrigan replied. “Indeed, you could learn the magic required, if I cared to teach you.” Daylen nodded. “There were nights when the Wilds called to me, ‘tis true. You look upon the world around you and think you know it well. I have smelled it as a wolf, listened as a cat, prowled shadows that you never dreamed existed. But my life is as a human. I am under no illusions to the contrary. The form of an animal is different from my own. One may study the creature, learn to move as it does, think as it does. In time, this allows one to become as it is. I gain nothing by studying another human, so my human form is the only one I possess.”

“And what do other animals think of you when you’re changed? Do they accept you?”

“They do not shy away from me,” Morrigan answered. “To their senses, I believe I seem like any other of their species. As to what they think, I truly cannot say. Just as I am still human, no matter my form, they are still animals. Thus they cannot speak, even were I to ask.”

“I’ve heard of this magic, but only slight, tangential references,” Daylen said. “The Chantry prefers Circle mages to not be able to turn into a bird and fly away at a whim.”

“Such magic ‘tis not unheard of, in the remote corners of the world.  Some of these traditions are old, indeed, passed down as carefully-guarded lore from one generation to the next. The zealots of the Chantry would uproot all such practitioners if they could, but as luck would have it, some still exist. My mother is such a one.”

“Well, that’s good. Such traditions need to be preserved.”

Morrigan was taken aback. “I’m shocked that you think so, being a mage of the Circle as you were. But perhaps you felt a little like a caged bird, as well, caught within that dark tower?”

“Oh, hardly,” Daylen replied dryly. “I thoroughly enjoyed being watched by Templars every minute of the day, with them more than willing to abuse their power and kill or render Tranquil any of us at the slightest provocation.”

“I thought so,” Morrigan said. “Have you an opinion on my abilities, then? Am I an unnatural abomination to be put to the torch?”

Daylen mused on the tragedy that destroying a perfect pair of breasts with fire would be before answering. “Maybe tied to a flagpole and tickled.”

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Morrigan said darkly, raising an eyebrow. “But enough of such talk. Let us proceed, lest the dust gather on us.”

Daylen nodded his thanks, and left, noticing Sten had already readied himself. “Hello, Sten.”

“Warden.”

“I am trying to get to know the people I work with,” Daylen said by way of explanation. “What were you doing in that cage?”

“Sitting, as you observed.”

“Very funny,” Daylen said dryly.

To his surprise, Sten gave a genuine, if small smile. “Thank you. Was there anything else?”

“You’re a long way from home, Sten,” Daylen followed up. “Lothering isn’t exactly near Par Vollen. Why did you come to Ferelden?”

“To answer a question,” Sten said cryptically.

“That being?”

“The Arishok asked, ‘what is the Blight?’ By his curiosity, I am now here.”

“Don’t you have to report back, then?”

“Yes.”

Daylen blinked at the lack of information he was being given. “Well, I can see you’re right on top of that.”

Sten paused before replying. “I cannot go home,” he said sullenly.

“Well, you can stay with us,” Daylen replied. “You said yourself, you’re striving for atonement.” Sten blinked. For him, that was almost flabbergasted, Daylen thought.

“Thank you,” Sten said after a long pause. “Can we move on? We keep the darkspawn waiting.”

“Right, it’s almost light,” Daylen agreed. “Help Leliana pack up, we’ll be underway shortly.”

Sten nodded, ending the conversation with a curt, “Warden.”

Daylen spotted Cupcake scratching at some dirt at the edge of the camp, and watched as the hound dug furiously at the packed soil. “Trying to find a way through the earth, are we?” The dog snuffled, not stopping. “All right! Have fun then!” As he turned, he heard a clink and a victorious ‘whuff!’ as Cupcake unearthed an ancient-looking bottle. Wiping dirt from the glass, Daylen held it up to the light, seeing liquid sloshing around inside. Working the cork free, he took a tentative whiff, coughing sharply as the alcohol burned up into his sinuses. Shoving the cork back in and tucking the bottle away, Daylen scratched the dog behind the ears, getting a happy bark in reply. As he turned to pack his own equipment, Daylen spotted Alistair watching the trail behind them. “Something wrong?”

“There’s someone coming. Sounds like a wagon, but I’m not sure who that might be, or if they’re friendly.”

“Leliana, Leliana, take cover,” Daylen ordered. “If things get unpleasant, pick off targets at your discretion.” The two nodded, heading towards opposite ends of the camp. “Alistair, Sten, Cupcake, with me.” The trio drew their weapons as Cupcake growled softly, and Alistair stepped in front of Daylen, his shield in front of him.

The wagon rounded the corner, and Daylen’s guard dropped. “It’s those two dwarves we met in Lothering.” Raising his voice, he called out. “Bodahn? Is that you? What brings you out here so early in the morning?”

“My word,” Bodahn said nervously at the sight of all the drawn weapons. “I didn’t mean to startle you so. We were heading out from Lothering, you see, and saw the fire from your camp. I remembered the kind offer you made the last time we met, and is there anywhere safer for a poor merchant and his son to sleep?”

Daylen smiled faintly. “I did warn you things would be complicated, right?”

“You did, but I imagine we’d still be safer with you than on our own.”

“Well, this is Alistair, and I am Daylen Amell. We’re Grey Wardens.”

“Grey Wardens?” Bodahn beamed. “Now I know we’d be safer with you! I’m just glad to hear some of you are still alive after Ostagar. Rumors say the Wardens weren’t responsible for the king’s death. I don’t much believe that the Wardens would kill the king, anyway. What would they gain from it?”

“Puts you one up on a lot of people,” Daylen muttered as the others emerged from cover. “The tall, quiet one is Sten, by the way, and that’s Leliana, and Morrigan.”

“I’m perfectly willing to offer you a fine discount for the inconvenience of our presence. How does that sound?”

“We do need some equipment,” Daylen admitted, looking at the wagon. “If space allows, could we ride, rather than walk?”

Bodahn looked almost offended. “Well, of course. I wouldn’t make you lot walk while we rode if you’re giving us protection.”

“Then show me your wares, Bodahn,” Daylen said with a grin. “Let’s do some business.”

—ROTG—

“So, Daylen,” Alistair said, turning a worry token over in his hand as he spoke. “What’s our first move?”

“All right, let’s review. We can go to the mages, the dwarves, Arl Eamon, or the elves first off. Or we could go to Denerim and take the fight to Loghain.” He leaned his head back against the side of the wagon. “You’re suggesting we go to Redcliffe first.” Alistair nodded. “I respect your opinion, but I disagree.”

“Why not?” Alistair asked. To Daylen’s surprise, the other Warden seemed curious, not upset.

“Normally, I would jump at the chance to get our names cleared, but the Dalish have to be our first move. If we wait, they may not be around for us to find later. We’re going to have difficulty finding them as it is. I’d rather not give them any more time to move around.”

“That’s a good point,” Alistair admitted. “After that, we can decide what to do next.”

—ROTG—

“So, this is the Brecelian Forest,” Daylen said, looking around. They had left Bodahn behind a week before at a small trading post on the border of the forest. The merchant had promised to wait for them until they returned. “We’re deep in already. How are we supposed to find the Dalish? Anyone got any brilliant ideas? Any not-so-brilliant ones?”

“Well, we could follow the big tracks,” Alistair said, pointing at a set of furrows cut into the grass and underbrush. “Dalish travel in big carriage-wagon type-things, and they do leave tracks.”

Daylen raised an eyebrow. “You have skill in tracking?”

“No,” Alistair admitted. “But Sten does.”

“That is true. But these tracks are old. A week at least.”

Daylen sighed. “So we could spend months chasing the elves around the forest?”

“Not exactly,” Alistair said. “If I remember correctly, the Dalish tend to camp in places for anywhere from a week to a few years at a time.”

“Well then, let’s get moving.”

It took them two more days to find the elves. Sten’s tracking and hunting abilities, mixed with Leliana’s archery kept them fed. Finding traces of hunted game and some out-of-place droppings led them to a clearing in the forest, where several large carriages were arrayed.

“I just hope they don’t kill us on sight,” Alistair muttered.

“They’ve had hunters watching us,” Daylen replied quietly. “A half-day at least.”

“How can you tell?” Leliana asked.

“Grow up with Templars standing guard all the time, you get a feeling for when you’re being watched,” Daylen replied. “They may be waiting to see what they want, or they might be friendly. Only know one way to find out. Let’s just not try and seem like we’re sneaking up on them.”

“Stop right there, outsider,” a female elf said, stepping out onto the trail. Daylen stopped short, surprised at how easily they had snuck up on them. “The Dalish have camped in this spot. I suggest you go elsewhere, and quickly.”

Daylen eyed the other hunters stepping onto the trail, weapons in hand but lowered. “Sorry to bother you, but I’ve been looking for the Dalish.”

“I find that hard to believe,” the hunter replied. “What business could we Dalish possibly have with a group like yours?”

“I’m a Grey Warden. There is a Blight coming from the south, and I was hoping to enlist the help of the Dalish. If you wouldn’t mind, could you take me to your leader?”

“A Grey Warden?” The elf paused, but crossed her arms. “And how do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Daylen blinked at her, before crossing his arms in a reflection of her. “How do you know we’re not? Do you get many people pretending to be Grey Wardens?”

There was a moment’s pause, and Alistair bit his lip and looked down, clearly trying not to laugh. “No, that’s true,” the elf finally agreed. “Perhaps I shall let the keeper decide for himself. Follow me.”

“Watch yourself, shemlen,” one of the elves growled as Daylen passed by him. “Remember that our arrows are trained on you.”

“Of course. But I'm not particularly quick, nor am I a child.”

The elf's eyes widened slightly. “You speak the language?”

Daylen rocked a hand back and forth. “A few words and phrases. Are you familiar with the Circle of Magi?” The elf nodded, and Daylen continued. “They’ve got an enormous library. Some of the books are on the Dalish, and some include notes about your language. It’s basic stuff, and hardly unbiased, but it’s enough to understand some of the elven tongue.” The elf gave him a wary look, and Daylen shrugged. “Dareth shiral to you then, I guess.” Gesturing to his companions, Daylen headed into the camp.

The Dalish landships were things of legend, but to see one up close was phenomenal. The aravels were built like actual ships, but with wheels, large red sails and doors at the sides or back. The Dalish themselves were tattooed and clad in similar garb to the scouts that had found them, and all eyes were upon Daylen and his companions. Statues and ancient ruined arches lay about the camp, the remnants of an entire city worn away by time.

Daylen eyed the bald elf that appeared to be the clan’s leader. “Hmm. I see we have guests.” Cupcake growled at him, and the elf shook his head. “And a hound amongst them. As if we haven’t had enough problems with such creatures.” He looked to the elf who had brought them into the camp. “Who are these strangers, Mithra? I have precious little patience and less time to spend on outsiders today.”

Mithra gestured at him. “This one claims to be a Grey Warden and wishes to speak with the clan. I thought it was best to leave the decision to you.”

“That was wise of you,” he said approvingly. “Ma serannas, Mithra. You may return to your post.”

“Ma nuvenin, Keeper,” Mithra said before departing. Daylen gave her a polite nod before looking back to the Keeper.

“Now, allow me to introduce myself,” the Keeper said. “I am Zathrian, the keeper of this clan, its guide and preserver of our ancient lore. And you are?”

“Daylen Amell. Mage, Grey Warden, and accidental leader of the fight against the Blight. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Keeper Zathrian.”

Zathrian looked surprised. “Manners? From a shemlen? Interesting. If you come to spread news of the Blight, it is not news to me. I have already sensed the corruption spreading in the south. I would have taken the clan north by now, had we the ability to move.”

“Yes, it seems like you have had your own troubles,” Alistair chimed in. “What are the odds?”

“Lots of trouble going around these days, it seems,” Daylen muttered.

“I imagine you are here regarding the treaty we signed centuries ago,” Zathrian said. “Unfortunately, we may not be able to live up to our promises.” He pursed his lips a moment. “This will require some explanation. Please follow me.”

He led them to a makeshift hospital full of bloodied and mutilated elves, and Daylen fought the urge to retch as he saw blood-soaked dressings being changed on badly wounded members of the clan.

“What happened?” Daylen asked. “It looks like you were attacked, but by who?”

Zathrian nodded. “The clan came to the Brecelian Forest one month ago, as is our custom when we enter this part of Ferelden. We are always aware of the dangers in the forest, but we did not expect the werewolves would be lying in wait for us.”

“I’m sorry, werewolves? Plural? There’s packs?”

“Yes. They…ambushed us, and though we drove the beasts back, much damage was done. Many of our warriors lie dying as we speak.” Zathrian knelt next to an elf that was writhing in pain and sweating profusely, and magic glowed around his hands for a moment before the wounded elf lay still. “Even with all our magic and healing skill, we will eventually be forced to slay our brethren to prevent them from becoming beasts.” He stood, looking to Daylen. “The Blight’s evil must be stopped, but we are in no position to uphold our obligations. I am truly sorry.”

“And you have no idea where we could find another Dalish clan in Ferelden?” Zathrian shook his head, and Daylen winced. “Wonderful. The information we had on lycanthropy was…scant, but it’s a curse, correct?”

“Yes. It runs rampant in their blood, bringing great agony and then ultimately either death or a transformation into something monstrous. The only thing that could help them must come from the source of the curse itself, and that would be no trivial task to retrieve.”

“I’m rather good at non-trivial tasks,” Daylen said with far more confidence than he felt. “I understand killing the original werewolf is said to end the curse. So what, you want me to bring back the fang that bit these elves?”

Zathrian seemed only vaguely interested in what he had to say. “Deeper within the Brecelian Forest dwells a great wolf known as Witherfang. It was within him that the curse originated, and through his blood that it has been spread. If he is killed, and his heart brought to me, perhaps I could destroy the curse, but this task has proven too dangerous for us.”

“I can guess,” Daylen said quietly. “If your hunters could do it safely, they would have by now.”

“Safely or not, I sent some hunters into the forest a week ago,” Zathrian explained. “They have not returned, and I cannot risk any more of my clan.”

Daylen rubbed a hand over his mouth. “If it’ll help your people, I’ll find this Witherfang, but we’ll need information. Does he look any different from your average wolf? What can you tell me about this curse?”

“Watch for the white wolves. They are his eyes and ears in the forest. Witherfang himself is a great white wolf, far larger and fiercer than the average wolves you will see. As for the curse, there is not much to say. It stemmed originally from Witherfang, but now any werewolf may infect someone with it.”

“So if a werewolf bites me, then I’ll become infected?” Daylen asked. “That could be a problem. How do you know if you have been infected?”

“It is possible, but not guaranteed,” Zathrian said. “The only way to protect against the curse is to not be bitten. If you are infected, you will know within a matter of days. You will begin to sweat and vomit, and most tellingly, your temper will become wild and uncontrollable. If that happens to you, you should seek out Witherfang even more swiftly. Your mission at that point will be rather…personal.”

Daylen pinched the bridge of his nose. “This could get very bad very quickly. How did this curse even start? Things like this don’t just happen.”

Zathrian’s face remained impassive. “That is a long tale I do not have time to tell.”

“Thank you for the information, Keeper.” Zathrian nodded, turning back to his work.

—ROTG—

In time, the human empires will crumble. We have seen it happen countless times. Until then, we wait, we keep to the wild border lands, we raise halla and build aravels and present a moving target to the humans around us. We try to keep hold of the old ways, to relearn what was forgotten.

We call to the ancient gods, although they do not answer and have not heard us since before the fall of Arlathan, so that one day they might remember us: Elgar'nan the Eldest of the Sun and He Who Overthrew His Father, Mythal the Protector, Fen'Harel the Dread Wolf, Andruil the Huntress, Falon'Din the Friend of the Dead, Dirthamen the Keeper of Secrets, Ghilan'nain the Mother of Halla, June the Master of Crafts, and Sylaise the Hearthkeeper.

We gather every ten years for the Arlathvhen, to retell the ancient stories and keep them alive. For when the human kingdoms are gone, we must be ready to teach the others what it means to be elves.

--Gisharel, Keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish elves

Chapter Text

The group spent the next hour or two in camp. Despite Morrigan’s disdain for the entire affair, Daylen managed to get an unproven hunter together with the girl of his dreams, and even managed to not sleep with either one in the process. Sten’s skill with animals came in handy again when they found a wounded halla amongst the clan’s herd. The Warden spent some time speaking with Zathrian’s apprentice, Lanaya, gathering what information he could about the clan and the situation they faced. Leliana’s knowledge of human stories had her swapping tales with Sarel, the clan’s storyteller and teacher. Alistair was speaking quietly to a distraught elf in a corner of the camp as Daylen finished promising the camp’s smith that they would look for a particular kind of wood and traded for a hefty amount of reagents to mix for medicine. As Daylen whipped up flask after flask of healing potions on a borrowed workbench, Alistair shook hands with the upset elf and walked over, watching him work.

“Something wrong?” Daylen asked, nudging a handful of healing potions over to Alistair.

Alistair nodded, stowing the flasks. “That was Athras. He’s a hunter. Pleasant fellow, actually. It took a bit of talking, but I managed to get him to open up. Another elf named Danyla was his wife.”

Daylen looked up from his work at that. “Was?” he echoed.

Alistair nodded grimly. “They both fought the werewolves when the clan was ambushed. Danyla was gravely injured, and the curse spread fast. Apparently, there wasn’t much Zathrian could do to save her or even make her comfortable. The Keeper claims Danyla is dead, but Athras hasn’t seen a body.”

Daylen subtly glanced around, leaning closer. “He thinks Zathrian’s lying?”

“You got it. He – Athras, that is – thinks that Danyla became a werewolf, but any sort of confirmation is being kept from him so that he doesn’t get a bug on and go chasing after her.”

“And he wants us to do what, exactly? Get Zathrian’s permission for him to go find her?”

“Not exactly,” Alistair looked uncomfortable. “He wants us to find Danyla. Find out what happened to her, and bring him news.”

“The news may not be pleasant.”

“He just wants to know,” Alistair shrugged. “I said we’d look for her.”

“He give us any tips on how to recognize one werewolf from another?” Daylen asked. Alistair opened his mouth, before closing it and shaking his head. “That one’s going to be difficult.”

Alistair shrugged. “You ready to move out?”

“Just about. Find Leliana, see if she’s learned anything useful. Also tell her that Varathorn, the clan’s smith, has a set of Dalish leathers set aside for her. Should be a better fit than those salvaged ones she’s using now. Sten and Morrigan are waiting for us near the exit. I’ll be there shortly.” Alistair nodded, taking a hefty share of the elfroot potions Daylen had mixed to pass out to the others. Daylen cleaned up the last of his mess, nodding his thanks to Varathorn and spotting Mithra standing nearby. Approaching the elf, he coughed to announce his presence. “Hello there. Er…andaran atish’an,” Daylen said, stumbling over the words.

The sentry’s lips twitched upwards slightly. “Your pronunciation is terrible.”

Daylen gave her a nervous smile. “Ir abelas. Elvish is not my first language. Not even my second.”

Mithra nodded. “I trust there are no hard feelings about my questioning you when you arrived. We Dalish must always protect ourselves from trouble.”

“I started and finished that exchange with the same number of arrows in me, so I’m calling that a victory,” Daylen said with a stronger grin. “Thank you for not shooting us on sight. Do others truly trouble your clan so much?”

“These days? Very little, to tell the truth, for we have established a fearsome reputation amongst the shemlen. We must still be vigilant, however. Not that I would expect an outsider to understand, but there you have it. We do what we must.”

“Nothing I – or any Circle mage – has dealt with can compare, but we’re not exactly treated well ourselves.”

“Had we known a Grey Warden was coming, we might have arranged a different reception,” Mithra said. “Something with warmer greetings and fewer threats. But I wish you good fortune with your task. Dareth shiral, Warden.”

“Farewell, Mithra.”

Daylen met the rest of his party at the other end of the camp, spotting Leliana tightening the straps on the Dalish boots Daylen had procured for her. “Let’s get moving, shall we?”

“Daylen, before we go,” Alistair said quietly, before looking to Leliana. “Tell him.”

“I spoke with the clan’s storyteller,” Leliana said, sliding on the gauntlets. She flexed her hand as she did, settling the leather in. Strapping the gauntlet on tight, she nodded approvingly. “The clan’s elder insists that these werewolves are simply cunning as any other predator is, but the clan thought differently. The storyteller and much of the clan strongly believe that the ambush they sprang upon the clan was too well-planned for simple, mindless beasts.”

Daylen scratched his head. “Why would Zathrian lie? Why hide the truth?”

Leliana shrugged. “They don’t think he did. He may simply not be acknowledging the situation.”

“Wonderful. Let’s work with what we have, then. We need their help. Otherwise, I’d tell Zathrian to level with me or deal with his own problems. Let’s find ourselves a werewolf.”

—ROTG—

“They say the Veil is thin here,” Leliana whispered as they moved deeper into the forest. “All manner of strange things may be seen.”

“You aren’t wrong,” Daylen said quietly, closing his eyes and feeling the pulse of ambient magic. “I can feel the Fade pressing against the Veil.”

“Is this going to be a problem for you?” Alistair asked.

Daylen opened his eyes. “No. I’ll be fine. But keep alert. If you see or hear demons, tell them to piss off and stick something pointy in their face.” He tilted his head. “Anyone else hear howling?”

Less than a minute later, Daylen was regretting ever speaking to Zathrian. He was flat on his back with a rabid werewolf’s maw six inches from his face and his staff lodged between the beast’s jaws as drool and foam dripped from the creature’s mouth onto his face. The scent of burning hair was thick in the air, courtesy of a series of lightning bolts he had dropped on the group of wolves that had attacked. Leliana dropped another wolf with an arrow through the neck, before dropping the bow and drawing her daggers, ducking a lunge from another wolf. Kicking the wolf in the side, Leliana stabbed both daggers into the beast’s back, wrenching the blades sideways and severing the wolf’s spine.

Daylen squirmed, trying to leverage the massive werewolf away from him, but the beast had at least a foot in height on him and was almost twice as heavy. The creature snarled, before biting down hard on the staff, the wood and metal splintering under the crushing strength of the werewolf’s jaws. The staff snapped, and Daylen jerked his head to one side as the werewolf’s snout impacted the ground next to him. Dropping the staff and grabbing the creature’s face with both hands, Daylen unleashed a blast of frost with one hand and a bolt of lightning with the other. The creature’s fur ignited from the lightning, and it howled, sprinting away from the fight as it burned. Daylen staggered to his feet, watching as Alistair gutted another werewolf and Morrigan’s magic put down another pair of normal wolves. Sten cleaved a wolf in half with a crushing swing from his greatsword, and the rest fled, yipping and whimpering. Daylen shook his head as he examined the pieces of his staff. The weapon had been completely broken by the werewolf’s bite.

“Anyone get bitten?” Daylen asked, pulling his drool-sodden robes away from his skin. Everyone checked themselves over, finding no bites but a handful of scratches and bruises. “Good. Let’s get…” More howling echoed through the trees. “Oh for fuck’s sake. Let’s keep moving.”

The party moved through the depths of the forest, fighting the odd wolf or bear. Daylen could feel someone or something watching them, but it was unclear whether Dalish scouts were around or whether it was more werewolves.

Daylen eyed a stream ahead as they came closer to a moderately-rotted footbridge. “What do you think the odds are that that stream isn’t ice cold?”

“Slim and none, I would say,” Alistair said. “You planning on having a bath?”

“More like washing this gunk out of my robes,” Daylen replied, gesturing to the mess on his front. “I stink like a kennel.” Cupcake whined, and Daylen scratched the dog behind the ears. “Didn’t mean it like that, pup.” The wardog growled, his hackles up as he looked at the other side of the stream. “Uh-oh.”

Three werewolves bounded closer, and Leliana nocked an arrow as they approached. They came to a halt, bringing themselves to a standing position. The lead wolf growled. “The watch-wolves have spoken truly, my brothers and sisters. The Dalish send a human of all things, to repay us for our attack, to put us in our place.” The werewolf snuffled. “What bitter irony.”

Daylen ran through the long mental list of questions that had just arisen from the werewolf not only talking but doing so rather eloquently, before opening his mouth. “I…um…hello. My name is Daylen. Can we talk?”

“You speak to Swiftrunner, human. I lead my brothers and sisters.” He growled again. “Turn back now. Go back to the Dalish and tell them that you have failed. Tell them we will gladly watch them suffer the same curse we have suffered for too long. We will watch them pay!”

“All right, hang on now. I would prefer to talk to you. I mean you no harm. You suffer under this curse, and the Dalish suffer under this curse because of your attacks on them. I intend to help both parties by ending this curse.”

“Was it not Zathrian who sent you?” At Daylen’s nod, Swiftrunner snarled. “He wishes only our destruction, never to talk!”

“But you’re not talking with him, are you? You’re talking with me. Is there no way this can be resolved peacefully?”

“The time for peace is long past,” Swiftrunner replied. Daylen could swear he heard a note of regret in the werewolf’s raspy voice. “There will be no peace between the elves and we who are cursed.”

“Please, I’m trying to understand. Why do you hate the Dalish so much?”

“You know nothing, do you?” The wolf replied. “Nothing of us and even less of those you serve. You are a fool, and we are done talking. Run from the forest while you can. Run to the Dalish and tell them they are doomed.”

“That’s not an answer!” Daylen sighed. “I don’t want to fight you. I really don’t. But I can’t just walk away from this!”

“I do not wish to fight you either, but we cannot trust you,” Swiftrunner said. “Come, brothers and sisters, let us retreat. The forest has eyes of its own, and it will deal with intruders as it always has.” Swiftrunner led the other werewolves away, and Daylen shook his head.

“I just had a conversation with a werewolf. I used to think dealing with unruly apprentices was going to be the most interesting part of my life.”

“That’s the Wardens for you,” Alistair said. “And is that more howling I hear?”

“Oh, wonderful,” Daylen groaned. “And me without a weapon. Well, let’s keep moving. Maybe we won’t…” He broke off as a rabid werewolf tackled him. A blast of lightning issued from his hands, and the werewolf burst into flames as the others engaged the rest of the pack. The beast flopped off him, writhing on the ground, and Daylen rolled in the opposite direction, conjuring a lump of stone and flinging it at the wolf that was currently biting Leliana on the wrist. The rogue cradled her arm as the wolf let go, and Daylen cast a quick and dirty healing spell, getting her arm back into fighting shape. Leliana nodded her thanks, retrieving a dropped dagger and stabbing a werewolf in the back as it clawed at Alistair’s shield.

Daylen turned, only to stagger back as a regular wolf tackled him, the two rolling down a hill and close to a cliff. Daylen managed to fling the wolf away from him and rolled to a stop as the wolf bounced over the edge, howling on the way down. Daylen rolled over, spotting a Dalish hunter lying on the ground nearby.

“Daylen!” Alistair called. “Are you all right?”

“Quiet, fool,” Morrigan snapped. “Do you wish the entire forest to hear us?”

“Enough,” Daylen called back, healing the shoulder he had landed on hard and stretching the arm experimentally. “Get down here. I’m not alone.”

Alistair skidded down the hill after him, the others not far behind. “A Dalish elf? Is he alive?”

Daylen checked him over. “…Ish? He’s breathing.” He managed to heal some of the elf’s wounds, before shaking the elf. “Pardon, are you conscious?”

“What?” The elf mumbled. “Who…who are you?”

“A Grey Warden. You’re badly injured. What happened?”

“We were sent to find Witherfang,” the elf gasped. “Bring his heart. Attacked…I…” he groaned, passing out.

Daylen shook his head, before slapping the elf across the face, a spark of rejuvenation magic in his hand. The hunter snapped awake again with a yelp, and Daylen passed him a waterskin. The elf became more lucid after a few mouthfuls, and he managed to sit up. “Where am I? Am I still in the woods?” He looked Daylen over. “Who are you?”

“Still in the Brecelian Forest,” Daylen replied. “I’m a Grey Warden. I was going to take you back to the Dalish camp, but are there any other members of your hunting party around here?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been running and trying to escape for days. Have you seen any others?”

“Not since leaving the camp, I’m afraid. Your people have hidden from me without trouble before, so they could be out there.”

“I hope that they found safety, though it seems unlikely.”

Daylen nodded. “Nothing we can do for them right now. I need information. How did you get down here?”

“Our hunting party was attacked by a pack of werewolves. Savages, not like the ones who attacked the camp. We tried our best, but there were too many.”

“Looks like there’s two kinds of werewolves out here,” Daylen said, standing up. “My name is Daylen. Can you walk?”

“Deygan.” He tried to stand, only for his knees to buckle. “I’ll crawl if I have to.”

“Good attitude. Sten, Alistair, can you carry him while we head back to their camp?”

Sten rolled his eyes, easily hefting the elf and slinging him over his shoulder. “Lead on.”

“Let’s get him back to the camp. Maybe I can pick up a new staff while I’m there.”

Mithra found them first. “Andaran atish’an. Our scouts saw you approaching and tell me you carry the body of one of our hunters with you.” Sten set the elf’s body down, and Mithra knelt, examining him. Daylen averted his eyes politely as the leather skirt of her armor rode up. “Ah, Deygan. He is wounded, but I think he will live.”

“I patched him up a little so we could move him.”

“He speaks the truth,” Deygan said. “They saved me.”

“I’m glad we were able to help him,” Leliana said. “Thank the Maker we returned to the Dalish in time; He must have watched over this man.”

“Or perhaps his own gods were watching out for him,” Morrigan replied dryly.

“And perhaps they just know the Maker by another name,” Leliana challenged.

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Believe what you wish. It seems to me that they should be thanking the Grey Warden more than some absent god, but who am I to judge?”

Daylen sighed. “Would you two stop?” He looked to Mithra. “If you can get him back to your camp, he should be fine, but he needs more healing than I can provide out here.”

“Ma serannas,” Mithra replied. “Your help is appreciated. Come, lethallin. Let us take Deygan to the keeper, and quickly.” Daylen nodded to the elf, before leading the party back into the woods.

—ROTG—

Daylen closed his eyes as they came across another clearing. “There’s something…off, here.”

“What’s wrong?” Alistair asked.

“The Veil here is very, very thin,” Daylen replied. “Keep your eyes open. But there’s something…more.”

“Bigger problems,” Alistair said, turning around. “Darkspawn.”

“Oh, Maker, that’s not good,” Daylen squeaked as he saw an ogre ripping a boulder out of the ground. “Hit the dirt!” A lump of rock sailed over his shoulder and hit the ogre in the throat as it leaned back, and the beast stumbled, dropping the boulder directly onto its own skull. Despite the trio of hurlocks charging them, Daylen almost laughed at the poleaxed look on the ogre’s face.

“Do not simply stand there,” Morrigan snapped, spinning her staff as she prepared another attack. “Take the others!” A lightning bolt blasted from her staff, splashing across the stunned ogre’s chest, and the others snapped into action, Leliana aiming carefully and firing an arrow that would have sailed directly into the lead hurlock’s eye socket, had the darkspawn not caught it on his shield, lowering the targe and snarling at them over the edge. Then it squealed as Cupcake ripped into its hamstring, collapsing as the wardog’s teeth tore at its flesh. Cupcake lunged again as it swung its sword, his jaws closing around the hurlock’s wrist and his head rolling back and forth. There was a wet crunch as the hurlock’s arm broke, the sword dropping into the underbrush. The hurlock thrashed under Cupcake’s tender ministrations, and the dog growled, before pouncing again, ripping the hurlock’s throat out.

In the time it took for the ferocious Cupcake to cripple, disarm, and end the hurlock, Morrigan and Daylen had managed to trip and coat the ogre in grease, set the creature alight, and paralyze it with a particularly nasty entropic curse Morrigan knew. Sten and Alistair were bashing a pair of hurlocks back and forth between them, and Leliana had dropped two genlocks with her bow, Cupcake’s powerful jaws ensuring the darkspawn stayed down.

“Quickly, Warden,” Morrigan snapped as Daylen wove magic. “That beast shall not wait for you.”

“Working on it,” Daylen grunted, pumping more mana into the spell. “We’re trained to use staves to weave our magic.” Morrigan scoffed, and Daylen rolled his eyes, before giving the mana nature, a large spirit bolt blazing to life between his hands. “Eat this!” The magic impacted the ogre’s face as it began charging, and the ogre’s flesh sizzled as its head was snapped back by the blast. Alistair looked over as Sten beheaded the last remaining hurlock and charged, ramming his sword into the ogre’s undefended side as it clawed at its own face. On the third stab, the beast finally fell still, and Alistair yanked his sword free, tainted blood soaking the earth.

“Anyone injured?” Daylen asked, looking around. He tilted his head, squinting slightly. “Morrigan, can you feel that?”

“Yes. ‘Tis a thinning of the Veil. We should not linger here.”

“It’s more than that,” Daylen insisted. “There’s something else around here, something alive.”

“You can tell that?” Alistair asked, wiping blood from his sword.

“I’ve felt the presence of Fade spirits in our world before,” Daylen explained. “Just once, but it left an impression.”

“Daylen, look out!” Leliana shouted, pointing behind him.

Most people, upon having something like that shouted at them, will react in one of two ways. Some will duck. Others will turn to see what the problem is, and more often than not, fail to move out of the way in time.

Daylen fell squarely into the latter category, and managed to say “What the f-” before a swinging tree limb slapped him across the clearing. He tumbled over the packed earth, coming to a dazed halt after several yards. Sitting up and coughing, Daylen watched as the tree stumped forward, its trunk splitting into two leg-like sections.

“What is this thing?” Alistair shouted, catching a blow from a swung branch on his shield. “Is it a demon?”

Morrigan hit the tree with a blast of frost, freezing it in place. “Ask questions later! Attack!”

Daylen limped back into the fight, watching as Sten’s sword shattered one of the tree’s frozen limbs. “It’s a sylvan. Fade spirits sometimes possess trees, rather than people.”

“Great,” Alistair grunted, hacking off a branch as the sylvan thawed and resumed its attack. “How do we kill it?”

Daylen rolled his eyes, weaving magic between his hands. “How do you kill any tree?” He threw out a hand, blasting flames from his palm, the bark of the sylvan crackling and sap bursting under the intense heat. The sylvan fell, and a few moments later Daylen extinguished the flame with a burst of frost. “Let’s not burn the whole forest down,” he said quietly. “I doubt the Dalish would appreciate that.”

“I think we would appreciate not being dead more. So, you’re telling me demons can possess trees? I thought it was just mages that could get possessed.”

Morrigan snorted. “Yes, the Chantry would have you think that.”

Daylen shrugged. “There are records of non-mages being possessed. Anywhere the Veil is thin – like here, where there’s been so much death and bloodshed – Fade spirits can cross over to our world. Unfortunately, there’s not always a mage handy for them to possess. Some wind up as shades, draining anyone unlucky enough to be nearby to feed itself. Others possess whatever’s handy. Sometimes, that’s a tree.”

“And that,” Alistair said, pointing at the burnt tree, “is the result?”

“It’s either that or something seriously messed up in whatever the Dalish feed their halla,” Daylen replied with a grin. Alistair chuckled, and Daylen jerked a thumb further down the trail. “Well, let’s keep moving, let’s keep moving. Places to see, things to kill.”

It was less than another twenty steps before they ran into another sylvan. The first sign they had of it was when the tree leaned forward with a groan. The sylvan rammed its arms into the ground, and a moment later Morrigan shrieked in fear and pain. Daylen turned, seeing roots erupting from the ground and curling around her, and instantly made the logical connection. “Alistair, Sten, kill that thing! Leliana, help me!” By the time the two made it to her, Morrigan was almost completely covered in the roots, and was pinned between two of them, her staff arm still flailing outside the mass of mobile boughs that held her.

Then the limbs began to squeeze.

There was a wet snap as her arm broke, and Morrigan’s muffled screams intensified as she dropped her staff. “Morrigan, hang on, we’re getting you out of there!” Daylen shouted, grabbing hold of a pair of the roots, pumping frost magic into the animated wood. The limbs shattered as Leliana smacked them with the hilt of her daggers, and Daylen spotted Morrigan’s face, her eyes wide as she struggled against the roots. “Leliana, keep cutting! I can see her!” Freezing another section of the roots, Daylen braced his boot against another section of the roots, grunting as he yanked them away from his companion. The roots unraveled from her upper torso, and Morrigan clutched at her broken arm, gasping sobs as she cradled the injured limb. Leliana was crouched low, cutting away at the roots as carefully as she could, and Daylen looped his arms around Morrigan’s waist, tugging her free as Leliana cut her loose. Morrigan was limp in his arms as Daylen stumbled backwards, away from the fight. He set her down on a fallen tree, watching as she began to shake.

“Let me see your arm,” Daylen said softly. Morrigan was panting, staring straight ahead with wide eyes. “Morrigan!” Daylen snapped his fingers under her nose, letting a spark of electricity jump between them with a loud snap. Morrigan’s eyes snapped over to him. “Your arm is broken. Let me see it!” The shaken witch winced as she extended her arm to him, and Daylen nodded gratefully. “It’s not too bad. Just stay still for a moment.” She hissed in pain as Daylen pumped healing magic into her arm, fusing the bone back together. Daylen inspected his work, before nodding in satisfaction and looking the mage in the eyes. “You hurt anywhere else?”

For a moment, she looked vulnerable. Then the mask came crashing back down. “Nothing I cannot deal with,” she said. “I am fine. I appreciate your help.”

“Morrigan, if…”

“I said I am fine!”

“All right, all right,” Daylen said, holding up his hands. “Just offering to make you comfortable.”

Morrigan sighed. “Fine. If you insist on badgering me, I will allow you to heal me. ‘Tis only scratches.” She shifted the cowl that covered her upper torso, and Daylen winced as he saw a long, ragged scrape along her ribs, bruises already blooming.

“Sylvan’s dead!” Alistair called. “We’re all fine here!”

“Good!” Daylen shouted back, a quick pulse of healing magic knitting the flesh back together. He saw Morrigan flinch, and prodded at the new skin. She twitched again, and Daylen scowled as Leliana set Morrigan’s dropped staff down next to them. “Morrigan, you have at least one cracked rib.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Proceed.” Healing the injured bone took another few moments, and Daylen noticed several other scrapes along the mage’s body. Morrigan fussed, but allowed him to treat her.

“Have you bothered me enough for now?” She asked acidly, tugging her robes back into place. “Is your curiosity about my body satisfied?”

Daylen picked up her staff, holding it out. “For the moment.”

Her golden eyes met his brown, and again, the mask slipped for a moment. “Thank you.”

As they ventured deeper towards the clearing, Daylen groaned as another pair of trees began moving. “Oh, here we go again.” Flames streaming from both hands, he set the trees alight, and Alistair and Sten pulled back as the trees charged. The sylvan made it a mere handful of steps before they collapsed under limbs weakened by fire.

“You should lead with that from now on,” Alistair said, prodding one of the burning sylvans with his sword.

“Again, I’d rather not burn the forest down,” Daylen replied. “And fire’s not my specialty.”

Alistair was peering at another tree. “I wonder if this is another one of those blasted things.”

“I suppose we’ll find out,” Leliana murmured darkly, keeping a wary eye on the forest around them. “We should keep moving.”

They had entered the clearing when another tree started moving.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Daylen was readying a spell when the tree started talking.

“Hrrm…what manner of beast be thee, that comes before this elder tree?”

Daylen let the magic fizzle out, shocked by the tree talking. “I…huh. That’s new.” Clearing his throat, he stepped forward. “You’re not going to attack me, are you?”

“Ah, thou speakest of the others, how filled they are with hate? I apologize on their behalf, they cannot control their fate. Allow me a moment to welcome thee. I am called the Grand Oak, sometimes the Elder Tree.”

“It…rhymes?” Morrigan’s head was tilted to one side, and she looked as confused as Daylen. “It rhymes. ‘Tis a rhyming tree. One can only imagine what manner of spirit is involved here.”

“A poet tree,” Daylen said, ignoring Morrigan’s annoyed sigh. “Very punny.”

“And unless thou thinkst it far too soon, might I ask of thee a boon?”

“Not at all,” Daylen replied. “I frequently have people ask me for favors moments after meeting me. What’s this boon you mentioned?”

“I have but one desire, to solve a matter very dire. As I slept one early morn, a thief did come and steal an acorn.”

“And you would like it returned, I take it?”

The tree nodded mournfully. “All I have is my being, my seed. Without it, I am alone indeed. I cannot go and seek it out, yet I shall die if left without.”

“Grand Oak, I can look for your acorn, but this forest is very hostile. Do you know a safe path through?”

The tree rumbled. “My wooden skin has some magic, see, and part of it I can give to thee. The forest would see thee as a tree, and so no harm would come to thee.”

“Protection in a forest where so far just about everything has tried to kill us? That’d help. Very well, we’ll look for it.” The group continued past the clearing, only to come across a seemingly well-made campsite.

“Is that a campsite?” Alistair asked. “It looks…remarkably intact.”

“Tents and bedrolls covered in leaves, but dry,” Leliana said, before looking at the fire pit. “This fire is still fresh. Yet no sign of any inhabitants.”

“How odd,” Morrigan mused. “A camp with no campers, complete with fire and warm blankets. Rather inviting, would you not say?”

Daylen sniffed the air. “More suspicious than inviting.” Something smelled off.

Alistair nodded in agreement, looking at the soft earth around the camp. “No footprints, no spoor, no sign of anyone actually using the site.”

Daylen felt a prickling on the back of his neck and looked at the forest around them warily. “Let’s leave. If there’s someone who made this camp, it’d be rude to intrude.” As he turned to leave, he found his steps growing leaden, and a sudden overwhelming urge to sleep came over him.

Cupcake whined plaintively, yawning and nosing at Daylen’s hand. Daylen shook his head, trying to clear it. “It’d be a shame to waste this,” Leliana said sleepily.

“Let’s not fight it,” Daylen mumbled. “Let’s turn around and see what happens.” Turning around, he felt the fog in his mind crawling deeper. Morrigan stumbled, bumping into him. Raising his hands reflexively, Daylen found himself with two handfuls of Morrigan’s chest, and the sudden shock – followed by another shock as Morrigan slapped him – was enough to clear his mind. As if it were a dream, the vision of the campground dissipated, replaced with a ragged campsite filled with bones, and a single figure that lunged angrily at them. It looked to be made of rags and moving shadows.

A shade. Often dangerous against unwary travelers, it would pounce and drain them to feed itself.

However, one shade against six people was somewhat unequal odds and it within moments the shade’s body dissipated, the spirit destroyed.

“Maker’s breath!” Alistair said as the fog lifted. “This camp is ancient.” He looked vaguely green as he carefully stepped over piles of bones. “How many, do you think…?”

“I’d rather not think about it,” Daylen replied. “Too many.”

“A hungry spirit luring those who pass to their rest,” Morrigan declared, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked disturbed at the piles of bones but there was anger in her eyes at Daylen’s unintentional groping. Daylen was busily poking through the debris, the imprint of a hand on his face clearly visible even in the dying light as he studiously avoided her eyes. “And to their doom. One might wonder how it learned this trick.”

“No matter,” Sten rumbled. “It shall prey on no more innocents.”

“We should find a place to make camp,” Leliana suggested, looking up at what she could see of the darkening sky through the thick canopy of branches. “It will be dark soon.”

“Oh, yes, let us camp in the midst of all these dead bodies,” Morrigan scoffed.

“Tempting, but I’ve got a better idea,” Daylen said. Heading back down the trail, he tapped the single friendly sylvan they had met on the leg. “Excuse me, Grand Oak,” he called. “We were looking for a place to make camp tonight. Would you mind terribly if we stayed nearby?”

“On the contrary, the life of an oak is often solitary. You may stay here, and no danger need you fear.”

“Wonderful. We’ll keep the fire to a minimum.”

—ROTG—

“Fascinating story about Aveline,” Daylen said. “I have to admit, as large as the Circle’s library is, they don’t have many stories you would read for enjoyment. Mostly history texts and books on spell theory. Some treatises on politics, but very little that’s entertaining to the average person.”

“That is a shame,” Leliana replied, eyeing the pot Alistair was stirring with a look of wary distaste. “Daylen, do you hear something?”

Daylen’s brows furrowed. “I do. Is Cupcake…growling?” He looked over, spotting Sten crouched in front of the dog. “Uh-oh.”

As Sten bared his teeth at the dog, Cupcake gave another low, menacing growl. Sten replied with an angry snarl, and Daylen watched, utterly confused as the two faced off. Cupcake gave another vicious growl, and Sten roared in response. Daylen was about to ask what was going on when Cupcake barked fiercely and lunged at Sten, stopping inches away from his face.

Sten nodded respectfully. “You are a true warrior, and worthy of respect.”

“Whuff!”

Daylen was turning back towards the campfire when he noticed Alistair’s dark expression. “You all right?”

“M’fine,” Alistair muttered.

Daylen grunted. “Got a moment for some questions, then?”

“Ask away,” Alistair replied.

Daylen shrugged, willing to play the game if Alistair would. “So how did you become a Grey Warden?”

“Same way you did. You drink some blood, you choke on it, and you pass out. You haven’t forgotten already, have you?”

“Ha, ha ha,” Daylen replied, his tone dry enough to gather dust. “Ha, ha, ha. I’m just floored by your humor.”

Alistair gave a weak smile. “I do my best. What can I say?” Daylen tilted his head, silently urging him to go on, and Alistair sighed. “Let’s see. I was in the Chantry before, training to be a Templar. I’ve mentioned some of that. Luckily for me, I was recruited into the Grey Wardens before I could take my vows.” His smile grew wider at a memory. “The Grand Cleric didn’t want to let me go. Duncan was forced to conscript me, and that got under her skin. I thought she was going to have us both arrested. I consider myself lucky.”

Daylen looked around at their surroundings. “We’re wanted men, the last of our order in this country, facing an invasion that could end the world if not stopped, with nothing more to work with than what we’re carrying and a handful of treaties that some people might honor. In other words, we’re up the river without a paddle. We don’t even have a boat. You think this is better than being a Templar?”

“Daylen, if I were a Templar I’d be sitting in some chantry someplace doing absolutely no good. Here, I have the chance to fight against the Blight, to make a difference. Isn’t that worth it?”

Daylen leaned back slightly, looking at his friend and re-evaluating him. “Alistair, some day you are going to make a damned good leader.”

Alistair scoffed. “Please, let’s not. I’m not suited to command. Why do you think I’m letting you lead?”

“Because of my dashing good looks, my amazing wit, and the fact that I can blow shit up with my mind?” Daylen fished around in his satchel, pulling out a rolled-up piece of parchment. “Or is it because I’ve got the map?”

“Well, there’s that, but mostly because if this all goes south, they’ll blame you, not me.”

Daylen smiled briefly, but gave his companion a somber look. “In all truth, Alistair, I’m glad you’re here. It’s good to have you watching my back.”

“I’ll always be thankful to Duncan for recruiting me,” Alistair said quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Daylen mumbled through his beard. “He was a good man.”

“He was. He was a good man who didn’t deserve his fate, that much I’m sure of.” Alistair cleared his throat noisily, shaking his head. “All right. I think I’m done talking.”

“Do you want to talk about him?”

“You don’t have to do that,” Alistair replied. “I know you didn’t know him very long.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t mourn his loss,” Daylen said pointedly. “He saved me from the Circle, and I’ll always respect him for that. But I’m understanding that he was like a father to you.” Alistair swallowed hard. “And I just thought you might want to, or maybe need to, talk about him. I’ve seen people fresh at the Circle like that. They’ve just lost everything they knew.”

“I should have handled it better,” Alistair replied bitterly. “Duncan warned me right from the beginning that this could happen. Any of us could die in battle. I shouldn’t have lost it, not when so much is riding on us, not with the Blight and…and everything. I’m sorry.”

“One of the enchanters back at the Circle once told me something after a particularly embarrassing – and public – magical failure. I nearly blew myself up with a spell. You know what he said to me? ‘Messing up is a part of living.’ If you spend all your time regretting the past, you’ll never learn from it. We are so much more than our mistakes. You lost someone who was very important to you, someone who changed your life and helped define who you are today. That’s going to take some time to adjust to.”

“I’d, um,” Alistair blinked hard, his eyes suspiciously watery, “I’d like to have a proper funeral for him. Maybe once this is all done, if we’re still alive. I don’t think he had any family to speak of.”

“He had you. He had the Wardens.”

“I suppose he did,” Alistair admitted. “It probably sounds stupid, but part of me feels like I abandoned him.”

“It is stupid, but I get it. You’d be dead if you had been with him, but I understand. He saved your life by sending you to that tower.” Alistair nodded, staring at the fire, and Daylen pressed on. “To look at him, I’d guess he had some Rivaini heritage, but I don’t know. Where was he from?”

“Highever, he said. Maybe I’ll go up out there sometime, see about putting up something in his honor. I don’t know.” The warrior looked over at him. “Have you…had someone close to you die? Not that I mean to pry, I’m just…”

“Not prying, I’ve been pestering you for your life story,” Daylen said. “No family, not that I can remember. Friends, though. Some died being taken upstairs, some just vanished. Some took their own lives. I’ve lost enough throughout my life to understand what you’re going through.”

“That must have felt a lot like when I got sent to the Chantry,” Alistair mused. “Mages don’t even get a say in the matter, after all.” He took a deep breath. “Where’s a darkspawn when you need one? I feel like beheading something.” He looked around. “Oi! Spaaaaawny! Where are you?” Daylen burst out laughing, and Alistair smiled broadly. “Thank you. Really, I mean it. It was good to talk about it, at least a little.”

“Maybe I’ll go to Highever with you, when you go.”

“I’d like that. So would he, I think.”

“I just wish…” Daylen paused for a moment, trying to sort out his thoughts and feelings. “I wish at least one of the other Wardens, Duncan, or Richu, or any of the others at Ostagar…I wish that one of them had survived. They’d know something, they’d have some sort of information that could help us. They’d have a plan.”

“I know how you feel,” Alistair replied. “I feel so lost, without them. Without Duncan. Without any of the other Wardens at my back. They knew what they were doing. And they’re all dead. Because of him.”

The two stared into the fire for a long minute, Alistair warming his hands briefly. “I’ll help you get him, Alistair,” Daylen said quietly. “I’ll help you take Loghain down.”

—ROTG—

The Dalish

I took the road north from Val Royeaux toward Nevarra with a merchant caravan. A scant two days past the Orlesian border, we were beset by bandits. They struck without warning from the cover of the trees, hammering our wagons with arrows, killing most of the caravan guards instantly. The few who survived the arrow storm drew their blades and charged into the trees after our attackers. We heard screams muffled by the forest, and then nothing more of those men.

After a long silence, the bandits appeared. Elves covered in tattoos and dressed in hides, they looted all the supplies and valuables they could carry from the merchants and disappeared back into the trees.

These, I was informed later, were the Dalish, the wild elves who lurk in the wilderness on the fringes of settled lands, preying upon travelers and isolated farmers. These wild elves have reverted to the worship of their false gods and are rumored to practice their own form of magic, rejecting all human society.

—From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi

Chapter Text

“No wonder the Dalish couldn’t find Witherfang,” Daylen panted, looking at the pack of freshly-dead werewolves that had attacked the group a minute before. “This many werewolves about, that hunting party wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“There are many things besides werewolves in this forest,” Leliana said. “Many things more dangerous lurk here, it is said.”

“By who?” Daylen asked they rounded a corner, a fogbank clinging to the trees ahead. “Who says all these things?”

“Storytellers, mostly,” Leliana replied. “What is this mist?”

Daylen felt mana surging through the mist and drew upon his own, readying himself for an attack. “Nothing good. It’s magic. Stay alert, everyone.” Striding into the mist, the party kept close together, emerging a few moments later.

“Does…does this trail look familiar to anyone else?” Alistair asked.

Morrigan opened her mouth to comment, but Daylen beat her to it. “Alistair, I haven’t been able to tell where we were going at all today. If you can recognize trees, I’ll trust you on that.”

Leliana turned around repeatedly, looking at their surroundings. “He’s right. We somehow got turned around.”

“Alright, let’s try that again. Stay close behind me.” Daylen closed his eyes and walked forward into the mist, only to smack into someone else. As he recoiled, Daylen cracked an eye open. “Leliana, how’d you get in front of me?”

“I have no idea,” she admitted. “I was walking close behind you, and then you were walking the other way. I never saw you turn.”

“You sure you didn’t just get turned around accidentally?” Alistair asked.

“Positive,” Daylen replied, rubbing his nose. “This is magic.”

“What, your nose?”

Daylen sighed. “Someone’s in fine smartass form today, I see.”

“Good to know that bump didn’t affect your vision,” Alistair said with a grin.

“Hush!” Daylen thought for a moment, before shrugging. “I guess this is what the Grand Oak was talking about. So we go find ourselves a thief.”

“That won’t be easy, in these woods,” Leliana said, looking around. “You could lose an army in here. It’s happened before.”

“My concern is if this thief was good enough to steal an acorn off a tree without waking up the tree, how are we possibly going to get it back?”

—ROTG—

“Well, that was ridiculously easy,” Daylen muttered, pocketing the acorn.

Alistair looked at him incredulously. “You call that easy? All those questions gave me a headache.”

“Look, nobody died. We got what we wanted and all we traded was a ring I dug out of what that shade left behind. That’s good enough for me.” Daylen flinched, pressing a hand to the side of his head. “Is that sensation my sensing darkspawn?”

“Yes,” Alistair replied distastefully. “Several of them. A handful of hurlocks and an ogre.”

The others readied their weapons, but Daylen blinked, surprised at the detail. “You can tell that?”

“Sure,” Alistair replied. “I can see them.” He pointed, and Daylen turned to see the band of blighted creatures approaching.

“Bright side is,” Daylen said, readying lightning, “You get to behead something now!”

—ROTG—

Alistair braced his boot against the dead ogre’s head, trying to pull his sword free of the beast’s skull. “Boy, that’s really stuck in there.” He turned around. “Say, Daylen, would you give me a…” He jumped back as Daylen slammed a looted darkspawn maul down on the ogre’s head like a sledgehammer, fracturing the darkspawn’s skull.

Daylen groaned, dropping the weapon and rubbing his shoulder. “I think I pulled something. Clearly I was not put in this world to swing giant hammers.” He gestured at the lodged sword. “Try it now.”

Alistair braced himself against the darkspawn’s head again, taking a firm grip on the hilt of his sword. He grimaced at the nauseating sloshing sound that came from the ogre’s head as he worked the blade free. Nodding his thanks, Alistair wiped the blade clean and sheathed it. “Now what?”

“Now we go take a look at that,” Daylen said, pointing at a tombstone off to the side of the clearing. “There’s something here that doesn’t make sense. Let’s go and poke it with a stick.”

Alistair watched as Daylen walked by him. “How did you survive long enough to make it to Ostagar?”

Daylen squinted at the markings etched on the tombstone. “These look like wards. Tevinter script. Can’t read it, this hasn’t been used in at least two hundred years. It’d be in Tevinter anyway. But if there’s wards, that’d mean there’s something interesting behind them.”

—ROTG—

Daylen cracked an eye open, finding his forehead and face sticky, and sat up, his entire head pounding an anvil chorus that would make a team of blacksmiths seem quiet by comparison. The last thing he remembered seeing was a shield coming straight for his face. “Is everyone all right?”

“You and Leliana were knocked unconscious,” Alistair said, sheathing his sword. “Everyone else is uninjured.”

Rooting around in his satchel, Daylen downed an elfroot potion, feeling the pain in his head subside. Touching his eyebrow, Daylen winced as his hand came away with blood on it. “The last thing I remember is the tombstone, and…something spirit-y or demon-y and a giant shield. Coming right at my face.” Daylen scrubbed at the blood caked around his nose. “You killed it?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Alistair said. “Thing swung a greatsword like it was a toy. Sten took its head off, that seemed to do the trick.” He pointed to where Sten was burning a body, and Daylen stood, walking over to the flames.

“A revenant, I’d say,” Daylen declared, examining the armor they had salvaged. “Dangerous. Powerful.” He worked his jaw and spat off to one side, the phlegm coming out pink. “You can kill them, obviously, but it’s tough.”

“I’ve seen more of these around the forest,” Leliana said, touching the tombstone gingerly. “Presumably, they have more revenants sealed behind their wards.”

“Something interesting behind the wards, eh?” Alistair snarked.

Daylen blushed faintly. “All right, so maybe the wards were keeping something in rather than everything else out. Still, we should kill the other revenants.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“What if some poor sod comes in and breaks the wards? Do you want a revenant running loose like that?”

“Some poor sod like you?” Daylen winced. “There was an interesting armor piece in the grave. Too large for me, but Sten might be able to make use of it.”

“Well, we’ll see if we can…” Daylen broke off as Cupcake began growling and spotted a werewolf crouched on the trail. “Oh, come on!”

Unexpectedly, the werewolf did not rush to attack them. Instead, its hunched posture seemed more pained than aggressive. “Please…help,” the beast rasped. “I am not the mindless beast I appear to be!”

Daylen kept a wary distance, but crouched to eye level, noticing a scarf wrapped around the beast’s neck. “You’re a Dalish, afflicted with the curse?”

“Yes!” The werewolf whimpered. “I fled into the forest. The werewolves, they…they took me in, but I had to return!”

“Careful,” Alistair cautioned. “They may have laid a trap for us. You never know.”

Daylen nodded, not looking away from the werewolf. “Your Keeper Zathrian sent me out here looking for Witherfang. Have you seen him?”

“I have, but it is not what you think,” the werewolf said, grunting in pain. “But there is no time to explain. You must listen. My name is Danyla. My husband,” she grunted again, “he is called Athras. Please, you must,” another pained wheeze, “bring him a message.”

Daylen blinked. “You’re Danyla? Athras is worried about you.”

“I want him to be at peace. He is a good man. Please, do not let him suffer, thinking of me. The scarf I wear, bring it to him. Tell him I love him. Tell him…tell him I am dead and with the gods. I beg you…” Danyla stifled a howl, and began to tremble. “The curse is fire in my blood! Please, end it for me! End it quickly!”

Daylen could see the extreme pain the cursed Dalish was in, but recognized the source of information. “I need answers, first. Please, you must help me! I can’t let any more Dalish meet your fate!”

“I will tell you what I know…if you promise to end my pain!”

“You have my word, Danyla.”

“Then…then know some of the werewolves are no longer violent animals. They have…overcome the curse. Like I have. There is a ruin in the center of the forest. You may find them there. They will think…you mean to kill them.” Danyla whimpered, shaking. “I can tell you no more. Please…fulfill your promise!”

“So be it,” Daylen said softly, accepting a dagger from Leliana. “Ir abelas, Danyla. Be at peace.” The elf-turned-werewolf lifted her head, baring her throat, and Daylen gently removed the scarf before opening the arteries with a quick slice.

“Gods…bless you,” the werewolf gasped, collapsing as blood spurted.

“May you find your way to the side of your gods,” Daylen said, taking the scarf Danyla had and folding it neatly. “This is going to be hard to explain to Athras.”

Alistair looked down at the corpse. “At least we found her.”

—ROTG—

Daylen whistled. “Grand Oak! We have something you want back!”

The tree shook itself, and Daylen squinted as a shower of leaves came fluttering down. “My acorn is still gone, so I pray to thee…hast thou any news for me?”

Daylen produced the acorn with a flourish, nearly dropping it. “Is this the acorn you seek?”

The tree bent, gently plucking the acorn from his hand with a branch. “My joy soars to new heights indeed! I am reunited with my seed! As I promised, here it be. I hope its magic pleases thee.” Another branch shook, and fell from the sylvan’s frame. “Keep this branch of mine with thee, and pass throughout the forest free.”

Daylen picked up the branch, feeling magic surge through it. “Hey, I think I can use this as a staff!”

The tree nodded. “I wish thee well, my mortal friend. Thou brought my sadness to an end. May the sunlight find you, thy days be long, thy winters kind, and thy roots be strong.”

“So what now?” Alistair asked. “On to those ruins?”

“Back to the Dalish camp, actually.”

“That’s a good idea,” Leliana said. “They should know about the location of the werewolves’ lair.”

“And we should tell Athras about Danyla,” Alistair mused.

“And I need to talk with Zathrian,” Daylen said. “I need answers. He’s so convinced the werewolves are simply mindless beasts acting on a predator’s instinct. The fact that they can talk coherently means that isn’t the case.”

—ROTG—

“So what’s with these werewolves, Keeper?” Daylen asked. “I found Danyla. She had turned, but she was capable of speech. Coherent speech. She told me the werewolves had overcome the curse. Others have spoken, as well.”

“That seems unlikely,” Zathrian replied dismissively. “They are savage beasts. Even if they could speak, I doubt they would have anything worthwhile to say.”

Daylen scowled. “So what, I hallucinated the conversations I had with them?” Zathrian remained silent, and after a few moments, Daylen went on, crossing his arms over his chest. “They seem to have some grudge against your people.”

“The same grudge they hold against any who trespass in the forest, I imagine. We also killed many of them during the attack. The werewolves are unimportant. It is Witherfang whom you must seek out. And if they keep you from him, then your course is clear.”

“I don’t appreciate being sent as an errand boy,” Daylen warned. “Nor do I enjoy being treated like a child, or having information withheld from me.” Zathrian offered no response. “If you won’t answer the important questions, let’s try a new one. Do you know anything about a werewolf named Swiftrunner?”

“I was not aware they have names. So no, I know nothing about any Swiftrunner.”

“So you have nothing to add to what I already know, even though they sprang a coordinated ambush on a clan skilled at hunting and forestry, and have managed to evade your attempts to locate their lair.”

Zathrian leaned in closer. “Understand my words,” he hissed. “They are mindless beasts. They are not and will never be anything more than beasts. Find Witherfang. Retrieve his heart. That is your task.”

“You’re blind to the facts,” Daylen said quietly. “Why, I can’t tell. Something I’ve found is that the truth usually comes out.”

Leaving the Keeper behind, he linked up with Alistair, who had just broken the news to Athras. The two found Leliana, who had just passed the ironbark the party had found on the way back to the camp to the clan’s craftsman.

“Was there any left on the fallen tree?” Varathorn asked.

“We took as much as we could,” Leliana replied. “We could not pry loose any more.”

“With this much to spare, I could make you a bow, or a breastplate,” the craftsman was offering.

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” Leliana said. “This is for your clan!”

“Take the bow, Leliana,” Daylen chimed in. “We’re going into their lair, next. We’ll need every edge we can get.”

Leliana seemed unsure. “Dalish bows are known far and wide for their excellence...”

Varathorn puffed himself up. “It would be my pleasure to make the bow that kills Witherfang.”

“Then do so, but don’t use more than you have to,” Daylen said. “I won’t turn down help when offered, but we did this for the Dalish.”

—ROTG—

“Zathrian’s a liar,” Daylen spat as they left the camp again. “He knows more than he’s letting on.”

Alistair rubbed at his chin. “Why do you think he’s lying?”

“Leliana mentioned that most of the clan realized that they were facing an intelligent enemy. He’s been awfully insistent that they’re nothing but beasts.”

“People like that typically have something to hide,” Leliana said darkly.

“Right,” Daylen agreed. “And Keepers are chosen for their wisdom and leadership skills. He’s got a grudge here. Something personal.”

“So what do we do?” Alistair asked. “Leave? Let them sort their problem out on their own, and find a different clan to ask for help?”

“We could spend months rooting around the forest for another Dalish clan,” Daylen replied. “And even if Zathrian’s a lying ass, the rest of his clan shouldn’t suffer for it.”

Over the next few hours, the group found more of the gravesites and managed to kill the revenants with minimal injuries, although Daylen found himself knocked out again and had to heal a nasty broken wrist Alistair picked up in the attempt. More pieces of the odd plate armor were found on the bodies, and Daylen began setting them aside, realizing they were part of a set.

Eventually, they found their way back to the mist barrier that had prevented them from advancing earlier in the day. Daylen held the staff the Grand Oak had given them over his head and channeled a burst of magic through it, and the mist dissipated, blowing away on a wind that seemed to have no specific direction.

“All right,” Alistair admitted. “That was pretty impressive.”

Daylen nodded in agreement, before tilting his head as Cupcake growled. “Oh, I am so sick of hearing howling!”

Swiftrunner bounded forward, pulling up short. Daylen took a moment to congratulate himself for not flinching as the werewolf reared to his full height and managed to loom over him. “The forest has not been vigilant enough. Still you come. You are stronger than we could have anticipated. The Dalish chose well. But you do not belong here, outsider. Leave this place!”

“Look, I know Zathrian is lying to me. I’m just trying to find the truth.”

“You came even though we warned you not to,” Swiftrunner went on, either not caring what Daylen had to say or just not hearing him. “You are as treacherous as the Dalish. We will not allow harm to come to Witherfang!”

“Ah-hah!” Daylen said, seizing on the phrase. “Why call the Dalish treacherous if you ambushed them?”

“They deserved no less!” The werewolf growled, before continuing. “You are an intruder in our home! You come to kill, as all your kind do! We have learned this lesson well. Here Witherfang protects us. Here we learn our names and are beloved! We will defend Witherfang and this place with our lives!” He lunged, and Daylen acted on reflex, batting him on the nose with his staff. Swiftrunner bounced back, yipping angrily, and three more werewolves joined the fight. One fell immediately as Leliana’s arrow found its mark, and another lunged at Alistair. The warrior dropped to one knee, bearing the werewolf on his shield, grunting as he let the beast’s own momentum carry it over his head. The werewolf tumbled past, and Sten jammed his greatsword through the creature’s chest, finishing it off with a twist of the blade.

Daylen and Morrigan, to their credit, had managed to set Swiftrunner on fire and critically injure the other werewolf with bursts of ice and lightning. Daylen advanced, aiming to end the fight, only to stumble back as a brilliant white wolf landed between him and Swiftrunner.

“Witherfang,” Daylen hissed, noticing a pattern of vines wrapped around the wolf’s legs. He would have continued, but the wolves bounded away before he could say anything more. “Anyone injured?”

Alistair worked out the shoulder he had used to toss the werewolf around. “Not particularly. Anybody got a…” he watched as Daylen trotted over to another gravestone. “Daylen, please tell me you’re not about to mess with that.”

“I’m not about to mess with this,” Daylen said, scratching at the warding symbols on the gravestone.

“You are literally messing with it right now,” Alistair sighed, drawing his sword.

The revenant appeared in front of Alistair, facing Daylen. It didn’t notice him until Alistair rammed his sword through the back of the creature’s neck.

“Well, that was easy,” Leliana mused as the revenant fell, dead.

“Is that all four?” Alistair asked, watching as Daylen pulled a pair of gauntlets from the revenant. “Does that complete the set?”

“Not quite,” Daylen replied. “Boots, gauntlets, and helmet. But no cuirass. As thick as this is, I expected it to be heavier.”

“It’s silverite,” Alistair said. “I’ve seen armor made from it before, but never this much. You’ll see a pauldron, or some bracers, or even a breastplate, but rarely a full plate set like this. This is very finely made.”

“Too bad it won’t fit you,” Daylen said. “Sten might be able to wear it.” The Qunari shrugged in response. “I guess next time we make camp. Not a good time to change your equipment out here.” At a snarling noise Daylen sighed tiredly. “See?”

“We are invaded!” A werewolf called. “Intruders have deceived their way into the forest’s heart! Fall back to the ruins! Protect the Lady!”

“The Lady?” Daylen echoed as the werewolves sprinted away. “Why won’t anybody give me straight answers?”

Alistair watched as the werewolves retreated into a crumbling stone building. “I suppose that’s their lair, then. Kind of a flea city, I’d bet.” Cupcake whined, and Daylen reached down, scratching him behind the ears.

—ROTG—

Daylen snickered as he read the letter he had found in the ruins. “Is this serious? A three-pound sausage?”

“You would be astounded at the delicacy of the innuendos that are often used in intimate correspondence,” Leliana said, a grin tugging at her lips. “Do you think it’s safe to be in here? I thought I heard a wall crumbling off in the distance.”

Tucking the letter away, Daylen looked around the ruin. “Certainly is a…place. We’re committed, though. We find Witherfang or we do without the Dalish.” Daylen felt a draft coming from his left and examined the wall a little closer. “Why would there be an archway with a solid wall here?” Placing a hand against the wall, he began feeling for a catch. “Please be a secret door, please be a secret door, please be a secret door…” The door moved back a fraction of an inch, before sliding out of the way. “Yay!” Daylen’s victorious smile faded as he saw a pair of armed skeletons moving towards him. “Oh dear.”

One of Leliana’s arrows clattered off a skeleton, and the archer narrowed her eyes. “By the Maker…”

Daylen sprayed a burst of frost from his staff, and Sten barreled forward, shattering one skeleton with a pommel strike, and then the other with a smashing overhand blow.

“More werewolves!” Alistair shouted, the first to react as a pair of the beasts bounded up a set of stairs from deeper in the ruins, bringing up his shield. Morrigan sidestepped him, hitting the one in front with a bolt of lightning that sent it into a wild tumble, and Alistair stabbed the werewolf in the side as it tumbled past him. Twisting the blade and wrenching it free, he parried two strikes from the other wolf before Morrigan hit it with a disorienting hex. The warrior smacked the wolf in the face with his shield as its guard dropped, and the beast hit the floor, meeting its end as Alistair’s sword split hide and severed arteries.

“Let’s keep moving,” Daylen urged, looking around the ruins. “The longer we’re in here, the more likely we are to get surrounded.”

Twenty minutes later, Alistair nudged his fellow Warden in the side. “Daylen…I have to ask, do you know where you’re going?”

“Do you?” Daylen challenged. “I have no idea where I’m going. I don’t even know where I’ve been. I am completely turned around and I have no idea which way is out.”

“Easy,” Leliana said soothingly, pointing down a web-lined corridor. “We have not explored that way yet.”

Daylen looked uneasy. “I know. I was trying to avoid that way.” Leliana raised an eyebrow. “The webs. The caverns under the Circle Tower had giant spiders in them, and they made webs a lot like those.”

“Well, let’s hope there aren’t giant spiders, then,” Alistair replied brightly.

Not long after, as Alistair pulled his sword out of a dead spider’s abdomen, he turned around to find a web-covered Daylen glaring at him. “All right, fine! So there were giant spiders!”

“This shit is going to take forever to get rid of,” Daylen seethed, trying to comb some of it out of his beard. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

Alistair nodded. “I’m satisfied. Leliana, are you satisfied?”

“Not for years,” she said with a straight face.

Daylen snorted out a laugh, before shaking his head. “All right, you got me. Come on, everyone.”

They pushed deeper into the ruins, fighting werewolves, spiders, and the odd possessed corpse. Besides the amount of mold, dirt, and unidentifiable muck in the ruins, they were in surprisingly good condition, considering their apparent age.

“Anybody else notice we haven’t had anything try to eat us for a bit?”

“There’s something else down here,” Leliana whispered. “I hear…breathing.” Daylen nodded, before stepping out into the next room in the ruins, finding himself in a long, high-ceilinged hall. He went to take another step, only for Leliana to yank him back by the back of his robes. “There’s a trap there,” she hissed. She knelt, drawing a dagger and using it to press down on a pressure plate hidden under the thick layer of indescribable filth that coated the floors of the ruins.

A gout of flame blasted from a hidden fixture on the wall, and Daylen flinched, leaning back reflexively. “That…would have cooked me.”

“Better let me go first. I know what to look for.” She disarmed three more traps within a few steps of each other, and the sound of breathing grew louder as they slowly moved into the hall.

“What smells?” Daylen asked, wrinkling his nose.

“What, you want a list?” Alistair replied. “The muck on the floor, the muck on the walls, the muck on the ceiling, the spiders, the corpses, the…” he sniffed, and frowned. “I smell it now. That’s not darkspawn, and it’s not a werewolf.”

“Corpses nearby,” Daylen muttered, spotting a dead dwarf and two armored figures lying ahead. “Fresh ones, not possessed.”

“Up there!” Leliana shouted, nocking an arrow. Daylen looked up, and this time managed to dodge before a dragon landed where he had been standing moments before. Thankfully, it was not a full-grown High Dragon, but it was still larger than a horse and angry at the intrusion into its lair. Leliana’s arrow thumped into its hide but failed to penetrate properly, and the group spread out, trying to keep away from the beast’s snapping jaws.

Lightning crackled across the dragon’s side as Morrigan’s spell impacted. Besides crisping the flesh of one of its wings, all she accomplished was making the dragon angrier. Daylen intervened with a burst of frost, and as the dragon reared, Leliana loosed another arrow, catching the dragon just above the shoulder joint and leaving one of its wings hanging uselessly.

The dragon spun to face the latest threat and roared at the group, the deafening noise echoing in the long hall. Daylen clutched at his ears and Cupcake whimpered, and the dragon spat a glob of fire at Leliana, who managed to roll out of the way before it impacted. Sten’s greatsword sank into the creature’s flank, and the dragon thrashed, smacking the giant warrior with its uninjured wing and knocking him flat on his back.

Then it leapt upon him, its jaws snapping at his face.

“Atash Qunari!” Sten roared from beneath the dragon’s bulk, his powerful arms coiling around the creature’s neck as it tried to rip him to pieces. He jerked, and the dragon lost its footing, and the two thrashed about the floor in a test of strength.

“I can’t cast without hitting Sten,” Daylen said.

Leliana had an arrow nocked and drawn and was tracking the wrestling pair with a sour look. “I might hit him.”

Alistair charged the wrestling pair, only to get batted aside by the dragon’s floundering wing. He stood up and readied himself again, watching for an opening before shaking his head at Daylen. “I can’t get close!”

There was a crunching noise, and the dragon gurgled, its mighty paws thrashing in the air. The group watched in horror and fascination as it slowly fell still, and Sten stood, bloodied, panting heavily, but victorious.

Daylen was staring, openmouthed. “Did everyone else just see that?”

“Yes, yes I did,” Alistair replied.

“Sten, you just strangled a dragon to death.”

“It is done,” Sten replied. “Shall we move on?”

“Remind me never to wrestle with him,” Alistair muttered to Daylen.

“Nevarran dragon hunters would work in teams,” Leliana said to Sten. “I am impressed you managed to defeat one singlehandedly.”

“I was not alone,” Sten replied. “I struck the killing blow, but the rest of you assisted.”

“Yes, but you took your own strength against the dragon’s. That is unusual.”

“Perhaps for you,” Sten said quietly.

Daylen nudged Leliana as Alistair examined the bodies. “Don’t dragons typically have hoards of some sort? Or is that just in stories?”

“They do often collect shiny objects, yes,” Leliana admitted.

“Well, I hoped I wasn’t imagining that,” Daylen said, pointing at a pile of gold in the corner of the hall.

They dug around in the hoard, finding a hefty amount of coins, a handful of semiprecious stones, and a bow that Alistair slung across his back with a nod. As they filled their coin purses, Alistair found a ragged bandolier of flasks on the dwarf’s body, each containing brightly-colored liquids.

“Any ideas what these are?” Daylen asked.

“Weapons,” Alistair replied. “I don’t know what they are, exactly, but I know that you can throw them and the contents will injure whatever they touch.”

“So where to from here?” Daylen mused, looking around the hall and looping the bandolier over his shoulder. The walls appeared half-caved in, giant roots having forced their way through the stone walls and archways.

Alistair held out a makeshift torch, and Daylen lit it with a quick burst of flame, the warrior sweeping the torch about to see the walls more closely. The flickering light illuminated a hefty hole in the wall, and Sten ran a gauntlet along the edge, coming away with a clump of fur.

“The werewolves went this way,” he pronounced, before dropping the fur. “Let us continue.”

The hole became a tunnel, and Daylen eyed the torches planted along the sides, growing ever more confused as they moved along the tunnel’s length. “Curious,” he said, gesturing at the torches. “Werewolves, placing torches?” He prodded at one, his eyebrows furrowing. “Torches fed by runic magic, no less?”

“Where would they have gotten those?” Alistair asked. “Can werewolves even do magic?”

“I hope not.” Daylen eyed the base of the torches, looking closely. “No claw marks. Someone else placed these here.”

Leliana shivered. “We should not linger,” she urged.

Several more skeletons and a handful of spiders put up a decent fight against the group as they pushed on, and Daylen heard snuffling noises more than once. Then he turned the corner and found himself looking through – not at, but through – an elven woman.

“Ma halani! Se vara lassa’val! Nae mal!”

“Can you understand her?” Leliana asked. “She seems distressed.”

“The first part was ‘help me,’ but I didn’t understand anything else.” Daylen watched as she fled. “And even if I did, whatever that is, it’s not a live elf. She probably couldn’t hear me anyway.”

“Should we…follow her?” Alistair asked.

“Do we have a choice?” Morrigan sighed. “There are no side corridors.”

Daylen noted an increasing number of humanoid bones on the floor as the party entered another hall. Thankfully, there was no dragon in this one, but there was another spectral elf.

“A child, this time,” Morrigan said. “Most likely of equal uselessness.”

“Mamae?” the specter said. “Mamae na mara san!” Gibbering in elvish, the child ran back several steps, heading for the opposite door.

“Not like we could help or harm him, even if we understood him,” Daylen shrugged. “I just hope it can’t hurt us.” He heard a rattling noise, and the numerous bones around them began to come together. “Oh, why do I say things?”

Almost a dozen skeletons brought themselves together, drawing rusty weapons from the thick layer of detritus and muck that covered the floor.

“Anyone got any ideas?” Alistair asked as the skeletons advanced. “Daylen?” He looked around. “Daylen? Where’d he go?”

Daylen, to his credit, was most definitely not screaming like a little girl as he ran away from a half-dozen skeletons that were chasing him with drawn weapons.

Externally.

Inside, he was curled up in a corner, sobbing and sucking his thumb. Daylen was desperately trying to remember what one of the older Senior Enchanters at the tower had mentioned about glyphs and trapping spells. Most of what came to mind from those memories was checking out one of the better-built enchanters who had worked as an assistant. He had never had a sovereign handy to check, but Daylen was convinced he could have bounced it off that behind. She always wore robes that were just a little too – focus.

Fumbling with the looted bandolier, Daylen ripped a flask filled with green liquid free, before lobbing it over his shoulder. He heard the glass shattering and risked a glance to see the first three skeletons begin steaming as the contents of the flask began eating away at their bones.

“Right, don’t get the green shit on you,” Daylen mused, spinning on his heel and managing to catch all but one of the skeletons with a cone of frost. He hit the remaining skeleton with a bolt of arcane energy, and the skeleton stumbled, before the bones separated, clattering to the floor. Daylen ran past the bunched-up skeletons, still frozen to the floor, and dropped another green flask in his wake, heading back for the hall.

He arrived in time to see Alistair and Sten handily defeating the remaining skeletons, as Leliana struggled with one of her own, her bow discarded several yards away and her hands wrapped around the bony – so to speak – wrists of the skeleton. Morrigan was healing a nasty gash on her arm as Leliana kicked the skeleton in the knee joint, separating the bone and dropping the skeleton to the ground. She stomped on the creature’s skull, and it twitched once more and went still.

“Welcome back,” Alistair said archly. “You had to use the privy?”

“I’m sorry, I only had half of them chasing me,” Daylen shot back, poking his head into a side room and finding it empty besides a sarcophagus. “I don’t wear armor, my options are limited!”

“Are you really about to defile that grave?” Alistair asked.

“The last four I’ve defiled make you think I’d leave this one alone?” Daylen replied. “We’re short on funds and equipment, Alistair. Think we can afford to be nice?” Alistair sighed, but helped him move the lid, revealing a set of dusty elven bones clutching a tablet. Daylen eyed the tablet, before gently removing it and shutting the lid. Gently blowing a layer of dust off the tablet, he examined it. “I’m no expert on this, but it might be worth something to the right collector. Looks like some sort of ritual.”

“Daylen, this might be the wrong time to bring this up, but I’m hearing howling off in the distance,” Leliana interjected.

Twisting halls and half-collapsed stairs led them further into the ruins, and the Warden quietly hoped that the ruins were stable enough that they wouldn’t be blocked in by a sudden cave-in.

Another handful of skeletons ambushed them as they passed what looked to have once been a storage room, and Daylen rooted around in some half-empty crates, finding a handful of elfroot and little else of use.

“This place has been picked awfully clean,” Daylen sighed, leaning on a broken stone altar. “Why can’t we find some decent loot for a change?”

“That dragon’s hoard didn’t count, I suppose,” Leliana challenged.

Daylen paused a moment. “All right, you’ve got me there. Maybe some decent loot where we don’t have to fight something that wants to eat me, then.” Spotting a glint of glass and red on the floor, Daylen’s eyes narrowed. “Everyone, get back.”

“What’s wrong?” Alistair asked, obligingly taking a few steps back.

“You remember those revenants?” Daylen asked rhetorically. “Those were bound to the graves. This might be a revenant bound to a vial. I’ve read about them in the past. I have no idea who binds them, how, or why they leave them lying around in places like this rather than bury them in stone where they can’t be found. But they’re dangerous. Keep alert.”

“You’re going to touch it, knowing what’s in it?” Alistair asked.

“Maybe a little,” Daylen admitted, picking up the gem.

Then he immediately went rigid, his eyes wide and his teeth clenched. Visions, images, and memories that Daylen had never had were flooding through his mind at a disorienting speed, and he sensed a presence in his hand that carried a distinct note of alarm, followed by fear. Daylen almost dropped the gem before managing to regain control of his senses, and immediately put up as strong a mental defense as he could, keeping the spirit trapped in the gem at bay.

“Not a revenant,” Daylen gasped after a moment, wondering what the coppery taste in his mouth was. Holding up the gem, he spoke. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” He got a profound sense of loneliness from the gem, and more images flashed through his mind.

“What is that thing?” Alistair asked.

“Not sure,” Daylen admitted. “It’s old. Ancient, even. A spirit, I think. Or something like one, it used to be human.” He got a sense of mild offense from the gem, before another handful of images flashed through his mind. “Oh. My apologies. He was elven. He can’t remember his name, but he was an elven mage…who wore armor.”

“Must have been tough, then,” Alistair mused.

“He…wow, that must have been really boring.”

“What?”

“He’s been here for centuries, longer than that, even. He fought the Tevinters!” Daylen squinted, trying to make sense of secondhand memories from someone who barely remembered it to begin with. “And he’s been stuck here, alone. I think this was a sort of…mausoleum, or memorial, where the honored dead were buried and people came to pay respects.” More came through, and Daylen felt his gorge rise as visions of battle played out. “And something killed both the Tevinters and the elves.”

“Darkspawn?” Alistair asked.

“He doesn’t remember,” Daylen said sourly. “Unfortunate, because if there’s something worse around here than angry elves or angry Tevinter mages, I really want to know about it before it tries to kill me. He essentially jumped ship on his own body using this gem, hoping that someone would come to rescue him.”

“Clearly, no such person did,” Morrigan pointed out.

“What are you, exactly?” He said to the gem. “Mage, warrior, or both?” There was a pause. “The fuck is an Arcane Warrior?”

The rest of the party was rather unsettled when Daylen began laughing maniacally. “Yes, I’ll help you.”

“Daylen, don’t make a deal with that,” Alistair urged quietly. “It might possess you.”

“I’m not making any deals for that,” Daylen said, approaching the altar. The Gem seemed to push other images at him, and Daylen nodded. “Yes, I do. Such traditions should be preserved.”

The memories flooded into his mind like icy water, and Daylen squeezed his eyes shut as information poured into his brain. Mostly half-lost thoughts and hazy recollections, the specifics were vague, but carried enough details for Daylen to understand the mechanics.

Daylen cracked an eye open. “Am I dead?” He looked around, relieved to still be in control of his own body. “Huh. Who knew? I’m all right!”

“Glad to hear it,” Alistair said. “Now can we go? I’m getting nervous just standing here.”

“One more thing to do,” Daylen replied, rolling the gem in his palm. “If you still had your memories, I would consider asking you to accompany me, or to speak with the modern elves, but…you have earned a rest, an end. Dareth shiral, my friend. May you find peace among your gods.” He set the gem on the altar, feeling joy radiating from the being inside before it shattered.

“May the Maker watch over his soul,” Leliana said quietly.

The group explored more storage rooms nearby, finding more scummy growth and little of use.

“Well, this has been a bust,” Daylen said, standing up from examining some half-buried urns and turning to leave. Hearing a crunch under his feet, he looked down to see a glass vial broken beneath his boot, with a scrap of paper visible and what looked like liquid shadow pouring out. “Oh, balls.”

“Revenant!” Alistair called, moments before the revenant’s sword impacted his shield, shattering the wood. Alistair barked out a pained cry, weakly parrying two more strikes from the revenant before Sten intervened. Sten levered the revenant’s greatsword away from Alistair and smashed in the side of its helmet with a pommel strike.

Daylen circled around to the left of the revenant even as Morrigan went right, the two mages starting with blasts of ice and lightning respectively. Daylen’s ice did little to visibly injure the revenant, but it froze the joints of the armor, providing Sten the opening for several brutal strikes, even as Leliana’s arrows thunked into various exposed points on the revenant’s body. Morrigan’s lightning crackled over the revenant’s armor, and just as the revenant managed to break free of the icy grip, Sten shoved the revenant back and Cupcake lunged, ripping the creature’s throat out.

“Alistair, let me see your arm,” Daylen insisted, as the warrior clutched at the broken limb.

“You’re going to have to help me,” Alistair hissed. He groaned in pain as Daylen carefully extended the limb, and the mage winced in sympathy.

“Can we get your bracer off?” Alistair nodded, wincing as he tugged at the buckles on the bracer. Daylen grimaced as he saw the lump on Alistair’s arm. “Must have been some hit.”

“The shield took most of it,” Alistair said, grunting as Daylen turned the arm over. “Broke the shield, though.”

“We’ll have to set this. It’s going to hurt.” Alistair took a quick breath, gritted his teeth and nodded, and Daylen pushed the bone back into place as best he could. Alistair bellowed in pain, and Daylen clapped him on the shoulder in sympathy before knitting the bone together with a quick healing spell. “It’ll be tender a while yet, but the bone is healed.”

Alistair strapped the bracer back on, nodding as he flexed the hand. “Thanks, Daylen.” The warrior turned and looked at the dead revenant, before kicking the corpse in the head. “That was for my arm!” Picking up the revenant’s targe shield, he hefted it, before shrugging and slinging it across his back. “It’ll do for now.”

“We’ll have to backtrack, head the other way down that hall,” Leliana said, pointing out the door.

—ROTG—

An entire unit of men, all slain by one creature. I didn't believe it at first, your Perfection, but it appears that this is so. We have a survivor, and while at first I thought his rantings pure exaggeration... it appears to be no simple skeleton. The descriptions of the creature's abilities were eerily similar to those our brothers at Marnas Pell encountered almost a century ago: men pulled through the air to skewer themselves on the creature's blade, and attacks so quick that it was able to assault multiple opponents at once. No, your Perfection, what we have here is indeed a revenant and nothing less.

—From a letter to Divine Amara III, 5:71 Exalted.

A revenant is a corpse possessed by a demon of pride or of desire... making it amongst the most powerful possessed opponents that one can face. Many possess spells, but most are armed and armored and prefer the use of their martial talents. They are weak against physical attacks but regenerate quickly, and commonly use telekinesis to pull opponents into melee range should they try to flee. Revenants also have the ability to strike multiple opponents surrounding them. Stay at range if possible and strike quickly—that is the only way to take such a creature down.

Chapter Text

 Five minutes later, they found their next issue. “Is there any part of this ruin this isn’t filled with something bizarre?” Daylen knelt next to what appeared to be a small spring bubbling out of the floor. Fishing out a small earthen jug from the fountain, he filled a water skin, before taking a sip. “Seems to be clean. It’s fresh, rather cool.” He took another sip. “Tasty, actually. Anyone thirsty?” Leliana nodded, and accepted the skin as Daylen closed his eyes, feeling for gaps in the Veil.

Leliana looked around, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “It certainly doesn’t make sense, springs don’t typically happen in this sort of terrain.”

Daylen shrugged, opening his eyes. “I’m guessing magic.”

Alistair tried the large double doors that obstructed their way forward. “These aren’t barred, but I can’t budge them alone.”

“Maybe we can force it open.” Spying an altar built into the wall, Daylen’s eyes widened. “Wait.” He pulled the tablet he had looted – er, reclaimed – from the sarcophagus, and tilted it, examining the carvings. “Unless I miss my guess, there’s some sort of ritual here. Involves paying respects to the dead here.”

“And you intend to perform this ritual?” Alistair asked. “Aren’t we short on time?”

“Alistair, for all we know this is the only way forward. Let’s just see what happens.” Consulting the tablet, Daylen filled the jug with water, before approaching the altar. Placing the jug on the altar, he knelt and touched his forehead to the ground as depicted on the tablet. Daylen focused on how he merely wanted to pass through and pay his respects to the honored dead, and he felt a sense of rightness and approval surrounding him. Checking the tablet again, Daylen took a single sip of the water from the jug, before returning to the fountain and pouring the water back into the fountain.

Then the jug shattered, and Daylen hissed as the pieces fell into the pool.

“What happened?” Leliana asked.

“I don’t know,” Daylen admitted, checking his hand for cuts. “It just broke. Not sure why, it just shattered.”

“The door is open,” Morrigan pointed out. Sure enough, it had fallen slightly ajar.

Daylen gave a smug grin. “I told you it’d work.”

The group moved past the door, and Daylen led them through the rounded chamber beyond, seeing multiple sarcophagi and Avvar-inspired statues around the room’s central platform, which was raised above eye level and featured a single open sarcophagus in a place of honor. “A historian would go nuts for this place,” he murmured, blowing a layer of dust off one of the sarcophagi. “These runes alone could take a year to fully understand.”

“Daylen,” Leliana said quietly. “I see another one of those specters ahead. Up on the platform.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Daylen said distractedly. “These were elven ruins. Why are there Avvar statues here?” He wiped more grime from the sarcophagus he was looking at. “These runes are Tevinter, I recognize that much. Why are they here?”

“Perhaps the Tevinters sought to defile this place,” Morrigan suggested. “Does it matter?”

“What, I can’t indulge my curiosity?” Morrigan sighed in response, and Daylen gestured to Leliana, the archer following him closely as they circled the room.

“Viran se lan’aan? Ir annala for ros,” the specter babbled, keeping the open sarcophagus between itself and the group as they came up the stairs. “Nae! Ga rahn s’dael! Ga rahn!”

Daylen struggled to remember what Elvish he had picked up at the Circle. “You need…help? Are you lost here, spirit?”

“Ir emah’la shal! Ir emah’la shal!”

“Look out!” Alistair’s sword bit into the shade’s arm as it leapt upon him. Another attempted to pounce on Sten, only for the Qunari’s boot to smash directly into the spirit’s face, sending it flying off the platform.

Daylen was lining up a shot with an arcane bolt when the spectral woman wrapped her hands around his neck. The spell fizzled as he jerked back. Surprisingly, she could in fact strangle him, and was making a fair attempt at it when Cupcake began gnawing at her hamstring, and Morrigan jammed the tip of her staff into the back of the specter’s head and discharged a full blast of lightning into the spirit’s body. Daylen broke free as the specter dissipated, coughing and nodding his thanks to Morrigan.

Alistair had finished off the first shade by the time the second made its way back up the stairs, under fire from Leliana the entire way – only for Sten to boot it in the face again, sending it flying off the platform again. This time, Daylen managed to cast properly, the shade twitching and shuddering under the lightning barrage. It drew itself to its full height, and Leliana’s arrow slammed home in the middle of what passed for its face, leaving it to crumble.

Daylen rubbed at his throat. “Getting sick of this. I hope getting help from the mages and dwarves will be easier than this.”

“One bit of good news,” Alistair reported, looking into the open sarcophagus. “This cuirass looks like it belongs to the armor set we’ve been collecting.”

“Oh good,” Daylen said. “Grab it. That should complete the set. It’s probably only a little haunted. Anyone see an exit?”

Alistair gave his fellow Warden a tired look as they doubled back. “Only way forward, eh?”

“Fine. I didn’t know, all right?” He paused, tilting his head in thought for a few moments. “In the past day or two, we’ve killed more revenants, shades, and possessed corpses than most Templars will ever see.”

“Life of a Warden,” Alistair replied. “We see some pretty strange stuff out there.”

“Just hope we survive it,” Daylen said as Morrigan opened the next door. He spotted over a dozen skeleton archers waiting, and his eyes bugged out. “Get back!” The skeletons let their arrows fly, and Daylen grabbed Morrigan, yanking her behind him. A glittering, translucent shield sprang up around them, deflecting the arrows.

“Don’t charge them!” Leliana warned, drawing her bow. “Stay back here!”

Alistair drew the bow he had slung over his shoulder and accepted a handful of arrows from Leliana, dropping to one knee with the arrows on the floor in front of him.

“What is this?” Morrigan asked, touching the barrier Daylen had up.

“Basic barrier spell,” Daylen replied. “I don’t usually bother with it, draws too much attention. Stoneskin’s much more subtle.” He grinned down at her. “A mage makes their own armor.”

“Sten, can you give us some cover?” Alistair asked, offering his shield to the giant. Sten nodded, moving into a crouch and holding the shield in front of him as Leliana and Alistair fired at the skeletons from cover.

“Wait, Leliana,” Daylen called, advancing with Morrigan behind him. “There’s more of those pressure plates!”

Leliana jerked back, her boot scraping the edge of one and triggering a blast of flame. “By the Maker. They’re everywhere.”

Daylen threw a wave of frost, knocking several skeletons off their feet. Alistair scored a lucky shot, separating a skull from a spine and dropping the skeleton in a clattering heap. Leliana put an arrow through another skeleton’s eye socket, and it jerked around, before continuing to fire arrows. Daylen scowled, hitting the skeleton with a bolt of lightning and dropping it. Leliana nodded her thanks, nocking another arrow.

As the last skeleton fell, Leliana knelt, disarming a pressure plate. Her fingers danced over another plate, and she set a copper on the disarmed trap, before moving on. “Don’t step on any plate without a copper on it,” she instructed, working on another one.

They slowly made their way across the room, and Daylen looked over a pair of corpses. “Nothing of interest on this one,” Daylen said quietly. “No heraldry, no journal or orders. No way of identifying who this knight was.”

“What about the other one?” Alistair asked, testing the handle on the next door.

“A journal,” Daylen said, flipping through the musty book. “The riders follow after every town, ever since my lucky break deciphering the story,” he read aloud. “I see it now, how they take the locals closest to me, preventing rest or kinship. I thought this a road to glory, but I am dogged at every step by his talons. Gaxkang. Curse the name and curse the day I heard it.” Daylen looked up. “Well, that’s ominous.”

Alistair drew his sword, scanning the room for threats. “You think whatever killed him is this Gaxkang? Or that it’s still around?”

“I hope not.” He nodded to Alistair, who opened the next door, bringing his shield up. “Gaxkang. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.” He shrugged. “It’ll come to me.” Alistair gestured them forward, leading the way into the next chamber with Sten, Leliana following closely. “More Avvar statues,” Daylen said, looking at the giant stone figures above them. “Why does the architecture in these ruins make no sense?”

“Um, Daylen,” Alistair said, having moved ahead in the chamber and down a set of stairs. “I think you might want to take a look at this.”

“What is it?” Daylen found Alistair amid a rough, half-abandoned magical workshop. “Oh. Oh, dear.”

Alistair gestured at the tables full of books and equipment. “What is all this?”

“You think I have any idea?” Daylen retorted. “It’s a lab. And a mess of one.” He nudged a sheaf of papers away from a stack of books. “Nothing good, I would guess, if the owner set up in here.”

“Certainly sets the mood, doesn’t it,” Alistair mumbled, gently moving a set of blood-spattered bones from on top of a journal. He opened the book, before tilting it one way, then the other. “This is either written in code, some foreign language, or with the absolute worst handwriting I have ever seen.” Daylen didn’t answer, and Alistair nudged his friend, only for the Warden to collapse, his body rigid.

“Trouble!” Leliana barked, loosing an arrow at a robed corpse that stumbled momentarily under the impact, before swirling its arms in the air, a blast of lightning nearly frying her as she ducked out of the way.

“Move!” Morrigan shouted, lobbing a bolt of lightning at the creature before following up with a series of entropic hexes.

“Abomination,” Daylen rasped, regaining control of his body as the paralysis spell ran its course. “Arcane horror. Alistair needs to hit it with a Templar ability.”

“What?” Morrigan asked, calling down elemental frost on the horror.

“Alistair!” Daylen shouted. “If you can cleanse that thing, do it!”

Alistair ducked a clawing strike from the horror, before thrusting both hands into the air and calling down a cleansing strike on the possessed corpse. The creature stumbled, caught in the backlash of its mana being drained away, and Sten pressed the advantage, his greatsword snapping one of the horror’s arms.

Daylen stumbled forward, trying to sort out his limbs, and watched as Leliana flanked left, sinking arrow after arrow into the arcane horror’s body. Then he saw the horror thrust its good arm into the air and recognized the magic swirling around its working hand. “Scatter! It’s calling down a tempest!”

both Sten and Alistair sprinted back up the stairs as Daylen wove magic. “This won’t work,” he muttered, working a particular spell he never thought he would use in combat. “Yoink!” The horror stumbled, the tempest manifesting short of the target. Lightning crackled in a rough oval, arcing and hissing as electricity jumped from surface to surface across the workshop. Glass vessels shattered, pages caught fire, and wood smoldered.

“What did you do?” Alistair asked, unhooking the bow he had over his shoulder and drawing even as Leliana put an arrow into the horror’s skull.

“Drained its mana,” Daylen said. “Prank spell back at the Circle.”

“You risked our lives on a prank spell?” Alistair asked incredulously.

The horror fell, no less than a dozen arrows sticking out of the wretched mess that passed for its face. Daylen shrugged. “Worked, didn’t it?”

The party put out the fires that had started from the tempest before pushing on, finding a room full of corpses – these already re-killed.

“Oh, this bodes well,” Daylen groaned as they crept forward. “Let’s just find Witherfang and get out of here.”

“We’re still going to do what Zathrian wants, even though he’s lying to you?” Alistair asked.

“If the werewolves were willing to talk, it could be different. I don’t want to hurt anyone. But Zathrian’s offered help we need. I don’t see other options.” Alistair elbowed the next door open, leading the way through with Leliana and Sten close behind.

There were several werewolves waiting for them, most of them snarling angrily. The one in the lead, however, turned his back, holding his paws out to the others. “Stop! Brothers and sisters, be at ease!”

“Easy!” Daylen ordered, and to his great surprise Leliana and Sten lowered their weapons.

The werewolf turned back to him. “We do not wish any more of our people hurt. Are you willing to parley?”

Daylen sighed. “I would have preferred to about sixty unnecessarily lost lives ago.”

“That is not an answer.”

Daylen opened his mouth to retort, before pausing and shrugging. “True. I have always been willing to talk. Please, let us avoid any further bloodshed.”

“Not with me,” the werewolf said. “I have been sent to you on behalf of the Lady. She believes you may not be aware of everything you should be.”

“That makes two of us,” Daylen snapped. “I know Zathrian has been withholding the truth from me. I tried asking before, but nobody was willing to talk.”

“That is not surprising,” the werewolf growled. “The Lady means you no harm, provided your wish to parley in peace is an honest one.”

“How do I know I won’t be walking into an ambush?” Daylen asked. “All the others have been hostile.”

The werewolf snarled. “What would be the point? You have already proven your strength. We have no wish to anger you further.”

“Why wait so long? Why now, with so many lives lost?”

“You show an unusual concern for us, outsider,” the werewolf remarked.

Daylen scowled. “Why wouldn’t I? I know many of you have at least some control, and some more than that.” He gestured at the werewolf. “You’re living proof. Which only makes the question more pressing – why are you only negotiating now that we’ve killed so many of you?”

“Swiftrunner did not think it would matter,” the werewolf said.

“Swiftrunner’s an idiot.”

The werewolf growled, but otherwise ignored Daylen’s grumbled reply. “The Lady disagrees with him, and since you have forced your way this far, we must acquiesce to her wishes.”

“Is your Lady Witherfang?”

“She can tell you of Witherfang, if you ask. But first you must agree to parley.”

“Well then, let’s parley. Please, take me to your Lady. We shall not harm you if you will do us the same courtesy.”

“Follow me,” the werewolf said, closing its mouth for the first time. Daylen was thrown by how few teeth it was showing for a change. “But I warn you, if you break your promise and harm her, I will come back from the Fade itself to see you pay.”

“A moment, then,” Daylen said, turning to his companions. “Unless they attack, stay calm. Got it?” Receiving agreements, Daylen turned back to the werewolf. “After you.”

The werewolf’s face twisted, although Daylen was unsure whether the expression was confusion at his courtesy or anger at a perceived insult. Regardless, the werewolf loped through the next door, and Daylen flinched as he saw several sylvans waiting, flanked by werewolves. Leliana stumbled back as one of them snapped at her, and Alistair put a hand on her arm, giving her a reassuring nod as they approached the center of the chamber.

“Strange, that the trees would grow in such a place,” Morrigan remarked, eyeing the massive roots sprouting through the walls and into the high ceiling of the chamber.

“A lot of magic here,” Daylen replied quietly. “Ancient and wild.” He spotted a werewolf with scorch marks along its flanks ahead, and smiled tightly. “Ah. Swiftrunner. No worse for wear, I hope?”

The werewolf roared a challenge, only for a vine-encrusted arm to touch his shoulder. Swiftrunner looked over, and Daylen raised an eyebrow at the sight.

The arm belonged to a woman, clothed only in vines and strategically draped hair. She smiled faintly at Swiftrunner, who visibly calmed at her expression. Her greenish skin was a momentary distraction, but when Daylen spotted her eyes, he felt a cold sweat break out across his body. They were coal-black, and deep.

“I bid you welcome, mortal. I am the Lady of the Forest.”

Daylen fought the urge to hyperventilate as her voice reverberated unnaturally. “I am glad we have this chance to speak,” he said weakly, forcing a smile. “I must admit, I was expecting another wolf.”

“No, that I am not. If I could have revealed myself sooner, I would have.”

Swiftrunner stepped forward, getting in Daylen’s face. “Do not listen to him, Lady! He will betray you! We must attack him now!”

Daylen sighed, bouncing on his heels and pushing away panic. “Swiftrunner, have I or any of my companions ever acted in less than good faith in regards to you? Have you even given us the chance to speak with you?”

“You will not speak like that in front of the Lady, outsider!” Swiftrunner bellowed.

Daylen was ready to see what effect kicking the werewolf in the groin would have when the Lady intervened. “Hush, Swiftrunner. Your urge for battle has only seen the death of the very ones you have been trying to save. Is that what you want?”

Swiftrunner subsided. “No, my Lady,” he said softly. “Anything but that.” He stepped back slowly.

“Then the time has come to speak with this outsider, to set our rage aside.” She looked to Daylen. “I apologize on Swiftrunner’s behalf. He struggles with his nature.”

Recognizing the need for diplomacy, Daylen fought to keep his breathing in check and nodded. “As do we all, Lady.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” she murmured. “But few could claim the same as these creatures. Their very nature is a curse forced upon them. No doubt you have questions, mortal. There are things that Zathrian has not told you.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Daylen echoed. “I know that lycanthropy comes from a curse, and I know Zathrian’s been hiding the truth. I have the feeling the two are connected. Please, enlighten me.”

“It was indeed Zathrian who created the curse, the same curse that Zathrian’s own people now suffer.” Daylen sighed, nodding as pieces of the puzzle came together. “Centuries ago, when the Dalish first came to this land, a tribe of humans lived close to this forest. They sought to drive the Dalish away.”

“Alamarri or Chasind, I’d guess,” Alistair said quietly. “Ferelden was only established in the Exalted Age. But that’s…”

“Four hundred years ago,” Daylen finished.

“Zathrian was a young man, then. He had a son and a daughter he loved greatly, and while out hunting the human tribe captured them both.”

Daylen pinched the bridge of his nose. “I suspect I’m really not going to like what you say next.”

Swiftrunner growled. “The humans…tortured the boy, killed him. The girl they raped and left for dead. The Dalish found her, but she learned later she was…with child. She…she killed herself.”

Daylen felt bile creeping up the back of his throat, and shook his head. “So Zathrian cursed them.” The rest of the puzzle came together. “He created Witherfang, didn’t he?”

Swiftrunner nodded. “Zathrian came to this ruin and summoned a terrible spirit, binding it to the body of a great wolf. Witherfang hunted the humans of the tribe. Many were killed, but others were cursed by his blood, becoming twisted and savage creatures.”

The Lady of the Forest took up the tale. “They were driven into the forest. When the human tribe finally left for good, their cursed brethren remained, pitiful and mindless animals.”

Swiftrunner knelt next to the Lady, and Daylen caught himself staring at the spirit’s barely-covered chest momentarily. “Until I found you, my lady. You gave me peace.”

The Lady stroked Swiftrunner’s head gently. “I soothed Swiftrunner’s rage, showed him that there was another side to his bestial nature. His humanity emerged, and he brought others to me so I could help them as well.”

“So why ambush the Dalish?” Daylen asked. “Revenge?”

“We seek to end the curse,” the Lady replied. “The crimes committed against Zathrian’s children were grave, but they were committed centuries ago, by those who are long dead. Word was sent to Zathrian every time the landships passed this way, asking him to come, but he has always ignored us. We will no longer be denied.”

Swiftrunner snarled. “We spread the curse to his people, so he must end the curse to save them!”

“Make it his problem, so he has to end the curse. Stupid bastard, Zathrian,” Daylen said bitterly. “Inflicting this on people…”

“Please, mortal,” the Lady of the Forest continued. “You must go to him. Bring him here. If he sees these creatures, hears their plight, surely he will agree to end the curse!”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Daylen said skeptically. “He just wishes to cure his people, nothing else.”

“He will never break the curse!” Swiftrunner barked. “He will never allow it, my Lady! You know this!”

“We…cannot know that,” the Lady said uncertainly. “Surely his rage does not run so deep he would endanger his own clan!”

“Don’t underestimate the idiocy of an angry man,” Daylen replied. “He’s already endangered them by sending out hunting parties looking for Witherfang, and he endangers them further by insisting that the werewolves are nothing but mindless beasts.”

“If Zathrian comes, I shall summon Witherfang. I possess that power. I also have the power to ensure Witherfang is never found,” The Lady said firmly. “Tell Zathrian this. If he does not come, if he does not break the curse, he will never find Witherfang, and he will never cure his people.”

“I’ll bring him here,” Daylen said. “You are Witherfang, aren’t you?”

The Lady remained impassive. “I am. What led you to that conclusion?”

“You’re a bound spirit. And a powerful one, I can tell that much. Yet you’re emotional about this. Angry, but desperate. Nobody gets that angry unless they’re talking about their own family.” The Lady’s expression didn’t change, and Daylen nodded. “Zathrian wants me to bring him Witherfang’s heart.” A low growl rang through the chamber, but Daylen didn’t blink. “I have no intention of obliging him. I’ll bring Zathrian here if I have to drag him by the ears.”

“Then we shall await your return.” She pointed off to the side, and Daylen spied a door being unbarred. “Outside of this chamber, the passage leading back to the surface has been opened for you. Return with Zathrian as soon as you can.”

Before heading out the exit, Daylen doubled back, poking around in another set of rooms that had adjoined the chamber where the werewolves had approached them to parley. In one room, a set of bookshelves held little of use, considering most of the books were stained or rotted through, and the rest were in Tevene, but Daylen carefully slipped the intact ones into his pack. In another, the group found a dead revenant.

Alistair kicked the corpse in the head to make sure it was properly dead. “You think the werewolves did this?”

“Between the claw marks, the bite marks, and the bloodied fur clumps sticking to the sword? I would say that’s a reasonable assumption,” Daylen said dryly. “This thing’s shield is cracked. I guess the one you looted is still better.”

Heading out the exit the Lady had indicated, they made their way up a long set of stairs. “If this leads where I think it’s going to lead, I am going to be…” They emerged into one of the first chambers they had passed through when they had entered the ruins, and Daylen’s palm met his forehead with a quiet smack. “Of course it leads back here.”  He looked up to see Zathrian examining one of the corpses they had left in their wake.

“Ah. And here you are already.”

“Keeper,” Daylen replied tightly. “What are you doing here?”

“You carved a safe path through the forest,” he answered. “Safe enough for me to follow, anyhow.”

Morrigan chuckled. “He wishes to see if we did his work for him. Is that not why you are here now, sorcerer?”

Zathrian sneered, pointing at Morrigan. “Do not call me that, witch! I am keeper of this clan, and have done what I must. Did you acquire the heart?”

“Did you tell me what I needed to know?” Daylen shot back. “Both questions, the answer’s no.”

“You didn’t? May I ask, then, why you are leaving the ruin?”

“Cut the shit, Keeper. I don’t answer to you. Its past time you started answering my questions honestly. You knew about this ruin, you knew where the werewolves would be. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“There was no need. I knew you would find it, and I did not care to give you a history lesson about things that have no bearing on your purpose here.”

“Oh, it has plenty of purpose here!” Daylen interrupted. “And there was plenty of need! We risked our lives searching this blasted forest for this ruin, and if you’d been honest with us, we could have come straight here!”

“You made it here, regardless,” Zathrian said dismissively. “But it seems the spirit convinced you to act on her behalf. Might I inquire what she wants?”

“What is it you think she wants?” Daylen snapped. “I can be obtuse and cryptic too!”

“To survive, I suspect. That is the common nature amongst all such creatures, the will to survive.” He leaned closer, as if imparting great knowledge. “You do understand that she actually is Witherfang?”

Daylen leaned forward as well. “Yes, I figured that out a while ago. I also know that you created her and you’re responsible for this mess.”

“The curse came first from her,” Zathrian said. “Those she afflicted with it mirrored her own nature, becoming savage beast as well as human.”

“The curse came first from you. And the werewolves here have regained their minds.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” Zathrian sighed. “They attacked my clan and they were the same savages then that they have ever been. They deserve to be wiped out and not defended. Come, I will accompany…”

“Sten,” Daylen said, his eyes never leaving Zathrian’s. “If this sanctimonious ass so much as blinks wrong, feel free to end his life in whatever way you think is most efficient. It’s all he deserves, forcing this curse on innocents. Zathrian, how can you defend this? You’ve condemned innocent people to a horrific curse because of something their ancestors did!”

“They are as much beast as their ancestors were!”

Daylen crossed his arms, taking a half-step back. “You realize that’s what human nobles say about the Dalish, right? They deserve their fate because their ancestors started a war and lost? The elves deserve to be scattered to the winds because they are as uncivilized as they were hundreds of years ago, never mind that the humans helped cause it?” Zathrian remained silent, and Daylen glared daggers at him, his beard twitching angrily as he worked his jaw. “You hypocritical bastard! You claim to be better than humans, but you’re willing to inflict a nightmare on people who did nothing to you!” Daylen shook his head. “That’s it. You’re going to end this curse. Now.”

“I will do no such thing! You have no idea of their transgressions!” Zathrian’s breath was fogging in the air, and Alistair coughed quietly.

Daylen brought his temper under control. “No, I don’t. I don’t know what these people have done besides attack your clan because you created this curse. But I know what their ancestors, the long-dead people who were responsible for this did. Rape, murder, driving an innocent girl to suicide.” Daylen’s tone grew harsher as he continued. “And I’ve seen plenty of that. Don’t you dare tell me that what people did hundreds of years ago merits inflicting this sort of curse on innocents.”

“They are still the same worthless creatures that their ancestors were! They deserve nothing less than the misery they possess!”

Amidst the anger and disgust, Daylen felt a surge of something new – pity. “Do you still have so much hatred after centuries?”

“You were not there,” Zathrian said softly. “You did not see what…what they did to my son. To my daughter. And so many others.” He began pacing, his hands moving quickly as he spoke. “You are not Dalish. How can you know how we had to struggle to be safe? How could I have let their crimes go unanswered?”

“The crimes have been answered for, Zathrian,” Alistair broke in. “The criminals were punished centuries ago. They’re dead now.”

“I remember them as if it were yesterday,” Zathrian snapped. “Even if they are more than animals now, they desire nothing but revenge! They will never let my clan be.”

“They attacked your clan because you won’t let them be. All they want is to end this curse! The desire for revenge rests solely with you. And your answer is to let them suffer forever?”

“Tell me, if you held your own daughter’s lifeless body in your arms would you not also have sworn an eternity of pain on those who did such to her?”

Daylen blinked. “Well, no. I wouldn’t.” Zathrian’s face twisted in confusion, and Daylen continued. “I would have killed them. All of them. And then left it there. I would not have inflicted a curse upon their descendants – people who had never done anything to me – to satisfy a misplaced thirst for vengeance!”

Zathrian glared at him. “Very well. You wish me to go and talk? I will do so. And if it is only more revenge that they wish? Will you safeguard me from harm?”

“I will defend you if they attack, Keeper,” Daylen said. “If you attack first, you’ll have six more people to deal with.”

“I fail to see the purpose behind this, but very well. It has been many centuries now. Let us see what the spirit has to say.”

—ROTG—

Descending the stairs in silence, they found the wolves waiting.

“So here you are, spirit,” Zathrian said quietly.

Swiftrunner leapt forward, and Leliana had an arrow nocked and half-drawn before the werewolf drew himself up to his full height, looming over the elf. “She is the Lady of the Forest! You will address her properly!”

To his credit, Zathrian was unfazed. “You’ve taken a name, spirit? And you’ve given names to your pets? These…beasts that follow you?”

“It was they who gave me a name, Zathrian. And the names they take are their own. They follow me because I help them to find who they are.”

Zathrian’s face flushed. “Who they are has not changed from whom their ancestors were. Wild savages! Worthless dogs! Their twisted shape only mirrors their monstrous hearts!”

“He will not help us, Lady!” Swiftrunner cried. “It is as I warned you! He is not here to talk!”

Daylen rolled his eyes. “Swiftrunner, would you please…”

“No, I am here to talk, though I see little point in it,” Zathrian spoke over him. “We all know where this will lead. Your nature compels it, as does mine.”

“It does not have to be that way,” the Lady replied. “There is room in your heart for compassion, Zathrian. Surely your retribution is spent.”

“My retribution is eternal, spirit, as is my pain,” Zathrian said firmly. “This is justice, no more.”

“But retribution against people who have done nothing to you or yours?” Leliana pleaded. “Can’t you see, Keeper? You are lashing out against innocents!”

“Are you certain your pain is the only reason you will not end this curse?” The Lady asked pointedly. “Have you told the mortal how it was created?”

“I’m guessing blood magic,” Daylen spoke up. “That’s how you summon and bind spirits, typically.”

The Lady nodded, her coal-black eyes narrowing. “Your people believe you have rediscovered the immortality of their ancestors, but that is not true. So long as the curse exists, so do you.”

“No!” Zathrian said, his eyes wild. “That is not how it is!”

At this point, Daylen’s patience was wearing thin. “So is this how far you’ll go for your revenge? Or is it self-preservation?”

“I did it for my people! I did it for my son, and my daughter! For them, for justice, I would do anything!”

“No!” Daylen barked, his voice booming in the chamber. “Enough of that! It’s time the truth had its day! You did this for you! For vengeance! And it’s gone on long enough!”

The Lady was eerily serene despite the tension in the room. “The curse would not end with Zathrian’s death. His life, however, relies on its existence. And I believe his death plays a part in its ending.”

“Then we kill him!” Swiftrunner roared. “We tear him apart now!”

“For all your powers of speech, you are beasts still!” Zathrian shouted. “What would you gain from killing me? Only I know how the ritual ends, and I will never do it!”

“You see?” Swiftrunner howled. “We must kill them all!”

Zathrian rounded on Daylen. “See?” he said pointedly. “They turn on you as quickly. Do what you have come here to do, Grey Warden, or get out of my way.”

It was at that moment that Daylen’s temper got away from him. Grabbing Zathrian by the ear, he jerked the keeper’s head around. “You’ll end that curse if I have to force you myself!”

“We’re standing for what’s right, here,” Alistair said. “No matter what.”

Zathrian shoved Daylen back. “Then you die with them! All of you will suffer as you deserve!”

For someone centuries old, Zathrian was fast. Daylen was knocked off his feet by Zathrian’s first spell, and as he rolled over he spotted most of the werewolves and Witherfang locked in place by glowing bonds.

Then Daylen was sent flying across the chamber, as a sylvan swiped at him. The screamed expletive that he let loose was cut short as Daylen bounced off a root. The mage thought of himself as generally graceful, but that illusion was dashed rather effectively as he landed on his head.

Alistair was having trouble of his own, ducking spells from Zathrian as the few werewolves still capable of movement engaged the sylvans Zathrian had bewitched. Leliana was dodging swipes from a shade, her bow discarded several paces away and her daggers flashing in the dim light as she counter-attacked. Morrigan and Sten had engaged two shades, the mage lobbing lightning at one as Sten grappled the other, his greatsword sinking deep into the shade’s gut.

Daylen sat up and touched the back of his head, feeling blood matting his hair. He moved to stand up, and cried out as his other arm was jostled, the limb hanging uselessly from a dislocated joint. Rolling onto his front, Daylen gritted his teeth as pain radiated from his shoulder and nearly vomited from the pain as he stood up. Spotting his staff several feet away, Daylen bent to pick it up, gasping in pain and straightening up a moment later. “All right, bad idea.” Hooking his boot under the staff, he kicked upwards, managing to snag the staff out of the air. Leaning on the staff, he staggered forward, stumbling and accidentally slamming the arm against the wall.

This time, he did vomit. Twice. Spitting out bits of his breakfast, Daylen limped forward, groaning with every step, and rejoined the fight just in time to see Cupcake gnawing on Zathrian’s calf, dragging the mage forward by the leg.

As the last sylvan fell and Leliana jammed her daggers through the shade’s face, the group advanced on Zathrian, the wardog planting both paws on his shoulders and growling menacingly.

“No, no more!” Zathrian pleaded. “I cannot…I cannot defeat you.”

“Finish it!” Swiftrunner bellowed. “Kill him now!”

“No, Swiftrunner,” the Lady said, resuming her humanoid form. “We will not kill him. If there is no room in our hearts for mercy, how can we expect there to be room in his?”

Zathrian shook his head, still bleeding freely from several wounds. “I cannot do as you ask, spirit. I am too old to know mercy. All I see are the faces of my children, my people. I cannot do it.”

“This isn’t retribution, Zathrian,” Daylen said, spitting and trying to clear his throat. “It’s you lashing out in pain and in fear. For the sake of your people, for the sake of justice, end this.” Zathrian met his gaze, the pain clear in his eyes. “Hasn’t it gone on long enough? Is there anything left for you besides your rage?”

“Perhaps I have…lived too long,” Zathrian allowed. “This hatred in me is like an ancient, gnarled root. It has consumed my soul.” He looked to the Lady of the Forest. “What of you, spirit? You are bound to the curse just as I am. Do you not fear your end?”

“You are my maker, Zathrian,” she replied calmly. “You gave me form and consciousness where none existed. I have known pain and love, hope and fear, all the joy that is life. Yet of all things, I desire nothing more than an end. I beg you, maker, put an end to me. We beg you…show mercy.”

Zathrian looked up at the Lady. “You shame me, spirit,” he said quietly. “I am an old man, alive long past his time. Yes, I think it is time. Let us…let us put an end to it all.”

The Lady stepped forward, and Daylen gestured to Cupcake, who backed away. Zathrian took her hand in his, and Daylen could feel a ripple in the air as the magic was released. The effect was almost immediate. Zathrian collapsed, the Lady of the Forest vanished in a burst of light, and the werewolves began to glow, before their shapes blurred and reformed into human figures.

“I can’t believe it,” one of them said. “We’re free!” He embraced the man next to him, and Daylen sat down hard on a root patch nearby, trying not to jostle his arm too much.

“It’s over,” one of the freshly cured humans said. “She’s gone, and…we’re human. I can scarcely believe it.”

“What’s next for you?” Daylen asked. “What can you do now?”

“Leave the forest, I suppose. Find other humans, see what’s out there for us. It should be quite interesting, don’t you think?”

“Should all head north, with all speed,” Daylen replied. “South, all you’ll find is darkspawn.”

“Thank you,” he said warmly. “We’ll…we’ll never forget you.”

Daylen nodded, feeling blood trickling down his neck, and managed to stay awake until they left before his eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed.

—ROTG—

It is challenging enough for the casual observer to tell the difference between the Fade and the creatures that live within it, let alone between one type of spirit and another. In truth, there is little that distinguishes them, even for the most astute mages. Since spirits are not physical entities and are therefore not restricted to recognizable forms (or even having a form at all), one can never tell for certain what is alive and what is merely part of the scenery. (It is therefore advisable for the inexperienced researcher to greet all objects he encounters.)

Typically, we misuse the term “spirit” to refer only to the benign, or at least less malevolent, creatures of the Fade, but in truth, all the denizens of the realm beyond the Veil are spirits. As the Chant of Light notes, everything within the Fade is a mimicry of our world. (A poor imitation, for the spirits do not remotely understand what they are copying. It is no surprise that much of the Fade appears like a manuscript translated from Tevinter into Orlesian and back again by drunken initiates.)

In general, spirits are not complex. Or, rather, they are not complex as we understand such things. Each one seizes upon a single facet of human experience: Rage, hunger, compassion, hope, etc. This one idea becomes their identity. We classify as demons those spirits who identify themselves with darker human emotions and ideas.

The most common and weakest form of demon one encounters in the Fade is the rage demon. They are much like perpetually boiling kettles, for they exist only to vent hatred, but rarely have an object to hate. Somewhat above these are the hunger demons, who do little but eat or attempt to eat everything they encounter, including other demons (this is rarely successful). Then there are the sloth demons. These are the first intelligent creatures one typically finds in the Fade. They are dangerous only on those rare occasions that they can be induced to get up and do harm. Desire demons are more clever, and far more powerful, using all forms of bribery to induce mortals into their realms: Wealth, love, vengeance, whatever lies closest to your heart. Other demons including despair, fear, or envy can be encountered, and should be treated with the utmost caution. The most powerful demons yet encountered are the pride demons, perhaps because they, among all their kind, most resemble men.

--From Beyond the Veil: Spirits and Demons, by Enchanter Mirdromel

Chapter Text

Daylen’s vision was blurry as he came to, spotting Morrigan standing nearby with a small pot steaming over a fire. He coughed hard, clearing his throat, and managed a weak wave as Morrigan looked over.

“I would bid thee to not make a habit of this,” she said as he sat up slowly. He had been stripped to the waist, and his shoulder joint had been properly set. “I do not enjoy watching over you as you sleep off injuries you have been foolish enough to acquire.” She passed over a steaming mug, and Daylen tilted his head, trying to sip some of the liquid. “That will dampen any pain you may feel. Leliana set your arm, and I treated your other wounds. You were not badly injured, this time.”

Daylen nodded, managing to get a solid mouthful of the herbal tea Morrigan had concocted. “Thank you, Morrigan. I appreciate your healing my injuries.”

“Do not make me do it again,” she replied archly. “I am no healer. You may wake up with something missing next time.”

“Duly noted.” Daylen set the tea down and flexed his arm. He winced as he heard a series of pops from the joint. “We’re still in the ruins?”

“Alistair insisted we not move you more than necessary,” Morrigan said. “Can you stand?”

“I think so,” Daylen said, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Where are my robes?” Morrigan passed them over, and Daylen quickly dressed, hearing his stomach growling. “Thank you again.”

“You are welcome,” she said hesitantly. “Again, I would ask that…” she looked down at her hands, where a fine gold chain now lay. “When did you hand me this? And what is this?”

“Small token of my appreciation,” Daylen replied, sliding by her and trying not to feel too smug about how pink her cheeks became.

Alistair looked up from the cookpot as Daylen approached. “You’re awake!”

“Still alive. We need to talk. What do you think our next move should be? Finding Arl Eamon?”

“Probably. You were right about contacting the Dalish first. If we had gone to see Arl Eamon first, there may not have been any Dalish left by the time we got here. But I think we do need to speak to him. We could use his support, even if he’s ill. Especially if he’s ill.”

Daylen nodded. “Even if he can’t give us some sort of tangible support, I would bet Loghain is planning to eliminate him as a threat.” Alistair nodded, and ladled out a bowl of stew for Daylen. “We’ll check in with the Dalish, make sure that they can give us the support we need, and then head to Redcliffe.”

“Works for me,” Alistair said, watching as Daylen began wolfing down the stew.

“You talk about Arl Eamon like you know him personally.”

“I do,” Alistair said cagily. “I grew up at Redcliffe Castle.”

“So Arl Eamon raised you?” Daylen asked, ripping a trail biscuit in half and dunking it in the stew.

“Did I say that?” Alistair asked. “I meant that dogs raised me. Giant, slobbering dogs from the Anderfels. A whole pack of them, in fact.”

Daylen swallowed a mouthful of food. “Really? That must have been tough for them.”

“Well, they were flying dogs, you see. Surprisingly strict parents, too, and devout Andrastians, to boot.”

Daylen kept a straight face. “That is what they say about Anders.”

“That and that they make a great deal of cheese. Funny, but the dogs never mentioned cheese. As a matter of fact, if you said cheese around them, they’d start growling. Isn’t that odd?”

“And you were their little disappointment?”

Alistair nodded, before his face clouded. “Or did I dream all of that? Funny, the dreams you’ll have when you sleep on the cold, hard ground, isn’t it?”

“I dream of becoming a Grey Warden,” Daylen replied. “Oh, wait.”

Alistair grunted in reply. “Point taken. Let’s see. How do I explain this? I’m a bastard.”

“Not in my experience.”

Alistair opened his mouth to retort, but paused as he processed what Daylen had said, before shrugging. “Shut up.” Daylen grinned. “I mean the fatherless kind. My mother was a serving girl in Redcliffe Castle who died in childbirth. Arl Eamon wasn’t my father, but he took me in and put a roof over my head. He was good to me, and he didn’t have to be. I respect the man and I don’t blame him anymore for sending me off to the Chantry once I was old enough.”

“Why’d he send you off to the Chantry?” Daylen paused. “Wait, I think I get it. Young man, son of a serving girl, living in a noble’s household despite not being an acknowledged child of the noble…people thought he was your father.”

Alistair nodded. “Arl Eamon eventually married a young woman from Orlais, which caused all sorts of problems between him and the king because it was so soon after the war. He loved her, but the new arlessa resented the rumors that pegged me as his bastard. They weren’t true, and the arl didn’t care, but she did.”

“Sounds like a decent enough man.”

Alistair shrugged. “He is. She was less appreciative of my existence, so I got packed off to the nearest monastery at age ten. Just as well, she had made sure the castle wasn’t a home to me by that point. She despised me. Felt threatened by me, I guess. I can’t say I blame her. She probably wondered if the rumors were true.”

“Oh, she sounds like fun,” Daylen sighed. “Orlesians are all about appearances.”

“I remember I had an amulet with Andraste’s holy symbol on it. The only thing I had of my mother’s. I was so furious at being sent away I tore it off and threw it at the wall and it shattered. Stupid, stupid thing to do. The arl came by the monastery a few times to see how I was, but I was stubborn. I hated it there and blamed him for everything. Eventually, he just stopped coming.”

“You were young, and being torn away from the only home you’d ever known. Believe me, I can relate.” Daylen shifted uneasily. “Alistair, are you sure he isn’t actually your father?”

“Quite sure,” Alistair replied a little too quickly.

“Sorry,” Daylen said. “I imagine you probably got that question a lot.”

There was a brief pause. “Yes, I suppose,” Alistair said uneasily. “At any rate, I don’t look anything like him. You’ll see for yourself. Not that it stopped the rumors any.” He shook his head and scratched at his hairline for a moment, before continuing. “The arl is a good man, and well-loved by the people. He was also King Cailan’s uncle, so he has a personal motivation to see Loghain pay for what he did.”

“I imagine you’re not really a fan of the Chantry, then,” Daylen asked, trying to get the conversation on a different tack as he ladled out another bowl of stew.

“Not particularly,” Alistair said. “I am a touch biased, since they were the lucky ones who I was sent to.”

“Then why have you remained a Templar?”

Alistair grinned. “Have you seen the uniform? It’s not only stylish, but well-made. I’m a sucker for good tailoring!”

Daylen nearly choked on a mouthful of stew, coughing out a laugh. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he gave Alistair an accusing glare. “You waited until I was eating for that.” Alistair grinned shamelessly, and Daylen cleared his throat. “If tailoring’s your bag, then you should have been a mage.”

“Oh, you aren’t kidding. I think the Templar uniforms are as colorful as they are just so the Templars don’t feel dull in comparison. Last thing you want when you’re about to take down some maleficar out in the woods is to have him point at laugh at your taste in clothes. Am I right?”

“Seems like that might happen anyway,” Daylen mused. “I mean, the purple kilts are one thing, but from what I understand most maleficarum are nutty enough that they’d point and laugh maniacally no matter what you were wearing.”

Alistair laughed. “You don’t really want to know about my being a Templar, do you? It’s really quite boring.”

“You don’t have to tell me, then,” Daylen shrugged. “I was just curious.” He touched the back of his head again, feeling the blood dried in his hair and grimacing. “If anyone else made it out, they’re probably having as hard a time as we are. No support, no funds, no legitimacy. As far as we know, we’re the last of the chapter. Is there a headquarters somewhere in Ferelden? Someplace we could find documents, records, equipment, anything to help. A ‘how to kill an Archdemon’ manual would be nice.”

“There’s our compound in Denerim, but that’s it. Loghain will have control over that and be watching it, no doubt.”

Daylen rubbed at his face. “Right. If anyone shows up there, they’ll be arrested.”

“Eventually, we would have to use the Joining to make more Grey Wardens, right? But I don’t know what’s involved. I know that it uses lyrium and some other magic, but for now it’ll only be the two of us. Until more come from elsewhere.”

“They’ll come looking. They’ll have to, with no contact.”

“But who knows what Loghain’s people in Denerim will tell them? We can’t very well send a letter.”

“So it’s on us, then,” Daylen said, setting his bowl down as the realization of what exactly was resting on their shoulders soured his appetite. “He might just turn them back at the border, even. He was certainly against Orlesian involvement at the war council.” He sighed. “Next time we have some free time, I need you to teach me how to fight. I’m getting tired of being smacked around.” Alistair nodded, and Daylen stood. “Right then. We should get back to the Dalish camp.”

“Uh, not a good idea,” Alistair replied. “You were asleep for some time. Leliana and Cupcake scouted a bit outside, and it’s dark out. I would recommend we wait for first light. Meantime…”

—ROTG—

“Ow,” Daylen wheezed, flat on his back. “Alistair, you realize if I die I can’t help you end the Blight, right?”

“You’re not going to die,” Alistair said, offering a hand. “Probably.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Daylen replied, letting Alistair help him to his feet. “And if you hit me in the ribs with that stick again, I’m going to shove it someplace unpleasant.”

“Fix your guard and I’ll stop hitting you in the ribs!” Alistair swung again, and Daylen snarled, grabbing the stick and freezing it with a thought. Yanking the stick away, the frozen hunk of wood shattered, fragments hissing as they flew into the fire. “Hey, you said you weren’t going to use magic!”

“Alistair, if I’m going to be in a fight with a sword, I’m going to use magic.” Daylen sighed, tossing his own stick into the fire. “I’m just trying to make sure that if I run out of mana at a bad time, I can do something besides run or poke someone with my staff.”

“I can understand why,” Alistair replied. “But let’s face it. You’re a bit…soft to really heft a sword around.”

“The Circle isn’t big on exercise. They don’t like it if we’re fit enough to outrun the Templars.”

“And you’ve got all the dexterity of a concussed ox, so I don’t think handing you a dagger or a bow is going to end any better,” Alistair mused.

“Not a lot of arrows flying around Kinloch Hold. Guess I’ll stick to magic and hitting people with sticks for now.” Alistair nodded, heading back for the camp. Daylen prodded at his ribs, wincing for a moment before healing the developing bruise with a quick spell.

“Are you two quite done with your little playfighting?” Morrigan asked as he walked by.

“For now. Something on your mind?”

“I find it odd that you, a mage, would be so friendly with one trained to hunt mages.”

Daylen took a seat next to her. “His training has nothing to do with my friendship with Alistair. I believe the power mages wield can be dangerous, yes, but I also believe that it’s quite easy to learn how to use it safely. And learning to control one’s magic has no link to whether one was in the Circle or not, or the presence of a Templar. I believe that there’s quite a bit of knowledge outside the Circle that’s worth knowing. Your shapeshifting abilities, for example.”

“Knowledge you would wish me to share with you.”

“Beautiful and perceptive.”

Morrigan caught herself before she could preen under the compliment. “Well, I refuse.”

Daylen fought the urge to smile. “And why would that be?”

“I doubt you have the will to learn these magics.”

“And I doubt you have the skill to teach me.”

She sneered in response. “I could certainly teach someone as weak-willed as a Circle mage if I so wished. But tower mages deliberately keep themselves ignorant of things outside their worldview. I see no reason to allow you to benefit from knowledge you deliberately shun.”

Daylen shrugged. “All right then. You’re wrong, but that’s your decision.”

Morrigan’s frown subsided at his apparent indifference. “Why should I believe you any different from any other Circle mage?”

Morrigan scowled as he smiled sweetly at her. “Besides my asking showing I don’t shun such knowledge?” He took a deep breath before speaking quickly. “I was Harrowed for less than a day before I helped a blood mage escape the tower, during which I falsified records, stole or damaged Circle property, and destroyed a hefty chunk of the basement of the tower before we destroyed his phylactery. I probably would have been severely punished if not executed but was recruited into the Wardens, so I’m not much for most authority figures.” Daylen stepped closer, his mouth twisting into a smile and his voice lowering. “And if you doubt my will, Morrigan, you need only try to prove my willpower insufficient.”

Morrigan was wondering when her mouth had gone dry. “I…will think about it.”

“You do that. Good night, Morrigan.”

“Good night, Daylen.”

—ROTG—

“It is done,” Lanaya said as they approached her the next morning. “I am unsure what happened, but the curse has vanished from the hunters. It is too bad that Zathrian had to die. I…I felt it, when he departed. I think he was ready to go.”

Daylen, personally, was less than enthusiastic about waxing nostalgic about Zathrian. Especially after the beating he had taken the previous night and a poor night’s sleep, complete with darkspawn nightmares. “I wouldn’t say he was ready, but he did make the choice. Did you know about his connection to the curse?”

“I suspected, but…Zathrian did not like to talk about that. Nonetheless, the curse is over, and no one else will be subjected to it.”

“It began and ended with him,” Daylen replied bluntly. “A twisted need for revenge.”

Lanaya’s face darkened, but she swallowed whatever retort she had lined up. “It will be difficult to take Zathrian’s place. He was our keeper for many centuries and he will be sorely missed.” Daylen opened his mouth to snap back at her again, only for Alistair to jab him in the back. “I am Keeper now,” Lanaya went on. “Let me say it officially, then: I swear to uphold the terms of the ancient contract our people formed with the Grey Wardens. Call, and we shall come, with great speed and purpose, and we shall strike at your foes. This, I swear.”

“I appreciate that. How long will your people need?”

“I am not sure. The curse leaves slowly, and they will need to regain their strength. It has been a long time since the Dalish marched to war, but I trust that in the end, we shall make a difference for you.”

“We have some time. We will need your rangers when we strike at the darkspawn, but until then, take your clan as far north as you dare. Your people’s safety is paramount. Good luck, Keeper Lanaya. May your gods watch over you.”

—ROTG—

It was one of those days that everyone has occasionally, and seemed to make up just about every second day since Daylen had left the Circle. They had spent the night with the Dalish, stocking up and letting Bodahn trade a bit with the clan’s craftsman before setting out the next morning, heading for Redcliffe. After Daylen had informed the newly-vested Keeper Lanaya of the fresh dragon corpse in the ruins – the bones and scales of which could provide excellent materials for equipping their people and their contributed forces to the Warden Alliance – she had returned the favor, granting them copies of several magical texts and some rudimentary knowledge of Dalish trail signs to allow them to find their way back to the camp.

And ever since reaching the highway again, Daylen had heard nothing but bickering amongst his companions. Leliana and Morrigan. Alistair and Sten. Sten and Leliana. Alistair and Cupcake. And, most recently, Morrigan and Sten.

“Why are you here?” Sten asked abruptly.

Morrigan looked over. “Excuse me?

Sten’s face was as impassive as always, and Daylen idly wondered if it was a learnable skill. It would have been a great advantage at the Circle’s card games. “Obviously you are no priestess. But shouldn't you be…running a shop, or a farm somewhere, rather than fighting?”

Morrigan smiled sweetly. That unsettled Daylen more than almost anything else he had seen that day. “You think to tell me my place, Qunari? You are very brave.”

“It is not done,” Sten said stubbornly.

“But it is done. Do not be such a blind fool.”

Sten crossed his arms over his chest. “I speak the truth. It is not I who am blind.”

Morrigan gestured at the landscape around them. “Look around you, then. You see women throughout this land, fighters and mages both.”

“That has yet to be proven.”

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “Which? That they fight? Or that they are female?”

“Either.”

She raised an eyebrow at Sten, giving him a mocking smile. “So I am not truly a woman to you? Hmm. ‘Tis good to know.”

“Do you know of the kasaanda? The…sundew, in the common tongue?”

Morrigan shook her head. “I do not believe so.”

“No? You are so alike, I thought you kindred.”

She rolled her eyes. “What is that supposed to mean? What is the sundew?”

“A flower.”

“Oh? I am a flower, am I? How unexpected.”

Sten continued. “That entraps and devours insects.”

Morrigan chuckled. “Ah, now that I expected.”

“I need a drink,” Daylen muttered, glancing upwards. “If I have to deal with these wankers for the entire Blight, I’m going to go gray before I turn twenty-two.”

“There’s some whiskey under your seat,” Bodahn offered.

Daylen immediately rooted around under the bench, pulling a bottle out. “You’re a life-saver.”

“Not a problem,” the dwarf chuckled. “You and your friends are formidable folk, indeed. Good to have along on the road.”

“Beats hired swords, eh?” Daylen asked, taking a pull on the bottle. “So what’s your story, exactly?” The merchant sighed. “Oh, it’s like that.” He held out the bottle.

Bodahn laughed. “In a way. If you’re really interested, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to tell you. I’m originally from Orzammar. I was a merchant there too, Merchant Caste, these things are in the blood. You can’t just leave them behind. I ran a fairly successful business, rare artifacts. You know, the old things, the grand things. The nobles loved them. Reminded them of the lost glory days, I suppose.”

“You had things from that far back?” Daylen asked. “The dwarven empire collapsed hundreds of years ago. Darkspawn took it all.”

Bodahn shrugged. “True. The old thaigs fell one by one, until all that was left was Orzammar. But some things made it out. Bits and pieces, mostly. But one day a noblewoman came to my store. She looked around for a bit and then started shrieking in dismay. Apparently, she believed a pair of bracers I had for sale once belonged to her brother. He’d been lost in a cave-in, you see, while on an expedition to clear out the darkspawn from one of the tunnels running close to the city. ‘They were made for him! They’re unique!’ she shrieked. ‘He stole them from my poor brother’s corpse!’ She had me arrested on the spot, of course. Nobles, they’re touchy like that.”

“Well, I can understand why she was upset,” Daylen admitted. “I imagine you didn’t actually steal them.”

“I didn’t,” Bodahn said sharply, before sighing. “You see, I had been paying these casteless to venture out into the Deep Roads for me. The lost thaigs…they’re full of things that people left behind. Sometimes you can find a treasure. Something worth a little gold.”

“Well better than letting the darkspawn shit all over it. More reclamation than theft.”

“To the nobles, it’s stealing. They believe everything in the thaigs belongs to the house that once dwelled there, even if it’s in ruins and they haven’t seen it in generations. The noblewoman wasn’t too happy with the ‘theft’ of her brother’s bracers. I don’t know what they planned for me and I didn’t want to find out. Bribed the guard that was watching me and took off for the surface first opportunity I got. Never looked back.”

“Must have been a daring escape,” Daylen said, feeling that Bodahn had clearly glossed over some important points of his departure. “You’re quite lucky to have done so well.”

“I thank the Stone every single day,” Bodahn said quietly.

“Either way, I’m glad you’re here. But I notice you didn’t mention Sandal in your tale,” Daylen glanced at the younger dwarf curled up in the back of the wagon. The dwarf looked over and gave him a toothy grin, and Daylen smiled back and waved in response.

“Ah, yes,” Bodahn replied. “I’m married to a fine woman back in Denerim, its true. She’d give me a son if she could, but…that’s not likely at our age. Sandal, here…I found him in the Deep Roads years ago. Abandoned, I think, and he was never quite right in the head. I took him in, and brought him with me when I came to the surface. He may not be my blood, true, but he’s my son.”

Daylen shook his head. “What’s that phrase? The blood of the battlefield is thicker than the water of the womb?”

Bodahn’s eyebrows furrowed. “That’s from an Anders proverb. You are an odd one, Warden.”

“Point stands. Blood isn’t that important. Family is. The two aren’t the same.”

“That’s how I’ve always felt. As long as he’s happy, so am I. It’s not as if I don’t benefit, mind you. Turns out the boy’s a natural working with enchantments. He can work an enchantment into just about anything, given some time. Could probably open his own shop, if he knew how.”

“That’s a good idea, if we make it through this Blight,” Daylen said, his brow furrowing as he saw a wagon coming from the other direction. “These people look a little worse for wear. Wonder what happened.” He raised his voice, calling to the other travelers. “Hello there! Are you all right?”

“Do I bloody well look all right?” The man driving the wagon asked, gingerly touching a rapidly darkening patch around his right eye. “Some of Teyrn Loghain’s men took objection to my asking why they were stopping everyone on the highway. I were you, I’d turn around.”

“Bollocks,” Daylen muttered. “All right. Thanks for the warning, friend.” He rooted around in his satchel for a moment, before hopping off the wagon. “Here,” he said, handing the man a packet of herbs. “Boil this in some water, then mash it up and rub it on there. It’ll help.”

The man looked at the herbs suspiciously for a moment, before shrugging and pocketing them. “Appreciate it.”

“Favor for a favor, mate,” Daylen replied. “Good news is the road behind us is clear. Hope your day goes better.” As the man nodded and flicked the reins, his oxen dragging the wagon on down the highway, Daylen turned to his companions, wincing. “Good that he warned us!”

“Should we turn around?” Alistair asked.

“It’d mean losing all the time we’ve spent today, and no guarantee the road in the other direction would be any less dangerous.” He looked at the wagon for several moments, before looking up at Bodahn. “Do you think the wagon could handle the side roads?”

“I think it could make it,” Bodahn said hesitantly. “Do you think it’s necessary?”

“It’s that or have to fight a whole bunch of Loghain’s men. I’d like to avoid that.”

“Side roads it is, then.”

—ROTG—

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Daylen groaned as the wagon went over another bump.

“Aim over the side of the wagon this time,” Leliana sighed, scrubbing at the stain on her leathers.

“Said I was sorry,” he grumbled. “Hopefully the road will smooth out after we get over this ridge. We’ll make camp there, if we can find a safe place. It’ll be getting dark soon anyway.” He grimaced as his stomach roiled, before snapping upright. “Alistair.”

“I feel it. Bodahn, stop the wagon. There’s darkspawn nearby.”

“Could they be this far north already?” Daylen asked as the dwarf pulled back on the reins. “How far could the horde have moved?”

Alistair shook his head. “If it were the horde, we’d be sensing far more,” he said. “Probably just a small band.” He pointed towards an elevated section of the ridge. “That way.”

Even amongst the trees and rough terrain of the ridge and the setting sun, finding the darkspawn didn’t take long. It was Leliana who spotted them first, whistling a bird call to the others.

“This is a small band?” Daylen hissed as he saw them. “That’s what, a dozen genlocks, almost as many hurlocks, and a bloody ogre?”

Alistair scowled. “Look, I can’t sense how many there are, just that there’s a bunch of them, all right?”

“Sorry. Let’s keep this simple, then. There’s a bunch of darkspawn over there, so let’s go kill them.”

“I like your thinking,” Alistair said, drawing his sword. “Ideas?”

Daylen thought for a moment. “Sten, Cupcake, Alistair, wait for me to strike,” he said quietly. “Leliana, hang back with Morrigan and hit anything that looks like it’s about to blindside them. Clear?” A chorus of agreements and one happy whuff answered him, and Daylen nodded. “Mind the big bastard. Nobody get hurt.”

Daylen’s opener was a lightning bolt that landed squarely on the ogre’s chest, knocking it flat on its back and incinerating a genlock that was unfortunate enough to be nearby. Leliana’s arrows and Morrigan’s lightning each killed another genlock before the warriors broke from cover, charging into the fray as Daylen froze a lead genlock in place. Sten shattered the frozen darkspawn with a crushing strike, before engaging a hurlock. Cupcake ducked a genlock’s axe swing, before his powerful jaws closed around the darkspawn’s wrist. The dog’s head rolled, and there was a sickening snap as the genlock’s wrist broke as it was dragged to the ground. Cupcake finished the genlock with an efficient bite to the throat, before making for a hurlock’s hamstrings as Daylen froze the ogre in place.

Alistair, to his credit, was engaging two hurlocks simultaneously, parrying one and bearing strikes from the other on his shield. One of them was shoved aside by a hurlock alpha carrying a maul, and Alistair was forced back, Leliana’s arrow deflecting off the alpha’s heavy plate as Alistair ducked an overhand blow from the heavy maul.

Then Alistair’s guard went just a hair too wide, and the maul slammed into Alistair’s ribs. Alistair fell to his knees, and Leliana's arrow sprouted between the offending darkspawn's eyes, knocking it flat on its back. Alistair coughed blood and collapsed, even as Cupcake charged the darkspawn from its flank, only to be batted aside with a pained yelp.

Daylen threw out a hand, and a burst of healing magic washed over his friend, flesh and bone knitting and realigning. “Get Alistair and get behind me,” he ordered, striding forward and slamming the base of his staff into the soft dirt, downing a lyrium potion as Sten dragged the other warrior back. “Watch what happens when you make a mage angry.” The wisp orbiting around his head increased in size as he pumped more magic into it, and a translucent shield sprang up around him even as his skin visibly hardened.

The lead darkspawn roared a challenge before charging, and Daylen bellowed a response, a blast of elemental frost spraying from his hands. He followed up by lobbing a fireball directly into the lead concentration of darkspawn one-handed, before a blast of lightning issued from his other hand, darkspawn flesh burning and searing under the assault. Fishing out a grenade from his satchel, Daylen flung it into the fray, a blast of frost rooting several more hurlocks to where they stood. A lump of conjured stone shattered one, and Daylen flung several more spells, bolts of lightning, frost, and arcane energy issuing from his hands with blistering speed. Yanking another vial from his satchel, Daylen downed a second lyrium potion, grunting at the burn that flowed through his body and thrusting his staff forward, striding closer to the darkspawn and weaving magic as quickly as he could. The air began to crackle and snap as his spell built, and Daylen hands swirled in the air, even as the hurlocks broke free of their icy restraints and charged. Daylen's hands came down, and a highly localized blizzard exploded into existence over the darkspawn, the wind whipping Daylen's robes back and forth as ice, snow, and freezing cold battered the darkspawn.

Daylen staggered from the exertion and the sudden massive draw on his mana, and the ground near the cliff shook under the sudden magical discharge. Daylen continued to lob spells into it, downing yet another lyrium potion and coughing out a pained breath. The ogre fell, the genlocks collapsed, the hurlocks died as the storm took its toll.

When the storm finally dissipated, Daylen was the only one standing, the darkspawn corpses scattered around him, panting heavily, but unwounded.

Alistair limped forward, putting a hand on Daylen's shoulder. The mage whipped around, fire in his eyes and a ball of lightning crackling in his hand, and his face softened as he saw his friend. “Easy, Daylen. You did it.”

Daylen nodded, forcing a grin. “Am I good or what?” He slumped against Alistair, and the Warden hoisted his friend over his shoulder, turning to walk back to the camp.

Then the cliff collapsed out from under them.

—ROTG—

“This,” Alistair grunted, “is not a situation I expected today.”

He was hanging off the side of the cliff, one arm hooked around a half-collapsed tree, the other holding a tight grip on Daylen's unconscious body. He looked around as more rocks trickled down the unstable cliff. “Anyone got any bright ideas?” Silence answered him, and Alistair shook his head. “Just me, then? Great!” Shaking his friend, he sighed as Daylen's head banged against the side of the mountain, the mage groaning in protest.

“Ugh…what?” Daylen shook his head, before opening his eyes. “Oh, fuck!” He thrashed, clutching at Alistair for dear life.

“We have a bit of a situation,” Alistair said, shaking his head as more rocks banged off his helmet.

Daylen had both arms wrapped around Alistair’s midsection, his boots scrabbling at the loose rockface. “Did I miss something?”

“Your display back there must have knocked something loose,” Alistair replied. “The cliff collapsed out from under us.”

“Well, shit.” Daylen spotted a handhold. “Can you swing me that way?”

“I’ll try.” Alistair managed to get Daylen in grabbing range of the handhold, more rocks sliding down past them.

Daylen found his footing, noticing a tremor in his hands that was more than just adrenaline. “How much lyrium did I take?”

“I saw three of those potions you had,” Alistair said. “So…lots.”

Daylen scrubbed his face against the shoulder of his robe. “Great. Any bright ideas?”

“I was hoping you’d have a plan,” Alistair admitted.

Daylen squinted at the cliff-edge above them, and the darkness below. “Got an idea, but you won’t like it.”

“We may not have much time before this cliff comes down on us, so do it.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Daylen said, focusing and weaving magic. “Just hope I get this spell right. It’s advanced, and I’ve only used it once.”

Alistair managed to get out “What are you…” before Daylen finished casting a force field around his friend and kicked him off the side of the mountain. Daylen sagged, dizzy at the exertion, before casting the same spell on himself, letting himself fall as the spell took effect.

The two landed unharmed at the base of the cliff, the same spell that prevented them from moving preventing them from being harmed by the long fall. A few moments after Daylen had begun to seriously wonder whether he had miscalculated the amount of magic to put into the spell, Alistair regained the use of his limbs, staggering to his feet and spitting out a mouthful of dirt. “Are you insane?”

“Maybe,” Daylen replied, standing as his own spell wore off. “We’re alive, aren’t we?”

“Sure, but you threw me off a cliff!”

“I saved your life!”

“You threw me off a cliff!”

“I saved your – alright yes, I threw you off a cliff, but did you have a better idea?”

“Not the point, Daylen!” Alistair brushed himself off. “So now what? You lost your staff, we have no supplies, no idea where we are, and we don’t know if the others even know we're alive.”

“We’re alive. The rest? We’re Grey Wardens. We’ll do what we have to.”

Alistair was quiet for a moment. “You don’t ever give up, do you?”

“Never. Now let’s get moving.” He pointed down the ridge. “We might be able to get a view from up there.”

“Kicking me off a cliff,” Alistair sighed, shaking his head as they set off. “That was…well, it worked. I’ll give you that.”

“Wasn’t my most graceful move, but it got us off the cliff,” Daylen agreed. “Now we just have to find them before they kill each other.” He looked up. “Um…Alistair, not to tempt fate, but do those clouds look off to you?”

Alistair looked up, sighing. “That’s a blizzard coming.” He glared at Daylen. “You have the worst luck I have ever seen.”

It only took an hour for the temperature to fall below freezing as the blizzard set in, sheets of flying and falling snow making it impossible to see more than a dozen paces.

Alistair called over the wind, his arm over his face. “We have to find shelter!”

“Where?” Daylen asked. “I can’t see a thing.”

“We can’t stay out here!” Alistair snapped, shoving his hands under his armpits. “Maker, I can’t feel my feet.”

Daylen was beginning to slur his words. “I know, I’m agreeing. But I don’t see where we can shelter!”

“Head for the cliff face, we’ll find an overhang or something. We’ll freeze to death out here.”

“I think I’m there already,” he wheezed, sagging.

Alistair groaned, before hoisting his friend’s arm over his shoulders. “All I need is to be carrying you around unconscious in a blizzard,” he groused, helping Daylen walk. “Stay awake! There won’t be anything to start a fire with, we’ll need your magic to make it through the night.” He scanned the black mass ahead of them. “I can’t see anyplace we could take shelter. It’s too dark!”

Daylen gritted his teeth, his eyes half closed. Holding out his free hand, he let several wisps fly, hovering around the pair. Most of the shadows vanished, but one did not.

“There,” Alistair hissed, hauling his friend forward. Letting Daylen lean against the wall, Alistair set his weapons down. “Can you create fire of some sort?”

“I’ll try,” Daylen said, magic sparking between his hands. “Come on, come on,” he mumbled. His hands drooped, and Alistair was at his side in moments, shaking his friend.

“Daylen, stay awake. You can do this.” He tugged his ice-encrusted gauntlets off, blowing warm air on his hands before smacking Daylen in the face. “Oi! Wake up!”

Daylen’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

“Fire! We’re going to freeze!” Daylen shook his head to clear it, pulling a packet of vellum from his satchel. Shaking some snow from it, he set it on the floor of the cave, before setting it alight. The two huddled around the tiny fire, warming their hands until they could move their fingers again.

“All right,” Alistair said. “Get out of your robes.”

“But it’s cold out already!”

“Shut up and get undressed, your robes are covered in ice and snow,” Alistair said, holding his head over the small fire. “My helmet is frozen to the rest of my armor, and I’ve got a pound of snow in my smalls. Can you make more fire?”

Daylen focused, and the fire grew. “As long as I feed it some mana it’ll keep going, no need for wood.” He tugged at the collar of his robes. “My hair is frozen.”

Alistair didn’t reply, managing to break his helmet free. Shaking snow out of it, he began fumbling with the buckles to his armor. He cursed under his breath as his half-numb fingers slipped over the slick leather.

“Here,” Daylen said, feeding more mana into the fire. “Warm up a bit, then try.” He rubbed the ties on his robes, thawing the cloth out, before stripping the fabric off. Kicking off his boots, he shook ice from his socks and stood in the cave in his smallclothes, shivering and glaring at Alistair. “I blame you for this.”

“Why me?” Alistair asked, warming his hands before making another attempt on his armor. “How is this situation my fault?”

“Because you’re the only other person here,” Daylen grumbled. “I know it’s not your fault, but it warms me up and I don’t have anyone else to blame right now.”

Alistair dropped the armor on the floor of the cave, pulling his ice-encrusted shirt over his head. “Oh, Maker, I feel better already.”

“Good,” Daylen said, teeth chattering from the cold. “Do you think they know we’re alive?”

“No idea. Leliana might look. The others? I don’t know.”

Daylen fed more mana into the fire, forcing back the chill. “We’ll have to find them if they can’t find us, then.”

“Easier said than done, they won’t be able to track us in this blizzard. We’re in a real mess.”

“Think positive!”

“I’m positive we’re in a real mess here!”

Daylen snorted. “All right, you got me with that one. We’ll have to wait this out.”

—ROTG—

The central Ferelden Valley has always been a paradox: no single bann holds more than a few dozen leagues of farmland, yet together they govern a greater territory than all the teyrns and arls combined. This collection of independent banns is known as the Bannorn, and it is the heart of Fereldan politics.

No person has ever sat upon the throne of Ferelden without first winning the approval of the Bannorn. Queen Fionne, who had the misfortune to take the throne in the eighteenth year of the Steel Age, wrote of the Bannorn, “There have been three wars this year fought over elopements. Five fought over wool. And one started by an apple tree. It isn't even winter yet. Who would believe that these same banns, now trying so hard to kill one another, just last year united to give me the crown?”

--From Ferelden: Folklore and History, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

Chapter Text

Thankfully, the blizzard only lasted a few hours, just long enough to coat much of the surrounding countryside with a thick layer of snow. Having thawed and dried out their clothes and equipment, the two Wardens set out to rejoin their companions, aiming for a nearby ridge to get an idea of where Leliana, Sten, and Morrigan might be.

And quickly enough, something else had gone wrong.

“Daylen, I think we’re being followed.”

“Dalish?”

“No, they aren’t trying to hide,” Alistair declared, pointing. “Look, they’re following our trail.” Daylen peered in the direction he was pointing, shielding his eyes against the sun. “It’s one thing to follow someone’s footsteps in the snow, it’s an easier walk that way, but why would they be there at all? We aren’t on any road.”

“Bounty hunters, you think?”

“Bad news, whoever they are,” Alistair replied.

Daylen nodded. “Agreed. Got any ideas for losing them?”

Alistair looked around, scanning the countryside. “Sure. Let’s head farther up the ridge. The ground is rougher, we won’t leave tracks.”

By the time midday arrived, Alistair and Daylen had reached the top of the ridge, having repeatedly doubled back or crossed over patches of exposed rock to break off their trail. “Hold up,” Alistair said, looking over his shoulder. “Let’s take a look.”

Daylen peeked over the ridge, spotting their pursuers against the snow. “Nope. They’re still there. How are they following us? We weren’t leaving tracks.”

“I don’t know,” Alistair panted. “Who are these guys?”

“What do you say we don’t find out,” Daylen said, letting a small flare of rejuvenation magic loose. “Whatever they’re selling, I don’t want it.”

They worked along the top of the ridge, keeping out of direct sight, before stopping and huddling behind a rock, watching the trackers still following them. “Alistair, I just had a horrible idea.”

“I love your horrible ideas,” Alistair replied, wiping his mouth and handing a waterskin back to Daylen. “Let’s hear it.”

Daylen looked down at the group. “What if they’ve got my phylactery?”

Alistair blanched. “That would mean that they’re Templars.”

“Maybe? Or they have connections with the Chantry, or access to the repository in Denerim. But if they’ve got it, there’s nowhere in the world I can go they can’t find me.”

“So what do we do?” Alistair asked.

Daylen paced, his hands trembling slightly. “All right, let’s think about this. We have half a dozen men chasing us. Assuming they have my phylactery, I can’t hide from them, so the two of us getting the drop on them is out, and I don’t know if you can even spring a one-man ambush.” He ran a hand through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes. “If we somehow manage to find the others, we’ll even the odds, but that assumes we can find them before whoever these people are manage to catch up to us.” Daylen looked over at Alistair. “So that leaves what, letting them catch us? Trying to take on three times our number?”

“Maybe we can find Leliana and the others,” Alistair said, peering down the other side of the ridge. “Everything looks different covered in snow. I can’t even tell where we’ve been!”

“All right, hang on,” Daylen sighed, taking a steadying breath and pointing off to the east. “That looks to be the highway.”

Alistair nodded. “Right. We were coming north from the Brecelian Forest, and we got diverted there,” he indicated a bend in the road, “and it was only then that we started cutting cross-country and ran into all this trouble.”

“So they’ve got to be in that direction, then,” Daylen said, pointing along the path they had taken.

Alistair groaned. “Yes.”

“Past the guys who are following us.”

“Right.”

Daylen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course it’s that way. Why would it be in any other direction?”

Alistair glared at his friend. “You have the worst luck.”

“Hold on, now, you’ve been there for just as much bad luck as I have,” Daylen shot back. “For all we know, you’re the one with bad luck!”

—ROTG—

Alistair poked his head out of the brush and stepped onto the road.  Daylen followed closely behind, brushing dirt off his robes. Alistair glanced down the road. “Do you think we managed to circle around them?”

“Mage!” The lead Templar barked. “Halt!”

“Oh, balls,” Daylen muttered, feeling his hands shake briefly, and stopped walking. The five-man team fanned out, not quite surrounding them. They carried a variety of swords and maces, and two had their weapons already drawn. One carried a bow, but had not yet nocked an arrow. The last one carried a massive maul strapped to his back.

“You are under arrest,” the Templar with the maul said. “You will come with us to the Circle Tower, now.”

“Not happening,” Daylen said flatly.

The Templar sneered. “You are a mage. You have no right to defy our authority.”

“He's authorized to be outside the tower,” Alistair said. The Templar backhanded him in response, and Alistair fell to one knee, blood dripping from his mouth. Daylen had staggered to one side in surprise, and one of the Templars he had accidentally strayed close to shoved him to the ground. Daylen landed hard on his rear, coughing out a pained breath on impact.

“You will come with us or you will die,” the Templar growled.

“Alistair, you hurt?”

“Split lip,” Alistair mumbled. “I’ll live.”

“Silence!” The lead Templar barked. “I will not repeat my order, mage. Submit to our authority and come with us to the Circle Tower.”

“Alistair,” Daylen said. “I think I should go with them.”

“What? Why? They have no authority over you! You’re a Warden.” The Templar archer flinched, but the lead Templar simply crossed his arms and glared at him.

“We’re outnumbered and they’ve got the drop on us. Even if this one is an ass, he’s doing what he thinks is his job.” Daylen glared up at the Templar. “Once we get to the Circle, I’ll have Irving and Greagoir sit him down and shut him up.”

“That might take weeks.”

“Yes, but I’m a Warden. Once this dick realizes that, I’ll join back up with you.”

The lead Templar broke in. “Even if you were able to prove that, the Wardens are regicides and traitors.”

“Well that’s a load of shit,” Alistair coughed, spitting out a glob of blood. “Loghain abandoned us at Ostagar.” He shook his head, looking up at the Templar. “And you will not be taking him.”

“Templars, we have resistance,” the leader said. The others reached for their weapons.

“Damn.” Pressing two fingers to his forehead, Daylen sent out a blast of mental energy, staggering the archer and two of the other Templars. Pushing himself to his feet, he brought one boot up into the leader’s unarmored crotch as hard as he could, sending the man to his knees with a pained squeal. Alistair had drawn his sword and shield, blocking a blow from the remaining Templar’s mace and slapping him across the bucket helmet with the flat of his sword. The Templar staggered, his ears ringing from the blow, and Alistair’s sword dipped low, stabbing the man in the foot. The man collapsed, and Alistair kicked his weapon away before engaging the other two Templars as they came back to their feet.

Behind him, Daylen was frantically dodging the archer’s daggers, the bow laying discarded several yards away. A blast of elemental frost dissipated against the enchanted metal of the Templar’s armor, and Daylen cursed under his breath, dodging another stabbing thrust. Lacking options, he turned tail and ran, sprinting past two more Templars Alistair had disabled. One was clutching a severed hamstring, while the other had lost his helmet and taken a blow from Alistair’s shield to the face. Alistair was ducking or deflecting heavy blows from the leader’s heavy maul, several dents in his shield showing the effects of a glancing blow from the weapon.

“Mage, halt!” The archer barked as Daylen opened more distance between them. “So be it.” Raising his arms to the sky, he called down a Holy Smite.

It felt like an ogre had punched Daylen in the brain. His magic fled, and his tongue went numb as his mind clouded. He stumbled, tripped, and fell, sprawling across the ground.

Alistair spotted his friend falling and turned. “Daylen!” The lead Templar's next blow slipped past the edge of his shield and fractured his arm. “Gah, sod off!” Cradling his arm to his chest, Alistair weaved around the next strike and stabbed the man through the thigh, twisting the blade free. “Go down!” The Templar collapsed from the critical wound as blood gushed onto the dirt, and Alistair turned, spotting the archer having recovered his bow and closing on Daylen.

“Templar, halt!” Alistair bellowed. The Templar spun, knocking an arrow and drawing. Alistair ducked behind a tree, feeling the arrow slam into his makeshift shield and hearing a hiss as the wood began to crackle. He peeked around the edge of the tree, seeing flames guttering from the visible section of the arrowhead and eating into the wood. “Blast it.” Charging forward, he ducked another arrow as he closed in on the archer, Daylen still flopping across the ground like a beached fish. An arrow caught him on the edge of his calf, and Alistair bellowed in pain as the shaft speared through his flesh. He stumbled, and another pinged off his pauldron, before another slammed into his hip. The stumbling became staggering, and a third arrow slipped between the edges of his rerebrace and his pauldron to catch him in the arm.

The archer drew again, and Alistair felt himself slowing as the blood loss began to take effect, with another arrow pinging off his gauntlet as he brought his sword up, getting close to the Templar archer. The Templar dropped the bow again, drawing his daggers and kicking Alistair in the side, knocking him to the ground.

The Templar was bringing his daggers down into a killing strike when he heard an echoing bark, and the archer looked up just in time for Cupcake to slam into him at a flat sprint, knocking the Templar away. There was another furious, snarling bark, and the Templar’s scream abruptly cut off.

“Alistair!” Leliana shouted, running in with her bow up and an arrow ready. “Oh, Maker.”

“I’m hurt,” Alistair coughed. “Where’s Daylen?”

“Over ‘ere,” the mage slurred, sitting up. “Ow.” He shivered, tugging his robes closer around himself. “Can I not do that again? That was worse than the blizzard.”

“Daylen, focus,” Leliana snapped. “Alistair is badly hurt!”

“He’s been hit with a Holy Smite,” Alistair said, feeling cold sweat spreading across his body. “He can’t use magic properly for at least half a day.”

“Satchel,” Daylen mumbled, patting himself down. “Elfroot will slow the bleeding.”

“Got one in my belt,” Alistair said, reaching down with his unbroken arm and grimacing as the arrow wound in his hip protested the movement. Tugging the vial free, he gulped the liquid down, gasping as the pain radiating through his body faded. “Can you pull these out of me so Morrigan can close the wounds?”

“Drink another as she does,” Daylen warned, shaking his head and wrapping his arms around himself. “Andraste’s ass, I feel like I got drunk, got poisoned, got concussed…if there was anything left in my stomach I’d throw it up.”

“Just sit there for a bit,” Leliana ordered Daylen, before working the arrow out of Alistair’s hip, bringing a bellow of pain from him. It eased into a gasp as Morrigan cast and the wound began to close. “You were lucky, there. The wound was shallow and the arrowhead did not break off.”

“No survivors,” Sten reported, rejoining the group as Leliana yanked the shaft of another arrow out of Alistair’s calf, the warrior yelping in pain.

Alistair looked over in confusion as Morrigan healed the last of his injuries and moved to the corpses. “What do you mean, no survivors? I left all but one alive!”

“No survivors,” Sten repeated, speaking as if he were addressing a child.

Daylen paused in guzzling what he had left in his waterskin. “You executed them?”

“Parshaara. Yes. They would only have tried again.”

Daylen struggled to his feet, heading for the bodies Morrigan was inspecting. She had two staves across her back, and Daylen recognized his own as one of them. “Good.”

“Good?” Alistair tried to rise as well, only to be pushed back down by Leliana. “How can you say that?”

Daylen turned around, his face twisted in confusion. “They just tried to murder us. Not just arrest, outright murder, because I didn’t hop to it when they gave me an order. Won’t spare any tears for them.” He limped over to the bodies, giving Morrigan a nod. “How did you find us?”

“Your dog,” Morrigan said, eyeing the body of the Templar leader with distaste. “He picked up your scent and we tracked you across the ridge.” She unslung his staff, handing it back to him. “Next time, do try not to lose your only weapon.”

“Right,” Daylen mumbled. “Search the bodies yet?”

“Some. Are you looking for their orders?”

“Among other things,” Daylen said, dropping to his knees beside the leader’s body and patting down the man’s pockets. He pulled out a wad of papers and looked up at Morrigan. “That’s a start. Mostly looking for my phylactery. Guessing that’s how they tracked us.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “That you allowed them to place such a leash on you in the first place…”

“It wasn’t my decision.” Morrigan scoffed, and Daylen glared at her. “When three Templars hold down a six-year-old and slice his arm open to draw blood for the phylactery, it’s not the child’s choice.” His eyes widened, and he fished out a tiny, glowing vial of blood from the leader’s pocket. “Maker. This is it.”

“So smash it and be done with it,” Morrigan said.

“Right,” Daylen replied absently, still staring at the phylactery. “Let’s pack up. Better keep moving.” Morrigan nodded and left, and Alistair limped over, finding Daylen still staring at his phylactery.

“So they did have your phylactery,” Alistair said. “Blast it. That means the Templars are after you after all.”

“Good luck to them,” Daylen sighed, rolling the phylactery around his fingers. “This is the only way to track me. Without it, I’d be completely free of the Chantry’s control. They can cast spells on mages using these things, you know. It’s a leash in the worst possible way.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Alistair asked. There was a long, pregnant pause. “Daylen?”

Daylen stood, turning it over in his hand. “You take it.”

Alistair stepped back. “Come again?”

“Take it. If I slip, if I get possessed…there’s nobody else I could count on to put me down,” Daylen said. “It’s too necessary to destroy. Too valuable to give to the Chantry. We’re going to be doing whatever we have to in order to stop the Blight, and I want to do this without sacrificing who we are and what we stand for. I need someone to watch my back, and to make sure I don’t lose my way. That’s you. You’re capable of keeping me on the straight and narrow.”

“And you would trust me with this.”

“You’re the only person in I’d trust with this.” He held it out to him again. “Consider it a sign of my faith in you.”

Alistair coughed, turning his head away for a moment. He cleared his throat noisily, before turning back, his eyes suspiciously glassy. “I…all right, Daylen. If you’re sure.” His hands were shaking slightly as he took the phylactery, and carefully tucked it away.

Daylen swallowed hard, before nodding. “Right then. Let’s get back to camp. It’s been a long day.” The two leaned on each other every few steps as they rejoined the group, Alistair limping and Daylen walking on shaky legs.

—ROTG—

“Warden,” Sten began.

Daylen looked up from his meal. His stomach had settled after an hour or two, but he had found his appetite even greater than it had become after his Joining. “What’s on your mind, Sten?”

“The Blight – how will you end it?”

Daylen rolled his eyes, setting the bowl down. “Well, I thought we’d just ask the darkspawn to please leave.”

“If you hope to slay the archdemon with wit, you may wish to arm yourself first.”

“Scathing,” Daylen said dryly. “What’s your point, Sten?”

“You say you are a Grey Warden. I have heard stories of this order. Great strategists and peerless warriors. So far I am not impressed.”

Something snapped in him. “I had been a Warden for a bare few days when I saved your sorry hide, Sten. In the last day, I’ve been ambushed, dropped off a cliff, nearly frozen, hunted, assaulted, and hit with a Holy Smite. If you’ve got a problem, I’ve got a few suggestions for what you can do with it. I’m not here to impress you.”

“Evidently not. It remains only to see what you are here for.”

—ROTG—

“Teyrn Loghain, Arl Howe to see you.”

“I bring word, sire,” Howe said, approaching Loghain from behind. “There are demands from the Bannorn that you step down from the regency.” He paused, awaiting a response, but Loghain focused on the report in his hand, a half-filled goblet of wine in the other. The man tilted his head, graying hair falling across his brow. “They are said to be gathering their forces. As are your allies. It appears it will be civil war after all, despite the darkspawn. Pity.” Still no response from Loghain, and he coughed delicately before continuing. “I also have an interesting report. There seem to be Grey Wardens who survived Ostagar.” At that, Loghain finally raised his head, although he did not turn around. “How, I don’t know, but they will act against you. Their leader explicitly said they were coming for you. I have arranged for a…solution, with your leave.”

An elf dressed in lightweight leather armor stepped forward, blond hair swept back, with a pair of blades strapped across his back. “The Antivan Crows send their regards,” he said, a faint accent coloring his words.

“Against Grey Wardens, we will need the very best, sire,” Howe went on.

“And the most expensive,” the elf added as Loghain chugged from the goblet.

Loghain looked back momentarily, before turning back to his reports. “Just get it done.”

—ROTG—

Daylen felt prickling on the back of his neck as they made for the road again. “Anybody else feel it’s been peaceful for too long?”

“Daylen, it’s been less than two days since we found the others again,” Alistair replied.

Daylen nodded emphatically. “Exactly. It’s been almost a day, and nobody’s tried to kill us!”

As if on cue, a harried-looking woman sprinted towards them from further down the road. “Oh, thank the Maker! We need help! They attacked the wagon, please help us! Follow me, I’ll take you to them!” She turned and ran back the way she had come, and Daylen sighed.

“This is a trap,” Leliana said softly.

“Agreed,” Alistair added. “No sounds of battle, no screams, nothing. We’re being lured in.”

“Should we turn around?” Daylen asked.

“We don’t really have another option,” Alistair sighed. “Spring the trap, I suppose.”

“Weapons drawn, but don’t get separated or bunched up,” Leliana said, checking a handful of arrows and shifting her quiver. Daylen drew his staff, keeping close to Alistair as they headed down the road.

“Oh, Maker, this is so a trap,” Alistair said as the ‘caravan’ came into view. “No bodies, no blood, high ground on both sides.”

Daylen felt his robes shift over his body as his skin hardened, and as an elf stepped out from behind one of the wagons to greet the woman, Daylen spotted several men emerging from behind the other wagons and running out along the high ground to the left and right. Daylen heard a creaking from behind them and glanced up, before shoving Morrigan and Alistair forward and diving forward as a tree fell across the path behind them. “And there’s the trap,” Daylen rasped, pushing himself to his feet.

“The Warden dies he-” the elf broke off as a lump of conjured stone from Daylen slammed into his face, sending him flopping back across the wagon. As he slumped to the ground unconscious, the woman began weaving magic, only to stagger back as the mana evaporated.

Morrigan smirked as her spell took effect, and Daylen shot her a confused glance before ducking as an arrow streaked by his ear, pinging off the edge of his staff. Leliana snarled, aiming carefully and spearing the enemy archer through the neck. Drawing and releasing again, she dropped another archer, and Daylen stepped into the path of another arrow aimed at her, his mage shield snapping into place.

Alistair yanked his sword from the chest of a dying assassin as Sten shattered another’s skull with the pommel of his greatsword, the two warriors flowing from strike to counter-strike to killing blow with deceptive ease.

Leliana dodged another arrow that pinged off Daylen’s hardened skin, prompting the response of a lightning bolt that set the archer alight as Leliana turned to put down an assassin about to blindside Morrigan.

Alistair was engaging the last assassin, a gaunt man carrying a sword and dagger as the others waited for a clear shot. The assassin attempted to feint around his shield, and Alistair scoffed, parrying the sword strike with his own and slamming the rogue in the chest twice with the front of his targe, before ramming his sword through the man’s stomach and twisting the blade.

“Everyone all right?” Daylen asked, rubbing a forming bruise where the arrow had hit him. A chorus of affirmative replies came back, and he shrugged. “Some assassins,” he said, kicking over the one of the bodies. “I mean, wouldn’t it have been smarter to simply barrage us with arrows and spells from cover without the whole ‘the Warden dies here’ nonsense? They had a mage. One fireball would have probably knocked us all out of the fight.”

There was a pained yelp, and the party turned to find a battered and bleeding assassin wrenching Morrigan into an arm lock, the point of his dagger against her neck.

Daylen gave his companions an annoyed look. “All right, who missed that one?”

“Drop your weapons!” the man ordered.

“Not going to happen,” Alistair growled.

“I swear, I’ll kill her!” the man shouted, pressing his knife harder against Morrigan’s pale throat. To her credit, she looked more annoyed than scared.

He seemed very confused when the entire group bar Sten – who looked as unimpressed as usual – began laughing uproariously.

“Oh, boy,” Daylen said, wiping a tear from his eye. “You really don’t want to do that. In fact, I’d just start running. You’ll die tired, but you’ll live a little longer.”

“I’ve got the hostage,” the man spat. “I’m holding her.”

“No, you’re holding a giant angry spider.”

The man stumbled back as Morrigan shapeshifted rapidly, and screamed as she leapt upon him, her fangs ripping into soft tissue.

“Well, that’s appetizing,” Daylen remarked, wincing as Morrigan finished ripping the man apart and shapeshifted back.

“There’s another live one here,” Leliana announced. “The elf. Their leader, I think.”

“He awake?” Daylen asked.

Leliana checked him over. “Unconscious and bleeding.”

“Search him and tie him up. I want answers.”

A brief jolt of lightning had the elf’s eyes fluttering open, and Daylen watched the elf roll over, wincing at the blood trickling from his nose and ear as he did. “Mm, what?” His eyes focused, and he blinked hard. “Oh. I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all. But I see you haven’t killed me yet.”

“That could be easily rectified, if you’d like,” Daylen offered.

“Of that, I have no doubt,” the elf said. “You are most skilled. If you haven’t killed me, however, you must have kept me alive for some purpose, yes?”

“Awfully glib for a prisoner, aren’t you?” Daylen remarked. “Especially one who just had his entire group of assassins wiped out and took a rock to the face before landing a single strike.”

The elf chuckled and shrugged. “It is my way, or so I am told. Let’s see, then. I assume you kept me alive to ask me some questions, yes?” Daylen nodded, and the elf cleared his throat before continuing. “Let me save you time and get right to the point. My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly.”

Daylen hissed out a breath. “The Crows. Shit.”

“You know them?” Alistair asked.

“Not personally, no,” Daylen said dryly. “But there are stories about them, even at the Circle.”

Alistair nodded. “A group of assassins, thieves, spies, known throughout Thedas.”

Daylen extended a hand to Alistair. “Congratulations. Someone is taking us seriously as a threat.” The warrior looked incredulously at Daylen, who looked back to Zevran. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Why not?” The elf shrugged. “I wasn’t paid for silence. Not that I offered it.”

“Were you paid to give up information this easily?” Daylen asked, looking around to see if the elf was buying time for another assassin to get into position.

“Consider it something I’m throwing in for free.”

“Who hired you?” Alistair asked.

“A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I believe his name was.”

Daylen’s head snapped around, looking back at Zevran. “You said Loghain hired you?”

Zevran nodded. “An associate of his handled the initial contact, but yes.”

Daylen’s eye twitched. “Well, I did tell him he’d need to do better than a handful of soldiers. I guess sending a paid assassin is the next step. That’s it. We’re going to Denerim.”

“Why Denerim?” Alistair asked.

“Because I can’t kill Loghain from here,” Daylen replied calmly, before pointing at Zevran. “You’re coming with us.”

“What?” Alistair yelped. “You’re taking the assassin along?”

Daylen nodded. “He needs us. He failed. Even if he tries to kill us down the line, and succeeds, the Crows will kill him for his failure. It makes them look bad.”

Zevran looked at him curiously. “Why bring me along?”

“Because you would know the security there and I can use an assassin when I’m going to assassinate someone,” Daylen said as if it were obvious.

“Really?” Zevran asked. “I…really?”

“You can come along,” Daylen shrugged. “You’re going to kill Loghain for us. I already recruited a murderous Qunari. Why not add an assassin to the group?”

Zevran blinked owlishly at him. “What.”

“I need information,” Daylen said. “When were you to see Loghain next?”

“I wasn’t. If I had succeeded, I would have returned home and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results. If he didn’t already know. If I failed, I would be dead. Or I should be, as far as the Crows are concerned. No need to see Loghain then.”

“If you had failed?” Daylen echoed.

“What can I say?” Zevran said brightly. “I am an eternal optimist. Although the chances of succeeding at this point seem a bit slim, don’t they?” He chuckled nervously, the laughter dying under Daylen’s stony stare. “No, I don’t suppose you’d find that funny, would you.” Daylen continued his best impression of Sten, and Zevran shrugged. “Look, I cannot help you with Loghain. He knows that there would be no further contact with me, and my presence would warn him an attempt on his life was coming. So, unless you’re quite set on cutting my throat or something equally gruesome, perhaps you’d care to hear a proposal?”

Daylen gasped, looking scandalized. “We barely know each other!”

Zevran burst into laughter, before coughing. “Ow, ow, please, don’t make me laugh. Well, here’s the thing. You are correct, my life is forfeit for my failure. That’s how it works. If you don’t kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like living. And you are obviously the sort to give the Crows pause. So let me serve you, instead.”

Daylen crouched low, looking the assassin the eyes. Behind the carefully guarded expression, Daylen saw the same eyes he had seen in numerous mages facing Tranquility. “What do you want in return?”

“Being allowed to live would be nice, and would make me marginally more useful to you,” Zevran admitted. And somewhere down the line, if you should decide you no longer have need of me, then I go on my way. Until then, I am yours. Is that fair?”

Daylen grunted noncommittally. “Sell me on the idea, Zevran. Why would I want your service?”

“Why?” Zevran echoed. “Because I am skilled at many things, from fighting to stealth to picking locks. I could also warn you should the Antivan Crows attempt something more…sophisticated, now that my attempts have failed. I also know a great many jokes. Twelve massage techniques, six different card games? I do wonderful at parties, no?”

Daylen sighed. “All right then. I accept.” At his nod, Leliana untied Zevran.

Zevran nodded, standing up. “I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation. This I swear.”

“Good. Let’s get out of here. This place is a little too…corpsey, for my liking.” He looked over at Leliana and Sten. “Let’s collect the weapons, armor, any salvage. We’ll need the funds.” He eyed one of the corpses, noticing the plain and mostly blood-free clothes the man wore. “Hey, that one looks to be about my size, doesn’t he?”

—ROTG—

“Daylen,” Alistair asked quietly as they entered Denerim’s market district. “Are you sure about this?”

“No, I’m not,” Daylen admitted, shifting under his new clothes. “If we kill Loghain, then we really are guilty of killing nobility. Sure, he started it, but it’s going to be a lot more difficult to gather the army we need when the regent is trying to have us killed.” He looked away for a moment, before shaking his head. “It’s still sinking in that we’re all that’s left. That we’re raising an army. It’s on us.”

“You think about this too hard, you’ll wind up going crazy.”

Daylen shook himself out of his reverie. “Right. You’re right. Let’s move.” Cupcake trotted off into the market, and Daylen paused. “Well, I suppose he’s just going off to do some shopping,” he said. “Try not to scare too many people!”

Cupcake came running back, dropping low on his front paws and wriggling his stumpy tail happily. A young boy ran up after him.

“Puppy!” The boy cheered.

“Where’d you get that?” Daylen asked, pointing at the boy. Cupcake whuffed and wagged his tail in response. “You can’t keep him! Put him back where he belongs.” The dog gave a low whine. “He’s too young to fight with us, you know that!” An exasperated snuffle, and the dog ran off again with the boy in tow. “Anyway.”

“I... have never seen such a collection of merchants and people before,” Morrigan said. “Is it always such here?”

“Most of the time, yes,” Leliana replied. “It gets busier during the spring when the ships come in more often.”

The group circled around the market, Daylen’s breath hitching as he passed a surly-looking Knight-Captain standing outside a noble’s estate. He was so distracted by the presence of the Templar that he bumped into a man in heavy plate. “Oh, terribly sorry,” Daylen mumbled, backing up. “Apologies, ser.”

“I recognize you…from Ostagar,” the man said. Daylen took another look at the man, not recognizing him. “Andraste’s blood, you’re a Grey Warden!” His face twisted. “Duncan’s apprentice! You killed my friend – and good King Cailan. I demand satisfaction, ser!”

“I…what?” Daylen blinked, still distracted. “Satisfaction?”

“An uncommon traitor deserves no common death,” the man declared. “We will meet on the field of honor, and my blade shall see justice done. Meet me in the back alley behind the Gnawed Noble Tavern. There we will duel.”

Daylen shook his head. “Look, Loghain’s charges against the Wardens are false.”

“You would compound slander on top of treason? You dare smear Teyrn Loghain’s word?”

“And he dares smear mine? And the good name of the Grey Wardens?” Daylen snapped back. “Loghain abandoned his king – his son-in-law – and pinned it on the only group interested in facing darkspawn. If you believe otherwise, you’re dumber than you look, and that’s going places! I won’t fight a fool.”

“But honor demands you accept!”

Daylen gave a frustrated growl. “All right, fine! You insist on dying horribly, you’ll get your blasted duel. Head over there and I’ll be right by to smear you across the walls.”

The knight nodded. “Make peace with the Maker, ser. These are your last moments.” He stalked off, his fingers drumming on the pommel of his mace.

“I’m not that lucky!” Daylen called after him.

“Are you really going to fight him?” Zevran asked. “Why not simply have us all take him at once?”

“If he knows Loghain, he might have information on how to get at him,” Daylen replied. “He’ll talk before he dies.”

The group entered the back alley, finding the knight waiting with three armed and armored companions. “Are you ready?” The knight asked. “I am no savage. I would not take advantage of you.”

“Will nothing convince you to stop?”

“Nothing at all, ser. I am honor-bound to kill you now.”

Daylen sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Very well. I would know your name.”

“I am Ser Landry,” the knight replied. “And you are?”

“Daylen Amell. A man should know the name of the person who ends his life,” Daylen replied. “I’m ready.” He eyed Landry’s companions. “Let’s just fight one-on-one.”

“May the Divine look after you, ser. You’ve held yourself with honor.”

Daylen immediately threw down his staff, spreading his arms. Landry hesitated. “Go ahead,” Daylen said. “Kill me. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To kill me for honor. A little blood spilled to make you feel better. You’re a trained combatant, I don’t stand a chance. It’s not a duel, it’s an execution. So if that’s what you want, it’s what you’ll get. But there’s no honor in that, it’s just murder. So when you tell people about the glorious story of how you killed a Grey Warden you decided was responsible for King Cailan’s death, make sure you mention that it was murdering an unarmed man.”

Landry drew his mace. “Whatever you say, Warden.” He made it a whole two steps before Daylen broke his arm with a lump of conjured stone and froze him in place with a blast of ice.

Daylen stepped close to the injured and immobilized knight. “Well, appealing to your better nature didn’t work, so let’s see if your brains have use besides filling your helmet. The Grey Wardens would never do anything to help the darkspawn. And right now they’re running amok across Ferelden, with nobody standing in their way because Loghain is too busy trying to pin his regicide on the Wardens. Think about it! Why would we kill King Cailan?”

“I do not like your tone, ser,” Landry replied. “But…you may be right. I may regret this, but I cannot kill someone who may be guiltless.”

“Never mind that I’d kill you before you took another step.” The ice shattered, and the knight collapsed, clutching his injured arm. “I was there too, Landry,” Daylen said softly. “I nearly died there when Loghain quit the field, taking the army with him and abandoning Cailan and the Wardens to the darkspawn. I’m here to make him pay for it. The man hired the Antivan Crows to try to eliminate us.”

“What?” Landry gasped. “Why would he do that?”

“Because his soldiers weren’t enough,” Daylen spat. “He wants to eliminate any threats to his takeover. We can expose what he’s done, and we’re raising an army to fight the darkspawn. He thinks we’re raising an army against him.” Daylen snorted in derision at the concept. “As if he’s important enough.”

“What do you plan to do?” Landry asked.

“End him.”

“I meant with me,” Landry said pointedly. “Loghain is not in Denerim. I am at your mercy, Warden.”

“I have no intention of killing you. You’ve heard me out. You fought with honor. Well, if you can call that fighting.” The man winced as his arm shifted, and Daylen went on. “Your arm is broken. Seek healing, or allow me to heal that for you, but I have no intention of causing you further harm.” The man extended his arm, grimacing as he did, and Daylen clasped hands with him, pumping healing magic into the injured limb. Landry groaned as the bones ground back together, shaking the pins and needles out of the arm as Daylen released his hand. “Go in peace, Ser Landry.”

“And you as well, Warden.” He stood, picking up his mace and hanging it from his belt. “Should you need my arm when facing the Blight, I shall answer.”

“That’s good to hear.” Daylen sighed heavily as the knights left. “Let’s get out of here.”

Alistair shrugged. “What exactly were you thinking?”

“I dunno,” Daylen said. “Pub?”

—ROTG—

“Six pints, and…” Daylen looked over at the others. “What are you all having?”

“Rough day, mate?” the bartender asked.

“You have no idea,” Daylen said. “Heard any rumors lately?”

The bartender nodded. “Darkspawn have attacked Lothering,” he said quietly. “I don’t think everyone even had fled by the time they came, either. Word has it that they swarmed the entire area, making off with prisoners, burning down the buildings, then they were gone just as quick. Wonder if there’s anyone left. I heard some Chanters were going to head down south, maybe find some survivors, but I’m not holding out hope, myself.”

Daylen looked down at his ale, dropped a few coppers on the bar counter, and left without another word.

—ROTG—

Daylen stood in the hall of the Denerim Chantry, eyeing the stained glass and the frescoes on the walls. A Chantry sister maintained a respectful distance, and another was speaking quietly with a pair of nobles across the room.

He tilted his head back, feeling the weight of everything he had to save bearing down on him at once. “Maker, we’ve never been on the best of terms. I’m not the praying type, not great with authority figures. Always figured you had some big plan in the works, but let’s face it, mate, it feels like it’s gone off course a bit.” Daylen paused, wondering if a bolt of divine retribution was incoming for addressing a god so informally. “If you exist, if you’re the loving, caring Maker people seem to think you are…why haven’t you stepped in? There were a lot of people at Ostagar, in the Korcari Wilds, in the Bannorn, at Lothering. People who died from something the Chantry claims was created by human hubris. I’m trying to save lives here, trying to stop this Blight from consuming this country. If you were ever going to intervene, now would the time. I’m just one man. I think I can make a difference, sure, but I…” Daylen’s voice cracked, and he sank into one of the pews. “I’m not enough. What can I do to stop this before any more people die?”

The silence in the Chantry was almost deafening.

He sighed. “Figure it out yourself, right?”

—ROTG—

When anyone in Ferelden speaks of “going to the city,” they inevitably mean Denerim. There is no other place in the kingdom which rivals it: Not in size, population, wealth, or importance. It is the seat of the Theirin family, the capital of Ferelden, the largest seaport, and, by ancient tradition, the meeting place of the Landsmeet.

As well, Denerim was the birthplace of Andraste. One of them, anyway, as several other sites claim to have been the prophet's early home, including Jader, in Orlais. The Chantry takes no stance on which site's claim is valid, but it is well known that Andraste was Fereldan by birth. When visiting the pilgrimage site in Denerim, it is inadvisable to mention Jader at all.

The city rests at the foot of the Dragon's Peak, a solitary mountain scarred by ancient lava flows. During Andraste's lifetime, it reputedly filled the sky with a great column of black ash and sent burning rock raining down as far away as the Free Marches, but it is now considered extinct. Some believe it merely sleeps, and will again darken the sky with ash and fire when the last Fereldan king dies, but this is highly unlikely.

--From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi

Chapter Text

The silence in the Chantry was almost deafening.

He sighed. “Figure it out yourself, right?” He hunched forward in the pew, resting his head in his hands.

It felt like hours had passed when he finally raised his head, spotting a pair of Templars speaking with a cleric. Neither of them had looked in his direction, but he felt a spike of fear settle into his gut.

Time to leave.

It was only as he stood to get out of the Chantry before anyone recognized him that he caught a snippet of their conversation.

“Gather reinforcements, and travel to the Circle with all possible speed. Knight-Commander Greagoir will need you to carry it out.”

“Yes, Your Grace. It will be done.” Daylen’s head snapped around at the honorific, and he recognized Elemena, the Revered Mother of Ferelden. Recognizing her was easy – caricatures of her from a particularly talented senior enchanter had been making the rounds of the Circle for over a decade, along with a series of nude drawings of the queen and a surprisingly well-written serial written by a merchant in the Free Marches. Shaking himself, Daylen left the Chantry immediately. If more Templars were headed to the Circle, it meant recruiting the mages would probably be more difficult. Especially considering his earlier difficulties with them. Just another issue to deal with.

Pausing on the other end of the market, Daylen spotted a poster covered with Grey Warden symbols. Brows furrowing, Daylen examined the poster. “Don’t believe the lies!” The poster read. “Friends of the Grey Wardens assemble. The hidden pearl holds the key to resistance. The griffons will rise again.” Daylen blinked a few times, before shrugging and moving on.

Daylen wandered aimlessly, leaving the market district and walking in a daze through the other neighborhoods of Denerim. He only snapped out of it when he passed a provocatively dressed woman lounging on a couch outside a building.

“Welcome to the Pearl, love,” the woman said, winking at him as he paused at the sight. “Head on in, someone will take care of you.”

“I…” Daylen blinked. “Oh. Well, why not.”

The woman smiled broadly. “That’s the spirit!”

“Ah, Warden, I might have known you would come here,” a voice came from behind him. Daylen turned, finding Zevran leaning against a building across the street.

“Zevran,” Daylen acknowledged, before his eyes narrowed at him. “Have you been following me?”

“Of course. Just because I no longer wish you harm, does not mean the locals feel the same. Four pickpockets had to be dissuaded.”

Daylen hissed out a breath as he realized what he had risked by walking alone in Denerim’s back alleys in his dazed state. “I…well, shit. Thank you, Zevran.” The elf nodded respectfully. “You seemed…eager, to leave the Crows. Why?”

Zevran hesitated. “That’s a fair question. Being an assassin is a living at least as far as such things go. I was simply never given the opportunity to choose another way. So if that choice presents itself, why should I not seize upon it?”

“You didn’t pick the Crows as a life?”

Zevran shrugged. “I was but a boy of seven when I was purchased.”

Daylen’s eye twitched. “Purchased?”

“For three sovereigns, I’m told. A good price, considering I was all ribs and bone and didn’t know the pommel of a dagger from the pointy end.”

“It’s the pointy end that goes in your hand, right?”

Zevran smiled, but shook his head and went on. “The Crows buy all their assassins that way. Buy them young, raise them to know nothing but murder. If you do poorly in your training, you die.”

“Sounds brutal. And this system works? I mean, that’s pretty much the Circle, but I didn’t think others would have the same idea.”

“Of course it works. You compete against your fellow assassins, and those who survive are rightfully proud of it. In Antiva, being a Crow gets you respect. It gets you wealth. It gets you women, and men, or whatever else it is you might fancy. But that does mean doing what is expected of you, always. And it means being expendable.”

“See, that’d be the dealbreaker for me.”

Zevran nodded. “It’s a cage, if a gilded cage. Pretty, but confining.”

“So what is it you fancy, exactly? What do you plan to do in the future?”

“I fancy many things. I fancy things that are beautiful and things that strong. I fancy things that are dangerous and exciting.” Zevran paused a moment. “Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?”

“Not at all,” Daylen said. “You wouldn’t be the first, although you’d be the first who tried to kill me before flirting with me.”

Zevran shrugged. “As for what I’ll do in the future, presuming there is one? I truly can’t imagine. It might be interesting to go into business for myself, for a change. Far away from Antiva, of course. For now, naturally, I go where you go.”

“And when you get the first chance to betray me?”

Zevran snorted. “And be slaughtered? Perish the thought!” He shook his head. “Come, now. Enough chit-chat. Talking about the Crows summons them, you know. Any Antivan fishwife could tell you so.”

“Well, we don’t have any Antivan fishwives available,” Daylen mused, “but I did summon a Crow. There’s one standing right in front of me.”

Zevran laughed at that. “Well played, Warden.”

Daylen smiled faintly and twitched his head at the building and the woman who had been watching with bemused interest. “Mind coming with me? If I go in alone, I may come out with all sorts of parts missing without you watching my back.”

Zevran chuckled, and nodded. “Shall we?” As they entered the building, the heavy scent of perfumes hit their noses, and Zevran smiled. “Ah, I grew up in a place such as this. They say you can never go home again…but for ten silvers an hour? You can get pretty close!”

“I suppose,” Daylen asked, looking around. “I admit, I had expected more…sex, in a brothel.”

“You expected them to be out in the open?” Zevran asked rhetorically. “They may be paying for sex, but most clients of such places are dreadfully reserved, demanding private rooms. Many whorehouses are simply inns that offer extra services.”

“Oh,” Daylen said, smiling nervously at the madam. “Question, Zevran. Did you see that poster in the market?”

“About the friends of the Grey Wardens?” Zevran asked. “Yes, I did. You think this is the ‘hidden pearl’ it spoke of?”

“Worth a shot,” Daylen said quietly, clearing his throat and speaking to the madam. “Excuse me. We’re looking for some friends of ours. Do you have any rooms that are currently…occupied, but not by any of your people?”

The madam looked nervous, but nodded. “Last room on the left.”

“Be ready,” Daylen said quietly as they approached the door. “Could easily be a trap.”

“What’s the password?” A nasally voice demanded as Daylen knocked.

“Er…” Daylen thought for a moment about the password. “The griffons will rise again.” The lock clicked open, and Daylen pushed on the door gently, the door opening with barely a squeak.

“Another Grey Warden supporter,” one of the armed men waiting inside said triumphantly. Daylen eyed the group waiting for them – an elven female in heavy armor, two hulking Qunari, and a man in chainmail with a ponytail and a smug sneer on his face as he spoke.

“Not just a supporter, Paedan!” the elf gasped. “That one’s a Grey Warden! He’s the one Arl Howe is looking for.”

“Our trap landed a Warden?” Paedan asked. “You’ve got one chance to surrender.”

“Of course,” Daylen said easily. “Drop your weapons and I won’t kill you all. You’ve been misled. Loghain framed the Grey Wardens.”

“For what it’s worth, I believe you,” Paedan replied sincerely, before he snorted. “Not that I particularly care. We’re not common guards. We’re Howe’s elite. Let’s kill ourselves a Warden.”

Their weapons never even cleared their scabbards. Daylen flooded the narrow entryway with a heavy blast of frost, freezing all four ambushers solid. As he shattered Paedan into pieces with a conjured stone, Zevran lunged, jamming his sword through the elf’s chest and reducing her to fragments. The duo pushed farther into the room, ending the two supporting mercenaries in short order.

“Rather foolish of them,” Zevran commented as he rifled one of the corpses’ pockets.

“Should have known better,” Daylen sighed, retrieving a scroll and a pouch of coins from Paedan’s remains. “Even if I wasn’t a Warden, part of an organization known for their combat abilities, I’m a mage. They knew that I’m a mage. And yet they figured they’d have the advantage? Wouldn’t it have been smarter to just play along, get some Templars, and let them do the heavy lifting?”

“Men like this are not known for their staggering intelligence,” Zevran replied. “What is that?”

“His orders,” Daylen said absently, reading the scroll.

Zevran tutted. “See what I mean? Anyone with any brains would have memorized the orders and destroyed them.”

“Orders are from Howe,” Daylen said. “Apparently he’s going to raise the bounty per head.” He rolled up the scroll, tucking it away with a sour look on his face. “How many supporters do you think they caught?”

“Too many,” Zevran replied. “Let’s get out of here.”

Daylen nodded his assent, and the two piled the bodies in the closet before leaving, Zevran locking the door behind them. “I wonder how long it’ll take before they’re noticed.”

“A matter of hours. The stench will tell.” Zevran’s brow furrowed as he heard raised voices. “Wait, I know that voice…”

“I think you forget who you are speaking to,” a dark-skinned woman in well-maintained leathers was saying around the corner. “I’ll give you a chance to leave quietly.”

“You brazen hussy!” one of the men accosting her spat. “Someone needs to put you in your place!”

“Uh-oh,” Daylen murmured as they drew weapons. “We better help her.”

Zevran caught him by the elbow, a smile curling his lips. “Wait. She needs no assistance. Watch, you’re in for a show.”

He was soon proven right, as the woman effortlessly ducked a wild dagger strike from one man, parried another from the second, and kicked the third in the crotch hard enough to send him crashing to the floor, wheezing in pain. She backed up, flowing like water around a barrage of thrusts and slashes from the two remaining attackers, grabbing a half-empty tankard from the table and flinging its contents into one of their faces. Offhandedly parrying another strike with a dagger she produced seemingly from nowhere, she cracked the blinded man over the head with the empty tankard.

The third turned tail and fled as the concussed man dropped, abandoning his friends and shouting “She’s too good!”

The woman snorted. “Fools.” She raised her voice, calling after them. “Be glad all I took from you was your money!” She paused. “And your dignity!” She spotted Zevran and Daylen approaching her, and a smiled stretched across her face. “And look who we have here. Come to apologize for leaving me bereft of my lord husband and then vanishing without a trace?”

Zevran spread his hands. “You know it was just business, Isabela. Business that turned out well for you, I see – you inherited the ship, I take it?”

Isabela snorted, grabbing an abandoned tankard from the table and taking a drink. “I suppose I never did like the greasy bastard. And the Siren treats me far better than she ever did him.”

“Perhaps some introductions are in order?” Daylen asked, subtly eyeing the woman and appreciating the way her leathers hugged her curves.

“Indeed,” Zevran said. “This is Isabela, queen of the eastern seas and the sharpest blade in Llomerryn. And Isabela, my dear, you will no doubt be amused to discover that I am traveling with a Grey Warden.”

“A Grey Warden?” Isabela said, her voice turning smoother. “Charmed.”

Daylen found himself flushing slightly, clearing his throat and wondering when his mouth had gone dry. “Llomerryn? You’re a long way from home, Captain. Daylen Amell, at your service.”

“Just how much service?” She winked, and Daylen coughed, smiling in spite of himself.

“We’ll have to see about that. Your skills are very impressive.” And you move like sex on legs when you fight, he added mentally.

“I assume you saw that little drama?” She asked rhetorically. “None of those poor brutes has ever proven a match for me. Too clumsy and predictable. I’m a duelist. I fight with quickness and wit, rather than brute force and strength.”

“Don’t suppose you could teach me how to fight like that,” Daylen said. “I tend to find myself in a lot of fights these days.”

Isabela gave an unladylike snort. “An unusual request coming from a fearsome slayer of darkspawn. I’m flattered that you wish to learn from me, sweet thing. But…” She looked him up and down. “You seem to lack a particular…grace, that is required. You’re accustomed to doing battle a certain way, yes?” Daylen nodded. “I can teach you some basics; perhaps you can pass it on to someone else who might be interested in what I have to offer.”

“I certainly would,” Zevran interjected.

“You know what I have to offer,” Isabela replied dryly.

“Doesn’t mean I lack interest.”

“In a moment, darling,” she drawled, turning back to Daylen. “I do, however, wish to get to know my potential student better, so we’ll call for a drink and you’ll honor me with a game.”

“A game?” Daylen echoed, feeling like he had lost the plot somewhere. “I…uh…are there no other ways for us to get to know each other?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Do you…have something else in mind?”

“Well, I’m rubbish at cards,” Daylen lied. “But we could board your ship. I’d like to see what’s…below deck.” He tilted his head, a playful smirk on his face. “I did say I was at your service, after all.”

“I’m sure you would,” she said, looking him up and down again, much more thoroughly this time. Daylen suddenly felt like a mouse cornered by a cat. “It would surely be rude of me to decline such a…delicious offer.” Isabela drained the tankard, looking at Daylen’s companion. “And what about you, Zev? Shall we, for old time’s sake?”

“Oh, Isabela, you and your ridiculous appetites. Perhaps we should leave it up to our friend here?” Zevran looked hopeful, and Daylen grinned.

“Hey, the more the merrier. Means I get to check one more item off the list of lifelong dreams.”

“A threesome with a pirate captain and an Antivan Crow was on that list?” Isabela asked.

“Amongst other things,” Daylen admitted. “It’s a very detailed list.”

“We’ll have to see if there’s anything else we can check off, then,” she purred. “Come, my ship is down by the docks, and I am sure you will find my cabins quite…comfortable.”

—ROTG—

“I needed that,” Daylen admitted.

“It does clear the head, doesn’t it?” Isabela purred.

“It does.” Daylen stretched, reaching off the bed and grabbing his clothes. He took his time dressing. “This was above-average for me. I don’t normally have that sort of stamina.”

“Well, that brings back memories, doesn’t it, Zev?” Isabela asked, rolling onto her front and kicking her feet up. Daylen was trying not to get distracted by the sweat glistening on her body, or the well-defined muscles in her back working. Zevran was hunting around the cabin for his clothes. “Pleasant ones, even.”

“For you, maybe,” Zevran replied, pulling his tunic back on. “I still remember the time your husband tried to kill me. I had to flee across the rooftops, and naked.”

“Ah, yes, those pleasant memories,” Isabela said fondly. “You did have your boots, though.” Daylen grabbed his staff, slinging it over his back, and accepted his satchel back from Zevran. Glancing over at the naked and satiated woman on the bed, Daylen winked at Zevran, before grabbing Isabela by the ankle and letting a carefully controlled burst of magic loose. Isabela gasped as the sweat dotting her body flash-froze, and sat up, grumbling. “All right, all right, I’m up.” Shaking her hair out of her eyes, Isabela smiled sweetly at the boys. “Now, wasn’t there something else you wanted from me? A lesson, perhaps?”

“I think you’ve taught me plenty today,” Daylen mused, stretching. “Oh. Wait. The duelist techniques. Right.”

—ROTG—

“So, Zevran,” Daylen said as they left the ship. “I don’t suppose you have any spare coin on you. Our coffers are running somewhat low, and we’ve sold a lot of salvaged equipment, but…”

“Crows aren’t paid very well on assignment,” Zevran replied. “There are, however, always opportunities for an open-minded individual to enrich himself in a city such as this.”

“Got anything in mind?”

“While we were at that tavern, I…liberated some goods from one of the rooms, and spoke with the barkeep,” Zevran said quietly, handing over a few scraps of vellum. “I believe we can handle these ourselves, should you prefer.”

“You robbed a room?” Zevran shrugged, and Daylen sighed. “Well, I would rather not steal from innocents unless we really have to, but all right.” He scanned the job descriptions quickly. “The toxin extract samples we have, I think Leliana was carrying them. But cleaning up messes?” Daylen looked over at his ally in confusion. “What, they’re looking for a maid service?”

Zevran stared at him a moment, before shaking his head. “My apologies, Warden. I forgot you were kept in the Circle. This is asking for disposal of bodies.”

“And we’re capable of that?”

“Your magic is capable of destroying a body, is it not?”

“Valid point,” Daylen admitted. “Let’s get this done.”

—ROTG—

“Well, that was bracing,” Daylen wheezed, leaning against the wall and waving the sewer stench away from his face. “That’s all three, right?” Zevran nodded, and Daylen wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Good. Because I’m running low on mana. You used this method before?”

“Stuffing bodies in sacks and dumping them in a sewer? Of course. But freezing them first prevents messes and keeps the smell down. Well done.”

“Time to collect our pay, then.”

The two cut back through the market district of Denerim, making for the tavern, before Daylen abruptly changed direction, keeping his head down and heading around a corner.

“Something wrong?” Zevran asked as Daylen pressed his back into the wall.

“Templars,” Daylen hissed. “We had problems with them already.”

“That is a shame,” a voice said from behind them. Daylen had his staff half-drawn and Zevran was falling into a ready guard as the speaker went on. “Apologies for surprising you like this, Warden.”

“Keep your voice down,” Daylen growled, glaring at the man. A cowl covered most of his face, but the leather armor he wore highlighted him as a possible threat, even if there were no apparent weapons. “Who are you?”

“I represent a collective of mages interested in going about their lives without the constant scrutiny of the Chantry.”

Daylen perked up. “Such a thing exists?” He glanced around the corner, makings sure nobody was approaching. “Tell me more.”

The man nodded, and Zevran lowered his blades, but kept them drawn. “The collective is a self-policing guild of mages who simply want to be left alone. We mean no offense to the Chantry, but we would rather live on our own terms.” He gestured at a sack leaning against the wall of the alley, half-lost amongst the refuse. “Next to me, and in every major settlement, you will find an inconspicuous sack containing requests from mages all over the land who need the assistance of someone skillful and discreet.”

“I’ll take a look, but is that wise?” Daylen asked. “I’m not exactly the most-loved man in Ferelden these days, you know.”

“More people than you think sympathize with the Wardens,” the man said, tugging at the straps on his leathers. “And we all know that if the Wardens die, there won’t be much stopping the darkspawn from killing us all.”

“If I can help out, I will.”

“Thank you, my friend. We have agents in every major settlement to reward you for work done on behalf of the collective. Maker’s smile upon you.”

Daylen rooted through the sack, pocketing the scrolls inside and nodding to the man. They continued down the alley past the city’s Chantry, only to stop short as a man stepped into their path.

“Hello there, Warden,” he said brightly. “I’m a friend.”

“Does everyone know who I am?” Daylen cried in exasperation. “Do I just have a ruddy great sign behind me that says ‘I’m a Warden!’ in great big letters?”

“Your likeness has been shown to some of the guards,” the man replied calmly. “Managed to get a peek at it myself.”

Daylen sighed. “Brilliant, they know what I look like. Who are you, and what do you want?”

“My name is Slim Couldry. I want to help. I’ve heard you’re putting up the good fight against Loghain and that wretched prick Howe, and good on you. I’ve also heard you have certain…skills. Skills of the street, you might say.”

“You learn fast in a place like the Circle,” Daylen replied quietly. “What’s it to you?”

“I want to help you take the nobles down a peg.”

Daylen raised an eyebrow, keeping his hands low but ready in case this turned out to be a trap. “Why? What’d they do to you?”

“Besides feasting and holding revels while my family starves? Why, not much. In fact, they’re beautiful, kind…” Slim paused a moment. “Callous, wretched, depraved, and Maker-cursed, self-centered bastards!” He cleared his throat. “Sorry about that. They just need taking down a rung or two.”

“I’m not uninterested, but you haven’t given me any details.”

“For those who view certain pesky laws as mere nuisances, there’s some ripe fruit to be plucked out there.”

“So theft,” Daylen surmised. “Petty or grand?”

“The grander the target, the grander the theft,” Slim replied. “I can point the way. All I ask for is a little slice for myself.”

“And what will you do with your cut?” Daylen asked, suspecting he knew the answer.

“My share goes to a good cause. The poor. My family. I’ve got fifteen cousins. Fifteen. Can you imagine? My uncle must walk around with a permanent bulge! It’s disturbing, that is.”

“It’s impressive,” Zevran quipped. “Such productivity takes dedication.”

Daylen fought a grin. “Tell me more. I’m interested.” He paused a moment. “In your offer, not your uncle.”

Slim chuckled. “Well, one of my mates noticed your skills – nice piece of work that, uncommon caliber if you don’t mind me saying – but I need to know what else you can do. Ever done bump-and-grabs? Do much blending in shadows? Different opportunities for different folk, you know.”

“I’m a decent pickpocket,” Daylen admitted. “Not great at hiding in the shadows, but luckily,” he looked at Zevran, “I have people for that. So let’s hear about it all. Raising armies is expensive.”

“Don’t get much of the multitalented types in these parts. Advancement’s dicey, since the guard’ll hang or skewer you if you get caught. One point – I don’t like blood much. Call me old-fashioned, but the Maker says thou shalt not strangle, decapitate, or what not unless the other fella really had it coming, eh? I realize sometimes you do what you have to. But restraint, right?”

“Agreed,” Daylen said. “I’m no bandit. A thief, sure. But I want these sods alive to see what they’ve lost.”

“Good enough. I got a mark already lined up.”

A moment to count out the silver, and Slim nodded. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“Should be easy-pickings. A lady’s maid is in the marketplace. She’s wearing bright green – should be easy to spot. She’s got a purse with some of her mistress’s ill-gotten gems. Just relieve her of her purse and then we both come out ahead.”

Daylen nodded, stroking his beard. “How about break-ins?”

“I’ve got a place for you, should be easy money as well. It’ll cost one sovereign.”

Daylen dug around in his coin pouch, finding a sovereign. “Lady Sophie is an intimate of Arl Howe…real intimate. She’s visiting the country – because that’s what rich folk do when the whole bloody kingdom is in danger. Sorry, they just got me so angry.” He cleared his throat. “Her room in the Gnawed Noble Tavern is unattended. That means her valuables are just there for the taking. You get the…” Slim looked concerned at Zevran’s unimpressed expression, “tavern…staff…what? What is it?”

“I already broke into that room,” Zevran said flatly.

“Maker’s blood,” Slim said. “Well, right then. Here’s your money back. I, uh…” he scratching his chin, thinking hard. “Give me another chance. I know of another opportunity. It’s bigger. Four sovereigns.”

Daylen frowned, but handed over the money. “This better be worth it.”

“Arl Howe uses a warehouse in the Market District from time to time. Word is the arl’s been dipping into the city’s treasury and discreetly moving silver bars to his estate in Highever. There’s a fortune in that warehouse right now. And if you succeed here, Arl Howe gets a big black eye. But guards will be everywhere…not those half-arsed dock guardsmen, either. Generally, I’m opposed to killing – but these are the arl’s handpicked hatchet men and stealth’s not really an option. So good luck, I’m rooting for you.”

“Let’s go for the pickpocket job first,” Daylen said, before looking at Zevran. “You want the distraction or the groping?”

Zevran looked offended. “Why, the groping of course. Besides, no lady’s maid would deign to speak to an elf.”

“Right,” Daylen agreed. “Let’s go.”

They found the maid in the market, the green of her dress standing out against the warmer colors of the other market patrons. Daylen rooted around in his satchel for a moment, finding a Chasind-inspired necklace he had looted from the ruins in the Brecelian Forest. “Pardon me, my lady,” he said graciously, nodding to the Antivan merchant. “But I saw someone bump into you in the market a moment ago, and I believe you may have dropped this.”

The maid took one look at the necklace in Daylen’s hand and raised an eyebrow, not noticing as Zevran smoothly relieved her of the pouch of gems. The merchant looked quizzically at Daylen, but ignored Zevran. “Certainly not,” she said archly. “I would never be caught wearing such a thing.”

“My mistake,” Daylen apologized. “I must have seen someone else drop it. Good day to you, miss.”

Zevran rejoined him as he walked away. “What would you have done if she accepted the necklace?”

“Panicked,” Daylen replied bluntly.

“One lady’s maid, groped and robbed,” Slim said happily as they approached. “Or that’s how I’ll imagine it happened. Well done, Warden!”

“Not bad for a first attempt,” Daylen agreed. “We’ll have to wait until we meet up with the others to take on Howe’s men at that warehouse.” The memory of Bodahn’s unfortunate incarceration in Orzammar arose in his mind. “Where can we sell these gems that won’t get us or anyone else in trouble?”

Slim snorted. “Most anywhere in the market. So much goes through this place in the way of goods that there’s really nobody that can keep track of it.”

“Good to know. Got any other pickpocket marks?”

“Absolutely! It’s another sovereign, but I think you might like this one, too.” Daylen paid the man, hoping that the payoff would be worth it. “Ser Nancine has a fancy and expensive sword, paid for courtesy of her oppressive taxes on her lands. She’s going to be at the Wonders of Thedas soon, no doubt figuring new ways to kick her peasants where it hurts. Be careful. She’s got good eyes and stealing a sword from a scabbard isn’t easy. Good hunting, Warden.”

Slim was right about where to find Ser Nancine. The knight was standing in Wonders of Thedas, examining a wall full of books and sniffling. The knight gave a wet cough as they approached and grumbled to herself about the weather.

“If you see an opportunity, go for it, but be careful,” Daylen said quietly to Zevran, before raising his voice. “Pardon me.”

“Ah, a peasant.” Nancine coughed again. “How delightful.”

“Oh, my, you are ill, aren’t you,” Daylen said mournfully. “Apologies, I’m an herbalist, I can recognize the symptoms.”

“You are?” Nancine asked, her interest piqued. “I’ve been meaning to stop by the apothecary. I have this tickle in the back of my throat.”

“Really?” Daylen hummed to himself, checking the knight over. “Breathe deeply for me? Now out, please.”

“Hm. For a drably dressed commoner, you seem knowledgeable enough,” the knight said, making it halfway through a breath before coughing again.

Daylen frowned. “I need to listen to your lungs. Remove the armor.”

The knight looked deeply uncomfortable. “Is that really necessary?”

“You can never be too careful, right? Many deadly ailments start off as a simple cough. It starts in the lungs and then…” Daylen shook his head. “Why am I telling you this, you’re clearly a woman of the world, of course you know.”

“You’re the expert,” Nancine said with a shrug. “Could you help me with the straps?”

“I’d be happy to,” Daylen said, fighting a gleeful smile as Zevran quietly walked away with her sword.

“This may take a moment…bloody straps.” A few minute’s work had the knight standing around in a tunic and breeches. “There’s nothing wrong with me, right?”

“Well, it’s not fatal, I can promise you that,” Daylen pronounced after a few moments of perusal, before deciding to press his luck. “However, you’ll want to stay warm and dry for a week or two, just to help get rid of this. For a modest fee, I can sell you some medicine that could help you.”

“I thought you some sort of common thug, but you’ve surprised me,” the knight admitted, digging in her coin purse. “Here’s two sovereigns.”

Daylen measured out some herbs from his satchel, pocketing the money. “Brew this tea, drink it three times daily. After a meal would be nice. Keep warm and dry and try not to work long hours. You’ll be fine.”

To his credit, Daylen made it all the way out of the shop before breaking into laughter, spotting Zevran waiting nearby with Nancine’s sword. “Oh, that was too much fun.”

“I am impressed,” Zevran said. “Not many people could persuade a knight to undress in the middle of a shop.”

“And get paid for it!” Daylen crowed, holding up the two gold coins he had been paid. “I sold her some herbs to help her with her cough.”

“Will they work?”

Daylen snorted. “All she’s going to get out of those herbs is a lousy cup of tea.” The Warden looked over at the sound of canine feet pattering across the paving stones, and Daylen smiled as he saw Cupcake approaching.

“Daylen!” The two turned to see Alistair and the others approaching. “Finally!”

“Sorry for leaving like that,” Daylen said as the two groups rejoined. “It’s been a full day.”

“I’ll say,” Alistair replied. “We’ve been looking all over for you!”

“To little success,” Morrigan added. “Little surprise, considering who was leading.”

Alistair grimaced, but continued. “We did find several shops worth notice, however. There’s a smithy nearby. I think we might need better equipment, with what was on sale there.”

Daylen nodded. “We’ll look into it. What’s the state of our party?”

“We’ve restocked on food and pawned most of the equipment we’d salvaged. Made a tidy profit and picked up some useful items. We are rather short on coin, though.”

Daylen smiled smugly. “About that? We did some odd jobs around the city and met a few…less than legal connections you may want to know about. Made a hefty amount of coin, actually, between what we’ve liberated, and the payment from the jobs themselves.”

“We still have that warehouse job,” Zevran reminded him.

“Ah, right,” Daylen said. “Say, how would you feel about pissing off Arl Howe and making some money in the process?”

A quick and brutal fight later, Daylen was cursing as he busily scrubbed at the blood spattered on his clothes. “Maker, this stuff just gets everywhere,” he grumbled.

“Rub some dirt on it, it’ll come off easier,” Alistair suggested, stepping over the corpses of three of Howe’s thugs and sheathing his sword. “Now, you mentioned silver bars?”

Daylen nodded, nearly tripping over a dead crossbowman as he headed for the opposite corner of the warehouse. “If he’s skimming from the treasury, I’d think Howe would have more than a dozen men watching a place like this.”

“Not necessarily,” Leliana chimed in, looting one of the bodies. “A large guard presence would certainly draw notice. Getting noticed while doing something like this is a good way to lose one’s head. Literally.”

Daylen shrugged. “I’ve never embezzled before, wouldn’t know how to do it right.”

Alistair whistled as he opened one of the chests. “Maker, that’s…a lot.”

“Country at war, and this ass is stealing from the treasury,” Daylen sighed. “Great priorities.”

Leliana gave him a sly look. “It would be a shame if these went missing. Howe would be simply beside himself.”

Daylen feigned indecision. “We would be helping the local economy…”

Alistair sighed. “I don’t know if I could live with myself if these just sat around gathering dust.”

Daylen nodded sagely. “Taking these is the only decent thing to do.”

“We should split up when we sell them, so as to avoid arousing suspicion,” Leliana suggested.

“Agreed,” Zevran replied. “Leliana, do you have those toxin extracts? There is someone who will pay good money for them.”

“Right. Split up, meet back at the Gnawed Noble once you’re done,” Daylen ordered. “Zevran, get those poisons and come with me. We’ll let Slim know about Nancine.”

Shortly after, Daylen saw Alistair ducking into a shop with two of the silver bars in his pack and nodded, before turning back to Slim.

“And she even paid me for the useless herbs I sold her,” Daylen finished with a snort. “Two sovereigns. The way those people spend money.”

“Once Ser Nancine realizes she’s been robbed, I bet she’ll be furious. That’s delicious. And you hit Howe’s warehouse, as well. I’m proud of you, Warden. You have time for another?”

“I always have time for you, Slim,” Daylen replied with a warm smile, feeling the coin clinking in his pockets. “How much for this one?”

“Three sovereigns. It’s a pickpocket job, but a big one. Fresh out of burglaries, I’m afraid, although I’m working on something big in the Palace District. If it succeeds, it’ll make you a legend.”

Daylen dug out the coin. “Tell me about it.”

Slim nodded, gesturing around the corner. Daylen looked down the indicated alley and spotted two men in leathers and a man with a snooty expression in finer clothing. “We’re not stealing from a lass this time. We’re stealing from Bann Darby. That’s Master Tilver, the bann’s silversmith. He’s been on holiday for the past couple weeks. But he’s in town for the day. And all his valuable, expensive goods are locked up tight in the market, unguarded – but he has the key. He’s got two guards with him. Not the cheap kind, either. If you can get by them, you should be good. He’s waiting for a contact on some smuggled goods, I hear.”

Daylen stroked his beard as he looked at the situation. “Zevran, any ideas?”

“Perhaps pretending you know him from a party?” Zevran suggested. “Men such as that are always meeting – and forgetting that they’ve met – such nice people at parties.”

“Excellent. I’ll be right back. Stick to the shadows, but if one of those guards looks like he’s about to skewer me, intervene.” Zevran nodded, and Daylen entered the alleyway. “Tilver! How good to see you again!”

One of the guards stepped in his way. “Sorry, the alley’s occupied.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Daylen replied. “I know Tilver from Darby’s party. You remember, of course!”

Tilver forced a smile. “I…of course. Glad to see you again.”

Daylen stepped past the guard with a polite nod, moving closer to Darby as the guards resumed looking elsewhere in the alley. “Ser Kerrol. Oh, we had a grand time, didn’t we?”

“Oh, definitely. Bann Darby does throw the best parties. But, you see, this isn’t an opportune time…”

Clapping the man on the shoulder, Daylen used the gesture to mask his other movements as he pulled the man closer, putting an arm around his shoulders and discreetly frisking the man, finding the key in a pocket on Tilver’s shirt. “And did we drink! I scarcely recall it all.” Continuing over the man’s stammered protests, Daylen smiled fondly at the man. “But one part of the night I shall never forget. Those stolen moments in the cloakroom. The passion.” He shook his head. “But I won’t keep you, you said yourself this was a poor time.” He stroked a finger along the wide-eyed man’s jawline. “Perhaps I’ll see you at another of Darby’s parties, sweet thing.” Winking to the baffled silversmith as he left, Daylen exited the alley, Zevran appearing by his side as Slim leaned against the wall, wheezing with laughter at the display.

“Sweet thing?” Zevran echoed. “You sounded like Isabela.”

Daylen grinned at him. “Who do you think I was impersonating back there?” He looked over at Slim, who was pushing himself upright, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “You got anything else for us?”

Slim shook his head, still chuckling. “Not yet, but come by later!”

The two were counting out their new coin over a brandy when the others caught up to them. Alistair was in the lead, looking pale. “Daylen,” he rasped, drawing the mage’s attention. “There’s been a problem.”

“Oh, Maker, now what,” Daylen groaned.

“There’s something going on at the Circle Tower.” At Daylen’s questioning look, Alistair continued. “We were looking for rumors about Loghain, trying to find out his location.” Alistair’s face twisted. “Even if he was in Denerim, we couldn’t get to him. And then we were talking with one of the sisters outside the Denerim Chantry, and overheard the Revered Mother discussing the Circle.”

“Alistair,” Daylen said. “Get to the point.”

“The Knight-Commander has requested permission and reinforcements to carry out the Right of Annulment.”

Daylen spat out half a mouthful of brandy, having inhaled the other half. “What?” he sputtered, coughing over the burning in his chest.

“I know,” Alistair replied. “We’ve been looking for you since.”

“We have to go to Kinloch Hold,” Daylen declared, downing the last of his drink. “Let’s get out of here. Talk to me as we go. Tell me everything you heard.”

—ROTG—

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Daylen said, running his hands through his hair. “Why would they request the Right of Annulment? The Circle was fine when I left!”

“That was a while ago,” Alistair replied. “Things can change.”

“Well then, we’ll have to go check it out.”

“Is that wise?” Leliana asked.

“No, but neither was walking into a ruin crawling with werewolves,” Daylen replied. “And look how that turned out.”

Leliana seemed deep in thought. “We will need better armor and weapons. This salvaged equipment will not be sufficient for much longer.”

“We’ve already made some money,” Daylen said. “Let’s split up. Meet back here when you’re done. Leliana, Alistair, we’ll go find weapons and armor for anyone who needs an upgrade. Zevran, Morrigan, Sten, get supplies. We’re going to need a ride.”

—ROTG—

The kingdom of Ferelden is the southernmost civilized nation in Thedas--although some scholars dispute that claim to civilization. It is perhaps the most physically isolated of all the kingdoms of Thedas: To the east is the Amaranthine Ocean, to the north the Waking Sea, and to the south the Korcari Wilds, which in the summer months are a vast peat bog, and in the winter become a treacherous labyrinth of iced-over waterways. The Frostback Mountains guard the western border, and only a narrow plain between the mountains and the sea allows travel between Ferelden and Orlais.

Most of the land in the central portion of the kingdom, called the Bannorn, is open plains. These are crossed by the remnants of an ancient Tevinter highway that once connected Val Royeaux with Ostagar, on the edge of the Korcari Wilds. The western part of Ferelden is dominated by Lake Calenhad, a huge caldera filled by the runoff of glaciers from nearby mountains. Lake Calenhad is home to the famed fortress of Redcliffe, as well as the Circle Tower, which houses Ferelden's Circle of Magi.

In the east is the vast Brecelian Forest, which the superstitious locals profess to be haunted, and from which rises the Dragon's Peak, a solitary mountain that guards the capital city of Denerim.

--From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi

Chapter Text

Alistair led them to the smithy. “Welcome, friends!” The man at the counter called. “Welcome to Wade’s Emporium. We have the finest armors in Denerim – maybe in all of Ferelden! How may we assist you? I am Herren.”

“I’ve heard Wade is quite good, an artist, even.”

“He is,” Herren said proudly. “Possibly the most brilliant armorsmith in Ferelden.”

“That’s not true, Herren,” the smith – presumably Wade – called from his workshop at the other end of the building. “The dwarves of Orzammar make the finest armors around. These piles of rust droppings you force me to make are worthless compared to their work!” His pout was somewhat diminished by the florid mustache that drooped over his mouth. “You never let me have the time, the materials, to make something special!”

“Customers expect their armor in a timely fashion. Not years late, like the last time…”

“That happened once, just once, and you never let it drop!”

“Should we come back later?” Daylen asked.

“No, no, I am happy to assist you,” Herren said. “If we don’t have something that suits your needs in stock, Wade is capable of making it, I assure you.”

“I see. Our armor needs are…specific. Alistair?”

“Most if it is simple – it needs to be strong and durable, but it can’t constrain movement. Most important is simplicity – we’ll have to be able to get in and out of it without assistance.”

“Would you like it to be self-cleaning, too?” Herren asked sarcastically.

“If possible, sure,” Daylen replied. Herren scowled at him. “Heard you were specialists. I’m sure there’s better armorers around, then.”

“There’s nobody better in Ferelden,” Wade said. “I am a master smith. That is not a title claimed lightly.”

“But I suspect we’re a bit out of your price range,” Herren said delicately.

Daylen looked himself over, then glanced at Alistair. “Wow. I knew we were a bit rough, but do we look that bad?”

“You are a bit bloodstained,” Alistair admitted.

“Look, there is quality, price, or speed. Pick two. And you don’t look like you can even afford those two.”

Daylen spread his hands. “Name a price.”

“Fifty sovereigns.”

Daylen didn’t blink. “Insult me like that again and I’ll nail your tongue to the anvil. Twenty.”

“You want some haphazard mess protecting you? Forty.”

“I could get five good sets of armor for that.” Daylen wasn’t sure, but it sounded about right. “Twenty.”

“And Wade’s work is worth every copper. Thirty-five.”

“You’re starting to piss me off. Fifteen.”

“And you’re insulting my shop!”

“Your shop?” Daylen smiled. “All right, we’ll just leave then.” He nodded to Alistair. “We’ll head back to the Arl’s, let him know about the price-gouging we ran into.”

Herren paled. “Look, twenty-five sovereigns is the best we can do without losing on time and materials!”

Daylen glared at him. “I’ll expect no more of this sort of behavior from you. I don’t mind dickering. But that sort of markup? Even in wartime, that’s rude. Twenty-five a set.”

Herren nodded. “Twenty-five. We’ll need your measurements.”

Daylen set several of the silver bars on the counter, and Herren’s eyes widened at the sudden display of wealth. “We’ll need two sets of leathers, a set of plate – as well as some minor alterations for a set for a particularly large gentleman, I’ll bring you the man and the armor – and weapons.”

—ROTG—

“How long will it take us to get to Kinloch Hold?” Alistair asked as their wagon made the highway. A half-hour’s negotiation with a trader had allowed them to hitch on to a merchant convoy headed to Highever as hired muscle.

“Less time than it’ll take the Templars,” Daylen replied, looking up from the book he had been reading. One of the magical texts from Keeper Lanaya had held some very interesting spells he was looking forward to trying out. “That’s what matters.”

“Should we really have left Bodahn?” Leliana chimed in.

“No time to find him, but we left word,” Alistair said.

“He’ll catch up,” Daylen agreed. “How’s the armor?”

“The leathers are definitely better than what Zevran or Leliana had.” Alistair thumped a fist on his cuirass. “This plate is pretty solid. It’s veridium. Better than steel, still lightweight.” He shrugged. “The silverite equipment they had on sale was well out of our price range.” He drew the blade he’d picked out, the blade gleaming faintly red in the sunlight. “Red steel is better at holding an edge, but from what I hear it’s a pain to forge into plate.”

“This leather has been treated,” Leliana said. “It’s stronger than normal leather, but still flexible.”

“How did you know my size?” Zevran asked, tugging at the buckles on his new armor.

Leliana sighed. “I could tell your size simply by looking at you, Zevran.”

“Impressed?” Zevran asked with a wink.

Leliana sniffed daintily. “Not particularly.”

Morrigan chimed in. “I found a staff of far higher quality at the Wonders of Thedas. ‘Twas a simple matter to persuade the vendor to discount it.” She passed the weapon over, and Daylen felt a tingle run through his fingers when he touched it. “It shall amplify your lightning magic.”

“Thank you, Morrigan,” Daylen said, tossing his other staff into the back of the wagon. “Zevran?”

The elf patted down his pockets. “Have a ring.”

Daylen’s eyes bugged out at he felt the ring. “Sweet Maker! There’s a lot of magic in this one.” He held the ring up, examining it closely. “Very, very old, as well.” He eyed the elf. “What did this cost?”

“A few moments work.”

—ROTG—

Daylen was pacing irritably as they made camp for the evening, glaring at the worn-out pack mules, the merchants, and generally anything else that caught his eye. Most of the party had already turned in, although Morrigan was perusing the text he had been looking at earlier. Sten was on watch, patrolling the edges of the camp.

“You are not quite as callow as I thought,” Sten said bluntly as he passed by on one of his loops. “That is…unexpected.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Daylen replied distractedly.

“You’re welcome.”

Daylen looked the giant in the eyes. “So will you tell me now why you were caged?”

A long pause. “I caged myself. A weak mind is a deadly foe, as you are no doubt aware.”

Daylen nodded. “You can’t control the world, but you can control your mind. Exactly what happened?”

“I told you before that I was sent here. I was not sent alone. I came to your lands with seven of the Beresaad – my brothers – to seek answers about the Blight. We made our way across the Fereldan countryside without incident, seeing nothing of the threat we were sent to observe. Until the night we camped by Lake Calenhad. We found traces of them, and tracked them to the south, near Lothering. They ambushed us. They came from everywhere – the earth beneath our feet, the air above us, our own shadows harbored the darkspawn. I saw the last of the creatures cut down, too late. I fell.”

Daylen nodded in understand. “I’ve been there, Sten. At Ostagar, Alistair, two soldiers and myself fought our way to the top of the tower to send the signal. We did it, but arrived too late. Not that it would have mattered with Loghain abandoning our forces there. What happened to the other Qunari?”

“I am told no others survived. I don’t know how long I lay on the battlefield among the dead, nor do I know how the farmers found me. I only know that when I woke, I was no longer among my brothers.” A brief pause. “And my sword was gone from my hand.”

“What did you do?”

“I searched for it. And when that failed, I asked my rescuers what had become of it.”

“I’m guessing they didn’t know where it was.”

“They said they found me with nothing.” At Daylen’s questioning look, Sten continued. “I killed them. With my bare hands. I knew they didn’t have the blade. They had no reason to lie to me. I panicked. Unthinking, I struck them down.”

Daylen’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. You panicked over a lost blade?”

“That sword was made for my hand alone,” Sten growled. “I have carried it from the day I was set into the Beresaad. I was to die wielding it for my people. Even if I could cross Ferelden and Tevinter unarmed and alone to bring my report to the Arishok, I would be slain on sight by the antaam. They would know me as soulless, a deserter. No soldier would cast aside his blade while he drew breath.”

“That’s why you can’t go back. So your only option is to find it.”

Sten’s face twisted. “If I knew where to look, it would be in my hand now.”

Daylen tilted his head. “So that’s it, then? You aren’t going to do anything about it?”

“What would you have me do?” Sten snapped. “It could be anywhere by now!”

“You said you fought the darkspawn near Lothering. We’ll start searching there.” Sten blinked in surprise, and Daylen went on. “Don’t worry, Sten. We’ll find your sword.”

“Perhaps those words are empty, Warden, but…thank you, all the same,” Sten said slowly, before continuing his patrol around the camp. Daylen ignored a merchant nearby, continuing to pace until the man spoke directly to him.

“Pardon me, you’re a Grey Warden, aren’t you?”

Daylen looked over, still distracted. “Eh? No, wrong person.”

“I heard the giant refer to you as Warden,” the merchant replied. “Come off it, mate, I’ve no love for Loghain.”

Daylen gave him his best intimidating scowl. “What do you want?”

“Where are my manners? The name is Levi, Levi Dryden.” He paused a moment. “You knew Duncan, right? He ever mention me? Levi of the Coins? Levi the Trader?”

“I’m Daylen. And I’ve never heard of you.”

Levi looked hurt. “Really? He never told you of old Levi? We’ve known each other for years. But here I am, carrying on while you have a Blight to stop. Don’t want to waste your time.”

“Could have fooled me,” Daylen muttered under his breath.

“But you see, Duncan promised me that together we’d look into something important for the Wardens. And for me. But poor Duncan’s…well, no more. A tragedy it is, at that. But I know he would want his work carried on. His pledge fulfilled.”

Daylen rolled his eyes. “What promise did Duncan make to you?”

“My family…well, our past is a bit checkered, you see? Nobles look at us with disdain.”

“Wait, Dryden?” Daylen said. “As in Sophia Dryden, the last Warden-Commander of Ferelden before they were exiled?”

“My great-great-grandmother,” Levi confirmed. “She was the last, back when the Wardens were known as freeloaders. So King Arland banished the Wardens and he took House Dryden’s lands and titles.”

“I would say that’s drastic, but this is Arland we’re talking about,” Daylen said. “Man was an utter nut.”

“And then some,” Dryden replied. “Not much is known about that time. After King Arland died, there was a civil war, loads worse than this one. And our family was on the run, hunted by enemies – with nary a friend in the world. But Drydens are tough. We rebuilt, became merchants. And we never lost our pride.”

Daylen grunted, wondering if anyone in Ferelden was capable of getting to the point. “What favor did you ask of Duncan?”

“I asked for the truth. My family reveres Sophia Dryden. We know she died at the old Grey Warden base, Soldier’s Peak. We want evidence to clear her name. It won’t restore our land or titles, but it’ll restore our honor.”

“Never even heard of Soldier’s Peak,” Daylen admitted. “Never seen it on a map.”

“Because no one’s been to Soldier’s Peak since Arland’s days. At least none that’s come back. I spent years mapping the maze of tunnels to the peak. And I found the way a few years back. So I went to Duncan, and I said that he could reclaim the old base and my family could have its honor.”

Daylen’s eyes lit up. “A base for the Wardens…why didn’t Duncan help you?”

“Never had the chance. He was chasing rumors, recruiting, and then the Blight started, didn’t it? Darkspawn started surfacing in southern Ferelden. And Duncan got plenty busy recruiting new Wardens and meeting with good King Cailan. Duncan said he would help after the battle of Ostagar. Said there might be useful things at the Peak. But he never had the chance.”

“He would have been looking to set up a more permanent base for the Wardens,” Daylen concluded. “They were attached to the main body of the army as a specialist company, if I remember correctly. Levi, your family’s faith in the Wardens will be rewarded. I won’t make the same promise Duncan did – I don’t know how the next few months will go. I’m raising an army against the Blight and that’s taking up most of my time. But if we can…we’ll help you.”

“A thousand blessings upon you, Warden. I’ll mark down the location on your map. When you arrive, we’ll pick our way through the tunnels together!”

—ROTG—

Morrigan surveyed the tower with a critical eye. “How very fitting that they would build a prison for mages in the middle of a lake and make it look like a giant phallus.”

Daylen snorted. “To be fair, the Circle moved in after the tower was already built.”

Alistair nudged him. “Daylen, this isn’t a good idea. The Templars clearly don’t care that you’re a Warden, and Morrigan is an apostate.”

“We don’t have a choice. We’re doing this.” Alistair sighed, but nodded, moving away to confer with the others for a moment. Daylen looked at the other mage. “Morrigan, are you going to be all right with this?”

“Why would I not be?”

“Well I’d rather you didn’t kill anyone in there.” Daylen shrugged. “Well, unless absolutely necessary. You never know with Templars.”

“I would only do so if attacked,” Morrigan replied archly.

Daylen sighed. “Have you never been hunted by the Chantry? Ever been part of the Circle?”

Morrigan chuckled. “You are very cute to ask so many questions.”

“And you’re cute when you’re evasive,” Daylen replied smoothly. “But you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Really? Perhaps we should be wrapped in ribbons and adorned with flowers, so cute are we two!” Daylen blinked at the sudden change in personality, before shaking off his surprise as she continued. “My mother has been hunted from time to time, yes. By Templar fools like Alistair, which should tell you how successful they generally were.”

“To be fair, Alistair was never a Templar,” Daylen said. “And Templars generally have to chase down individual half-trained mages, not abominations of legend.”

“Flemeth made a bit of a game of it, in fact. The Templars would come again and she would look at me and smile, and say that the fun was to begin once more.”

“Fun?” Daylen echoed. “You found it fun?”

“I found the game fun. I was too young to understand the truth behind what was happening. Flemeth would warn them once. ‘Twas a warning they inevitably failed to heed.”

Daylen groaned. “Yes, I can understand that, Templars generally have that attitude. They’d view it as an insult, rather than a warning.”

“And then the true game began. Often Flemeth would use me as bait. A little girl to scream and run and lure the Templars deeper into the Wilds and to their doom.”

Daylen goggled at her. “Flemeth used you as bait?”

“Yes! ‘Twas a game and I a young girl. If I didn’t get to play, I would have been very upset. Thankfully, the Wilds is a vast place. Once they found us, Flemeth would simply move us elsewhere and we would be lost within the forest once again. I did not understand the danger we faced until I was much older. I had never heard of apostates or maleficarum.”

“They probably thought you were dangerous.” Daylen looked her up and down. “With good reason.”

Morrigan smirked at the praise. “Is it true, then, that given enough time the prisoner will learn to love the cell? The Chantry sees any mages not leashed to the Circle of Magi as ‘apostates,’ and apostates could become ‘maleficarum,’ evil mages that resort to blood magic and become demon-enslaved abominations. It may even be true. Still, those of us who prefer freedom see no reason to submit.”

Daylen snorted. “I agree completely.”

“An interesting answer, for a Circle mage.”

Daylen tilted his head. “Is it? I had no choice when I was brought to the Circle, no choice when I was moved to Ferelden, and no choice when I was recruited into the Wardens. And while many do escape, or at least attempt to escape, we’re kept under constant watch and very carefully kept ignorant of the outside world. It’s easy to spot an escaped Circle mage – they’re the ones who are gawking at everything and still wearing their robes. Now where’s Kester?” Daylen asked nobody in particular, peering down at the docks. “Oh, balls, is that Carroll?”

“Who now?” Alistair asked.

“Kester’s the ferryman,” Daylen explained as they descended the hill. He glanced over at the inn he and Duncan had eaten at before departing for Ostagar, what seemed like a lifetime ago. “Carroll’s a Templar. A bit dippy, at that. Let’s check the inn.”

Entering the inn, Daylen spotted the same man as before behind the bar, as well as the usual assortment of patrons, plus one extra – the burly, gray-haired boatman that had ferried Daylen to the tower over a decade previously, and back with Duncan. Zevran entered a few moments behind the others, a few scrolls in hand from an inconspicuous sack outside. The ferryman looked up from his ale, spotting the Warden, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled broadly. “Well, look at this! I remember taking you across when you left with that fellow, Duncan. And now you’re a Grey Warden…my pap used to tell me stories about them.”

“Hello, Kester,” Daylen said, sitting down opposite the man. “Why aren’t you manning the boat?”

Kester scowled. “Templars took the boat.” Brows furrowed, Daylen leaned forward, and the man sipped his beer before continuing. “Don’t got a clue why. They wouldn’t tell me. Greagoir just came down and said ‘don’t you worry, Kester, we got it all under control, we do.’ Didn’t say nothing else. And then he puts Carroll in charge of my boat, Lissie! Named for my grandmum, she was.”

“Any idea what’s going on up at the tower?”

Kester shook his head midway through a pull on his beer. “I told you, they didn’t tell me nothing. And if I know them mages, I’m better off keeping out of their business. If I had to guess, I’d guess it had to do with magic. But the tower’s always got something to do with magic.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I need to get in,” Daylen said bluntly. “Any idea how I could do that?”

“You could try swimming, but I don’t recommend it. Nasty things in that lake. I reckon it’s all them potions they dump in there. Greagoir’s told me to stay here till it blows over. But I’m telling you, some storms don’t blow over easy.”

Daylen dropped a few coppers on the table. “Have one on me, Kester. Thanks for the information. I’ll see what I can do about getting Lissie back for you.”

“Cheers, Daylen,” Kester replied, tipping back his beer.

The group exited the tavern and Daylen crossed his arms, glaring at the tower as if he could make it come closer. “I spent a decade hoping to get out of that place. And here I am, trying to find a way back in.”

“I suppose we could just ask,” Alistair suggested.

“The direct approach,” Daylen replied. “Very sneaky. Let’s do it.”

“You!” The Templar cried as they approached. “You’re not looking to get across to the tower, are you? Because I have strict orders not to let anyone pass!”

Daylen pulled up short, glancing around. “So do you just…yell that at anyone who comes within earshot? Just in case?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“Which is why you’re out here instead of doing something that requires brains,” Daylen muttered, before raising his voice. “Look, I’m a Grey Warden, and I seek the assistance of the mages.”

“Oh, you’re a Grey Warden, are you? Prove it.”

“What, you want a request darkspawn murder?” Daylen asked. “I’ll oblige. Got any handy?”

“Sorry, fresh out,” Carroll replied. “Good thing, too, I suppose. Wouldn’t want darkspawn smeared across the landscape. I hear their blood is black. Is that true? You’d know if you were a Grey Warden.”

“Black as pitch, and it bubbles,” Daylen replied. “Awful stuff. If you ever see a darkspawn, try not to get the blood on you.”

“Oh, pleasant, eh? Good thing I don’t have to kill them then. Anyway, it was nice chatting with you.” He waved them off. “Now on your way. Right now. Go.”

“Maybe you’re not understanding me,” Daylen said calmly. “I need to get across to the tower. You are not necessary to do that. But, since I’d rather work with you than simply toss you off this dock and watch you sink like a stone…can’t we just work something out?”

The Templar considered the issue. “You know, I am feeling a little peckish, though.”

“I…really?” Daylen asked, wondering just how much lyrium Carroll had been taking. “Well, I’m sure they have food at the tower. Always have in the past. Let’s go-”

“Pashaara! Here!” Sten thrust a small paper-wrapped package into the Templar’s hands. “Munch on these if you like!”

“Oooh, cookies!” Carroll said gleefully, unwrapping the package.

“I am content to part with them if it saves us from this fool.”

Daylen gave Sten a sideways glance, utterly baffled at this turn of events. “Where’d you get those?”

“There was a child – a fat, slovenly thing – in the last village we passed. I relieved him of these confections. He didn’t need more.”

Daylen goggled at him. “You stole cookies from a child?”

“For his own good,” Sten replied firmly.

“Yummy!” Carroll declared, polishing off the last cookie. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, eh? We can go across now, if you really want.”

Daylen threw up his hands. “You know what, it worked. Let’s just go.”

—ROTG—

Daylen’s eyes widened as he entered the tower. Wounded Templars were lying in a makeshift ward on one side of the entry hall, and several bodies were respectfully covered in sheets in another area. Knight-Commander Greagoir was talking with another Templar, his helmet clutched in one hand.

“I want two men stationed within sight of the doors at all times,” he ordered. “Do not open the doors without my express consent. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ser,” the Templar responded, turning on his heel to carry out the orders.

“Now we wait, and pray,” Greagoir muttered as he turned to face Daylen.

“And here I thought we’d never have to see each other again,” Daylen said. “What’s going on, Knight-Commander?”

“Well, look who’s back,” Greagoir snarled. “A proper Grey Warden now, are we? Glad you’re not dead.”

“You sound like you almost mean that,” Daylen said sweetly, remembering the Templar hit squad that had come after them.

“Perhaps,” Greagoir grunted. “Now, we’re dealing with a situation that doesn’t involve you, Grey Warden.”

“This absolutely involves me,” Daylen shot back. “I have a treaty that obligates the Circle to aid me against the Blight. So, I could simply conscript every mage in the tower. Or, you could simply tell me what’s going on.” Daylen gave him a humorless smile. “Your call.”

“You could try,” Greagoir retorted. “I shall speak plainly. The tower is no longer under our control. Abominations and demons stalk the tower’s halls. We were too complacent. First Jowan, now this.” He sneered at Daylen. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten your role in Jowan’s escape.”

Daylen ignored the jab. “One mage’s escape seems small compared to the situation here.”

“True enough,” Greagoir admitted.

Daylen’s eyes widened at the admission. “Sounds like the Templars haven’t been doing their jobs. Paying attention to the wrong people, I suppose, with how closely you watched when I was around.”

“My men did what they could, but it wasn’t enough. They took us by surprise. We were prepared for one or two abominations, not the horde that fell upon us. We faced a flood of abominations, and were forced back to this room. We sealed the doors, and we will wait until reinforcements arrive so the tower can be cleansed.”

“You sealed all the mages inside? And your own men?” Daylen gaped at the man. “What kind of commander are you?”

The Knight-Commander glared at him. “Watch your tongue, boy! I have a responsibility to my men to-”

“You had a responsibility to those mages, you asshole! You were supposed to be their protector, not just their captor! Of course you’re supposed to put your men in danger, that’s what they’re trained and paid for! That’s their job!”

“We were not trained to face a flood of abominations and demons like this!”

“I bet you those mages weren’t trained for that either,” Daylen spat, his hands balled into fists. “Or don’t they matter?”

“It is the innocent folk of Ferelden who matter. I would lay down my life, and the life of any mage, to protect them.”

“You callous bastard,” he hissed. “The innocents you locked in there don’t matter?” He took a moment to bring his temper under control. “Fuck this,” he growled. “Open the doors, I’m going in there. I’ll clear those abominations out and save whoever’s left.”

“You would never survive against those numbers,” Greagoir said dismissively.

Daylen’s glare could melt steel as he drew himself up to his full height. “Someone has to do your job. Clearly won’t be you. Now get out of my way.”

The Knight-Commander paused, before nodding. “Very well. Once you enter, you will not be allowed out without proof that it is safe.”

“What proof?”

“My men will bar the doors again behind you. I will only believe that it is over if the First Enchanter himself stands before me and tells me it is so. If Irving has fallen…” he paused, the lines of his face drawing taut. “If Irving has fallen, then the Circle is lost, and must be destroyed.”

“Fine. I’ll clean up your mess.”

“Daylen,” Alistair said quietly as Greagoir walked away. “Do you really think we can save this Circle?”

“Do you really think we can save Ferelden from the Blight?” Daylen asked, walking towards the quartermaster. “Not really, no. But I’m going to do it anyway.” He whistled, getting the quartermaster’s attention. “You. I need lyrium.”

“Um…how much?” The man asked, looking at the doors to the interior of the tower nervously.

“All of it. Every vial of serum, every pinch of dust, every grain you have on you. And any reagents you have for potion-making.” Hefting the box of lyrium the man produced under one arm, Daylen jerked his head at Morrigan, the two herbalists moving to a workbench and mixing vial after vial of the most potent lyrium potions they could make. As they worked, Daylen spoke. “Everyone’s coming in with me. Sten, you, Leliana, and Cupcake will be a single unit if we get split up somehow. Alistair, you, Morrigan, Zevran and I will be working together.” He looked to Morrigan. “You remember that spell I showed you from the Dalish text, Spell Might?”

“Of course,” she replied archly. “You think me so short in memory as to forget it?”

“Morrigan,” Daylen said softly. “I realize you don’t like being here, so close to these Templars, and where mages are kept prisoner. But I need your help here.” Her face softened, and she nodded. “Good. You remember the other one? Mana Clash?” She nodded again. “Good. Keeping Spell Might going will exhaust you quickly in a fight. It’ll make your spells hit harder, but you’ll use more mana for each spell, so make them count. That’s why we’re bringing so many lyrium potions. But Mana Clash will kill an abomination dead with a single hit. Anything short of Pride demons will probably be killed outright. But please, don’t kill any mages unless you know they’re possessed. I’d rather keep the body-count down, we’ll need these mages.” She nodded, and Daylen gave her a crooked smile, before raising his voice for his other companions to hear. “Alright, everyone, we’re moving light. Weapons, armor, potions and bombs only. There won’t be much to salvage. Sten, have you ever faced an abomination before?”

“Our sarebaas do not become abominations.”

Daylen met his gaze. “That a no, then?”

“No.”

“Alistair, give him a few pointers. I know Templar training covers this. Zevran, you and Alistair will be on point. Leliana, you’ll be providing ranged defense for Sten and Cupcake. If we get separated somehow, Sten is in charge of that team.”

“Better him than Cupcake, I suppose,” Leliana said. The wardog gave an affronted ‘whuff’ in reply, and Leliana reached down, scratching the mabari behind the ears.

“I’ve seen an abomination fight before,” Daylen said. “They’re fast, they’re strong, and they’re damned ugly. Do not underestimate them. Kill them and kill them fast.”

—ROTG—

It took two Templars to shut the heavy doors behind them, and Daylen heard the crossbar slide into place. “Let’s get this done,” he said, trying to ignore the scent of blood and fear on the air, and the bloody handprints on the inside of the doors.

“Which way do we go?” Alistair asked as Daylen knelt to check the body of a mage near the door.

“The corridor loops around the perimeter of the tower, with the staircase in the middle. We go room by room, sweep and clear.” Daylen ordered. “Alistair, Zevran, Cupcake, keep watch on the hallway. Sten, Leliana, Morrigan, with me.”

As they entered what was left of the apprentices’ dormitory, Daylen nearly tripped over another corpse, trying not to throw up as he recognized one of his former classmates half-buried under broken bunks and desks. “Bennett. Bennett, you alive?” He spotted more bodies strewn around the room. “Cormac! Darren! Lewis! Is anyone alive in here?”

“Daylen,” Leliana said quietly. “We have to keep moving.”

“Give me a fucking moment,” he snapped, his voice cracking. “This was my home.” He looked around at the bodies and the wreckage. “Tell me, Leliana, what possible good could come of this? What loving Maker could possibly allow this to happen?”

“Daylen, the Maker works…”

Daylen whipped around, snarling at her. “If you say ‘in mysterious ways,’ so help me I will kick your ass. There is no good reason for this. None.” Closing one of the corpses’ eyes, he stood, shoving past her as he headed for the door. “I’m going to end whoever did this.”

“Daylen,” Alistair hissed as the mage approached, his ear pressed against the door. “I hear voices on the other side of this.” Daylen closed his eyes a moment, before mana began visibly flowing from his body. The Warden nodded to Alistair, and the warrior opened the door, the party bursting through into the next room.

Alistair barreled through first, followed by Zevran and Daylen. Sten hooked off to the right, and Daylen’s eyes caught the flare of a burst of magic as a wave of frost ended a rage demon. The mage responsible for it turned away with a look of grim satisfaction on her face.

Daylen recognized her, and stopped short, Morrigan bumping into his back. “Wynne? You’re alive?”

“You know her?” Alistair asked, before shaking his head. “Of course you do, she’s a mage as well.”

“She was at Ostagar,” Daylen replied, looking around the room and spotting several other mages, many of them children. “I assumed she’d fallen in the battle.”

“Not quite, young man,” Wynne said, leaning on her staff. “Why did the Templars let you through? Are you here to warn us?”

Daylen shook his head, examining one of the children and healing a scrape on his jaw with a quick spell. “Partly. I was in Denerim and heard that they’d ordered the Right of Annulment. Came to investigate, managed to talk Greagoir into letting me clean up his mess.” He paused, before continuing. “This was my home. I wanted to see what’s become of it. Help, if I could.”

“I see you still care about the Circle, and our tower.” Wynne gestured around the room. “As you can see, the Circle is in grave danger.”

There were less than two dozen in the room, most of them adults. A glittering barrier barred the way forward.

“From the Templars, that much I know,” Daylen said sourly, nodding to Petra as he passed by. “Greagoir’s waiting for reinforcements, so they can Annul the Circle. He’s assumed everyone is either dead or an abomination. The worthless fucker wouldn’t even try to save anyone.”

Wynne scowled. “Please, mind your language in front of the children.”

“How many have you managed to save? Do you know if there are holdouts deeper inside?”

Wynne shook her head. “I gathered those I could and made for the doors, but these few are all I know to have survived.”

“A dozen mages, plus a handful of children,” Daylen breathed, feeling dizzy. “That’s all that’s left? What happened?”

Wynne jerked her head, and the two stepped away from the other mages. “Suffice to say we had something of a revolt on our hands. Uldred is leading them.”

Daylen’s eyes narrowed. “Uldred? He’s alive too?”

Wynne gave a grim nod. “When he returned from the battle at Ostagar, he tried to take over the Circle. It didn’t work out as he had planned. I don’t know what became of Uldred, but I am certain this is his doing. I will not lose the Circle to one man’s pride and stupidity.”

Daylen clenched a fist, feeling icy fury coming back under control. “Of all the people to survive Ostagar. If he’s still alive, I’ll fix that.” He jerked his head at the doorway. “That barrier your doing?”

“I erected the barrier, so nothing from inside could attack the children. You will not be able to enter the tower as long as the barrier holds, but I will dispel it if you join with me to save this Circle.”

“Fall in and we’ll save who we can,” Daylen said. “Will the children be safe here?”

“The other mages can watch them,” Wynne replied easily. “If we slay all the fiends we encounter on our way, none will get by to threaten them. Once Greagoir sees that we have made the tower safe, I trust that he will tell his men to stand down. He is not unreasonable.”

“That won’t be good enough,” Daylen warned. “Greagoir will Annul the Circle, regardless of what we say, unless Irving himself says so.”

“Then our path is laid out before us. We must save Irving.”

“You want us to assist this preachy schoolmistress?” Morrigan interjected. “To rescue these pathetic excuses for mages? They allow themselves to be corralled like cattle, mindless. Now their masters have chosen death for them. I say let them have it.”

Daylen blinked in confusion. “You remember I’m one of those ‘pathetic excuses for mages,’ right? You could easily have been one of them, if things were different.”

“I could be here, had my mother not shielded me from the Templars, so I am to show sympathy?”

“I’m not asking you to approve,” Daylen snapped. “Wait here, if you object so strongly. I’m going to help them. Help or stay put. But the rest of us are going on.”

She threw up her hands, striding away. “Do what you wish. I care not.”

“Petra, Kinnon,” Wynne said softly. “Look after the others. I will be back soon.”

“Wynne, are you sure you’re all right?” Petra asked as the other mage began setting wards, his staff flashing as defensive spells manifested. “You were badly hurt earlier. Maybe I should come along.”

Wynne shook her head. “The others need your protection more. I will be fine. Stay here with them, keep them safe and calm.”

“Try not to throw out your back,” Daylen said, forcing a smile as Petra left to help Kinnon.

Wynne gave him a tight smile. “When that happens, I usually lay about a young upstart with my staff. That gets the blood flowing and works the kinks out of these old joints.”

Daylen looked over to see Alistair speaking quietly with Petra, before the team regrouped in front of the barrier. “Impressive work,” Daylen commented, feeling the magic. “You’ve kept this going for days?”

Wynne nodded. “I am somewhat amazed at myself for having kept it in place this long. It made me very weary at times, but I had to stay strong, to keep us safe. Be prepared for anything. I do not know what manner of beasts lurk beyond this barrier.”

“Do not fear, my good lady,” Zevran piped up. “Our Grey Warden is very good at fending off attackers. Speaking from experience.”

Wynne extended an arm, her eyes closed, and after a few moments Daylen felt the magic of the barrier unraveling. The door behind the barrier swung open, and Daylen led the way through, staff up.

More bodies were in the next hallway, and Daylen rounded on Wynne. “These mages better have been here before you put that barrier up.”

“They were,” Wynne replied archly. “There was nothing but demons and abominations in view on the other side of the barrier.”

Daylen knelt, examining one of the bodies. “Ignatius. Poor man.” He closed the corpse’s eyes. “Enjoyed our time together. Rest easy, my friend.”

Leliana raised an eyebrow at his comment as Daylen stood, an ugly look on his face. “Is there anyone in this tower you didn’t sleep with?”

“Greagoir,” Daylen replied. “And Irving. Although not for lack of wanting. It’s the beard, it just gets me. And something about his silver hair gets me all tingly inside.”

“Is he messing with me again?” Leliana whispered to Alistair.

“I can’t tell anymore,” Alistair muttered back.

“Wasn’t easy, mind you,” Daylen went on. “Templars don’t like it when mages start getting handsy with each other. They do their level best to stop us from reproducing. Keeps us from thinking we have the right to have a family.”

“Lots of rules against it?” Zevran asked. “That’s just not right.”

“Well, rules are made to be broken,” Daylen said firmly. “And broken they were. Repeatedly.”

“I thought it was traditions that were made to be broken,” Alistair replied. “Or was it records?”

“He made that same argument about maidenheads a few days ago,” Leliana said.

“Lots of things were made to be broken,” Daylen said, lobbing a conjured lump of stone across the room and shattering a statue. “Like that statue. Maker, but I hated that thing. Just ugly architecture.”

“Daylen,” Alistair said quietly.

“I’m fine,” Daylen cut him off. “One of the first things the smart mages learn at the Circle is how to manage your emotions. Rage, desire, pride, fear, all can attract demons. Leaving them uncontrolled is a good way to get possessed.”

Cupcake growled, and Daylen wrinkled his nose at the stench of blood and raw mana. “Careful. Something ahead.” Poking his head around the corner, he growled quietly and drew back. “Morrigan, with me. Abominations.”

The two mages crept into the room, spreading out and gesturing to each other at which abominations they were aiming for. Two resounding crashes shook the walls as their spells manifested, and multiple bodies dropped to the floor like puppets with cut strings as the abominations died.

“My word,” Wynne said. “What magic is this?”

“A gift from the Dalish,” Daylen replied, downing a lyrium potion and feeling his gorge rising as he recognized the face on one of the abominations. “Brenden. He was always so strong, how did he get possessed…”

“Did you actually sleep with everyone around here?” Alistair asked quietly.

“Not really.” Daylen recognized and welcomed the distraction. “No Templars, obviously. Of the mages…I didn’t keep count, maybe a third?” Alistair choked on air in surprise, coughing into a fist. “Some weren’t into men, or too old or too young. Some just weren’t into me. A few, I never had the opportunity.”

—ROTG—

In the 83rd year of the Glory Age, one of the mages of the Nevarran Circle was found practicing forbidden magic. The Templars executed him swiftly, but this brewed discontent among the Nevarra Circle. The mages mounted several magical attacks against the Templars, vengeance for the executed mage, but the knight-commander was unable to track down which were responsible.

Three months later, the mages summoned a demon and turned it loose against their Templar watchers. Demons, however, are not easily controlled. After killing the first wave of Templars who tried to contain it, the demon took possession of one of its summoners. The resulting abomination slaughtered Templars and mages both before escaping into the countryside.

The grand cleric sent a legion of Templars to hunt the fugitive. They killed the abomination a year later, but by that time it had slain 70 people.

Divine Galatea, responding to the catastrophe in Nevarra and hoping to prevent further incidents, granted all the grand clerics of the Chantry the power to purge a Circle entirely if they rule it irredeemable. This Right of Annulment has been performed 17 times in the last 700 years.

—From Of Fires, Circles, and Templars: A History of Magic in the Chantry, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

Chapter Text

“We arrived in the dead of night. We had been tracking the maleficar for days, and finally had him cornered... or so we thought.

As we approached, a home on the edge of the town exploded, sending splinters of wood and fist-sized chunks of rocks into our ranks. We had but moments to regroup before fire rained from the sky, the sounds of destruction wrapped in a hideous laughter from the center of the village.

There, perched atop the spire of the village chantry, stood the mage. But he was human no longer.

We shouted prayers to the Maker and deflected what magic we could, but as we fought, the creature fought harder. I saw my comrades fall, burned by the flaming sky or crushed by debris. The monstrous creature, looking as if a demon were wearing a man like a twisted suit of skin, spotted me and grinned. We had forced it to this, I realized; the mage had made this pact, given himself over to the demon to survive our assault.”

—Transcribed from a tale told by a former templar in Cumberland, 8:84 Blessed.

It is known that mages are able to walk the Fade while completely aware of their surroundings, unlike most others who may only enter the realm as dreamers and leave it scarcely aware of their experience. Demons are drawn to mages, though whether it is because of this awareness or simply by virtue of their magical power in our world is unknown.

Regardless of the reason, a demon always attempts to possess a mage when it encounters one—by force or by making some kind of deal depending on the strength of the mage. Should the demon get the upper hand, the result is an unholy union known as an abomination. Abominations have been responsible for some of the worst cataclysms in history, and the notion that some mage in a remote tower could turn into such a creature unbeknownst to any was the driving force behind the creation of the Circle of Magi.

Thankfully, abominations are rare. The Circle has methods for weeding out those who are too at risk for demonic possession, and scant few mages would give up their free will to submit to such a bond with a demon. But once an abomination is created, it will do its best to create more. Considering that entire squads of Templars have been known to fall at the hands of a single abomination, it is not surprising that the Chantry takes the business of the Circle of Magi very seriously indeed.

—ROTG—

More abominations and another Rage demon died as they progressed through the library and up the stairs, emerging in the senior mage quarters.

“Be wary,” Zevran said quietly. “I do not think we are alone here.”

“What are all these statues?” Sten asked. “Your mages have an unhealthy fascination for women with bowls.”

“Please, refrain from going into the stockroom,” the party heard as a man stepped out from amongst the wrecked shelves. “It is a mess, and I have not been able to get it into a state fit to be seen.”

Daylen stared at the man, dumbfounded. “Owain?”

The man replied in his usual toneless fashion. “Yes. It is I, Owain. You remember. I was trying to tidy up, but there was little I could do.”

Daylen was still staring at the man with his mouth open. “You’re cleaning. The stockroom. At a time like this.”

“The stockroom is my responsibility. I must keep it clean. I tried to leave, when things got quiet. That was when I encountered the barrier. Finding no other way out, I returned to work.”

“Nothing but demons and abominations, Wynne?” Daylen snapped. “How many others died because you cut off their escape?”

“Owain, you should have said something!” Wynne said. “I would have opened the door for you.”

“The stockroom is familiar. I prefer to be here.”

Daylen sighed, realizing the futility of arguing with a Tranquil. “Well, I’m glad you’re all right, Owain.”

“I would prefer not to die. I would prefer it if the tower returned to the way it was. Perhaps Niall will succeed and save us all.”

“Niall?” Daylen echoed. “He’s alive too?”

“Who’s this Niall?” Alistair asked.

“A good man,” Daylen replied. “A few years ahead of me, almost always at the top of his class. Good man. Good mage. If he’s still alive, we could use his help. Owain, what’s Niall trying to do?”

“I do not know, but he came here with several others, and took the Litany of Adralla.”

Daylen cursed, and Wynne broke in, wide-eyed. “But that protects from mind domination. Is blood magic at work here?”

“I do not know,” Owain replied.

“Niall was in the meeting Uldred called when he tried to take over,” Wynne said. “He would know. Blood magic. I was afraid of this.”

Daylen nodded. “We should find Niall. The Litany will give us a fighting chance against any blood mages we encounter.” Turning to the Tranquil stockroom keeper, he continued. “Owain, the path behind us is clear, but I can’t say the same for this floor. Strongly suggest you head downstairs. Petra and Kinnon will look after you. We’re going after Uldred.”

The Tranquil nodded. “I wish you luck. Perhaps this will be over soon and things will return to the way they were. Goodbye.”

“Bit slow, is he?” Zevran asked as they walked away.

“Owain has been made Tranquil,” Daylen said. “They’re all like that.”

Leliana looked over. “Tranquil? What do you mean?”

Daylen sighed. “It’s how they handle troublesome mages. Don’t look at me like that, Wynne, you know it’s true. If they think a mage can’t resist possession, they brand your forehead with lyrium, which cuts off your connection to the Fade – and your magic with it. It also removes all your emotions. Fear, pride, desire…it just about destroys your personality. Of course, I’ve since found out that the Harrowing is specifically meant to test your resistance against possession, and if you fail, they kill you. So the Rite of Tranquility is used as a disciplinary tool. Most mages fear it more than death.”

“Wonderful,” Alistair said dryly. “The more I hear about this the less I like it.”

“Nothing like seeing an empty shell walking around that used to be someone you knew,” Daylen said bitterly. He sighted a trio of mages up ahead and his face brightened. “Thank the Maker, someone else is alive!” He spotted the blood flowing from one mage’s wrists and stopped short. “So that’s how it is.”

The blood mages raised their hands, but Daylen’s staff was already coming down, and the blood mages screamed as their mana was turned against them. Two died instantly, and one collapsed, blood bubbling from her mouth. “Before you die, I need information,” Daylen spat, grabbing the dying woman by the collar. “What started this? Why did Uldred do this?”

“Don’t you remember what it was like living here? The Templars watching…always watching,” she gurgled.

Daylen shook her, the back of her head slamming against the stone floor. “Answer me! Why? What’s Uldred’s goal?”

“Uldred told us the Circle would support Loghain, he’d help us be free of the Chantry…” She coughed and went still, blood leaking down her chin. Daylen unceremoniously dropped the corpse, patting down their pockets.

“You loot the dead?” Wynne asked.

“Much easier to check their pockets,” Daylen replied gruffly. “If I didn’t, we’d never had made it up the Tower of Ishal. The money I made from theft and looting bought the elfroot extracts that kept us going.” Pocketing some coin, he stood, wiping the blood from his hands. “Let’s go. Stay alert, there’s not been nearly enough bodies.”

More abominations and a cluster of animated corpses fell as they went from room to room, scouring the tower clean of demonic influences and looting what little they could. Daylen was gently closing the eyes on another dead mage when he heard Zevran hiss his name, gesturing at a wardrobe.

“Someone in there?” Daylen asked.

Zevran nodded silently, and a moment later a hesitant voice came from the wardrobe. “N-no?”

“Well, I’m convinced,” Zevran said dryly.

“It’s safe,” Daylen called, trying to remember who’s voice he was hearing. “Well, mostly. You can come out.”

“Are the demons gone? Is it safe? I don’t want to die.”

“They’re gone. Well, they’re here, but they’re a little dead. So it’s safe.” The wardrobe door opened, and a mage stepped out, stretching out kinked muscles. Daylen recognized the man. He was one of those people you remembered – red hair, a thin nose and chin, and a generally weasel-like demeanor. “Godwin! You’re alive! Are you hurt?”

Godwin shook his head. “I have a crick in my back and my bum’s gone numb, but no-oh holy Maker, these demons didn’t know what hit them, did they?” He looked down at the mess that Daylen was standing in, and Daylen shrugged, scraping the underside of his boot on one of the bodies. “Impressive.”

Recognizing that Godwin was more in shock than truly impressed by Daylen’s handiwork, he reached out, setting a hand on Godwin’s shoulder. “Take it easy. You’re…well, not safe, but not in danger at the moment. You can stay here and hide, or head downstairs. The Templars have barred the door, but there’s other survivors down there.”

“I’m just going to stay here and see what happens,” Godwin replied. “For now, I imagine you have other things to do.” He began clambering back inside the closet, poking his head out momentarily to speak. “May we meet again, in happier, less life-threatening times.” The door shut, and Daylen shrugged and gestured to his companions.

More blood mages were in the next room and abominations battering on the door to the storerooms. “Might be survivors down in the caves, but this door’s barricaded,” Daylen said once the abominations were dead. “And if I remember correctly, the door’s warded against magic. Short of luring a dragon in here, the only way we’re going to get through is to get whoever’s on the other side to open it.”

Leliana was scanning the room. “Do we have time to do that?”

Daylen banged on the door, hollering into the thick metal. “If anyone’s alive in there, we’ve killed the abominations and blood mages on this side. It’s not safe yet, so stay put if you can!”

Zevran tapped him on the arm. “We’re on an upper floor. How does that lead underground?”

“There’s a stairwell down, inside the exterior wall of the tower. There used to be sort of a protected dock down there, where visitors and new arrivals would land. They sealed it off a couple decades back, mostly use it as storerooms now. There could be dozens down there. We can only hope some made it in.”

The next room in the senior mage quarters had suffered a great deal of damage, with relatively fresh corpses scattered about and many statues knocked over. “Check the bodies, see if anyone can be saved,” Daylen ordered, eyeing one of the statues. “Wonder who went out of their way to mess up a statue of Andraste.” A glint of light caught his eye, and Daylen examined the base of the statue more closely. A phylactery had been hidden in a tiny recess in the stone, completely sealed away from the outside world.

“Another phylactery?” Alistair said, walking over with a looted amulet in his hand. “How’d it get there?”

“Beats me,” Daylen replied with a shrug. “But I’m guessing that Greagoir won’t accept the Circle as ‘safe’ if there’s a revenant still here.” A few moments later, the shadows in the glass boiled free, and Daylen readied another Mana Clash as the revenant manifested.

A resounding crash sounded, and the revenant turned, apparently confused by the noise but unaffected by the spell. “Oh, balls,” Daylen hissed as the revenant cast a spell, Leliana sailing through the air as the magic took effect. Fumbling, he cast again, a blast of frost stopping the revenant’s sword inches from Leliana’s head.

Alistair barreled forward, yanking the dazed rogue away from the revenant as Sten set to chopping away at the revenant’s front, Zevran’s daggers finding their way into the creature’s undefended back. The ice began to thaw as Daylen checked Leliana over, only for Wynne to refresh it, followed by Morrigan. The revenant collapsed to the ground, and Daylen healed the bruise on Leliana’s head and gagged down another lyrium potion before they continued.

“This is Irving’s office,” Wynne said quietly as they entered the room. “I half-expected to find him here, but…I suppose that’s too much to hope for.”

“I’m not that lucky,” Daylen sighed, scraping his tongue against his teeth. “Onward and upward, then. Alistair, take Wynne and Leliana, and scout ahead.”

“Such a number of books,” Sten said quietly as the others left. “How many are not decorations?”

“Most of them, actually,” Daylen replied as Zevran’s picks opened a chest. “Some of these Irving either wrote himself or was involved in the research. Spread out, see if there’s anything valuable.”

A few minutes of busy looting later, Daylen found a leatherbound book in Irving’s desk. Daylen sat down, opening the book. “It’s his journal.”

“The First Enchanter keeps a journal?”

“Most mages do,” Daylen said, fishing his own out of his satchel and holding it up for a moment. “Found the most recent entry, maybe it’ll shed some light on how things got this bad.” He cleared his throat and read aloud. “I followed another apprentice through supposed secret maneuvers today, and exposed her tendency towards blood magic. The environment of the tower is such that certain modes of thought are encouraged, both for good and ill. The students think we toy with them. The truth is far more intricate and directed. Deviant traits must be exposed early, or the whole of the Circle suffers.”

“How quaint,” Morrigan sneered.

“Deviant traits,” Daylen said. “Stupid bastards.”

“They spy on their own to keep them in line.”

“And this disaster means that they aren’t even good at that,” Daylen replied. “And there’s more. Uldred has been very helpful in identifying the markers to look for. His skills at misdirection are admirable. I daresay that the apprentices would be shocked at his ability to manipulate them. I must organize a retreat such that the other enchanters can benefit from his skills.” Daylen shut the journal. “Who manipulated who, I wonder. Thought the First Enchanter was smarter than that. Clearly, Uldred tossed a blood mage to the wolves every now and again to divert suspicion from the rest.” Dropping the book on the table, Daylen stood and made for the door.

He paused in the next office, glancing around quietly and quickly searching through the half-wrecked desk. Pocketing a sheaf of papers, he hurried after the others, finding them waiting at the top of the stairs to the third floor, and Daylen looked around what was left of the Great Hall. “This used to be a warm, relatively happy place.”

Zevran looked around. “I suspect this is where the mess started, judging from the bodies.”

“Headless women with shields,” Sten commented, inspecting one of the statues. “Much better than the bowls.”

Moving through the hall brought some of the less-dead corpses to their feet, only for the group to quickly finish them off. A horror not unlike the one they found in the ruins in the Brecelian Forest had nearly charged a massive burst of lightning when Daylen’s spell killed it. A Desire demon had enthralled several Templars, and thankfully Daylen managed to drop another blizzard on them before they called down Holy Smites. Morrigan and Wynne lobbed bursts of lightning and conjured stone into the fray, and Zevran followed up with a pair of shock grenades.

“That could have been bad,” Daylen said, chugging another lyrium potion. “If those Templars had gotten off their Smites, we’d have been in a bad way.” He gestured at the ice-encrusted bodies. “See if there’s anything to salvage.”

Room by room, the party fought through the tower, clearing out the third floor with only minor injuries.

“We’re making good progress,” Wynne said, stretching out a bruised shoulder. Daylen nodded in response, clearing his throat and spitting. It came out blue.

“How much of the tower is left?” Leliana asked.

“Two floors at least,” Daylen said. “Not counting the storage caves and the basement, but I’m guessing the basement was clear?” Wynne nodded. “Above us are the Templar quarters and the Harrowing chamber itself. The stairs through that door,” he pointed down the hall, “will take us up there. With my luck, Uldred and Irving will be up at the top of the tower, in the Harrowing chamber.”

A particularly tough abomination and a handful of reanimated corpses were standing between them and the stairs, and Daylen fought the urge to retch as he saw multiple fleshy, pulsating sacks of what looked like melted skin lying around. “What is this stuff?” Alistair asked.

“I don’t want to know,” Daylen said quietly, trying not to look too closely at the stuff. If he recognized someone he knew in the masses of flesh, that might be the end of him. “Some sort of corruption. Demon-based, from the smell. Let’s just get out of here.”

The next floor held more of the same – enthralled Templars, the odd desire demon, and a blood mage that fell before the party’s superior numbers without much trouble.

“Past this next hall is the stairs to the Harrowing chamber,” Daylen said softly, listening at the door. The Warden looked around at the rest of his party. “Uldred will probably be a sort of abomination by now, if he wasn’t already. There will likely be several lesser abominations like the ones we encountered before as well. Uldred was a tosser to start with, and his mood certainly hadn’t improved at Ostagar, so he’ll probably start ranting at us. Just be ready to kill him and all the abominations in that room. Everyone ready?” The group pushed through to the next chamber.

—ROTG—

The fire blazed to life, uncontrolled and off target.

“No!” Irving scolded. “Daylen, you have power, you have skill, but you must learn discipline and control!”

“I’m trying, old man!” A Senior Enchanter nearby glanced over from the apprentice she was tutoring with a disapproving look.

Irving stood straighter, authority and power radiating from him. “Mind yourself, boy. You must learn to manage your emotions. Control them, do not let them control you. Use them as fuel, not a guiding force. Channel it into your magic. You are the master of your spells, not your emotions. Now, light the fire.”

Daylen felt the frustration and anger pulsing inside him and inhaled deeply, trying to focus it. He felt the emotions subside as he assumed control, and wove the magic, unleashing the spell.

A fire blazed to life in front of him, perfectly controlled and perfectly targeted.

“Well done, child,” Irving said proudly. “Well done indeed.”

“Thank you, First Enchanter. I’ll get better, sir. I’ll need the skill to fight the darkspawn.” Daylen tilted his head. “Wait, what? I'm not going to be fighting...darkspawn…” He shook his head, feeling flashes of memory coming back. “Wait…”

“Nonsense, child,” Irving patted his shoulder, and for a moment the thoughts faded away. “I'll see you as a Senior Enchanter one day. Maybe even a First Enchanter.”

“I hope so, sir,” Daylen said. “I wonder where Alistair and the others are, though.” His face clouded, and he felt an itch beginning behind his forehead.

“Who?” Irving asked. “Never mind. You must maintain your focus, Daylen.”

“Wait,” Daylen said hesitantly, more memories coming back. Golden eyes. “I…what? Where's Morrigan? And Alistair? And Leliana and the others?”

“You must maintain your focus!” Irving snapped. “Again!”

Golden eyes. Daylen took a step back. “What is this?” Irving remained silent, and Daylen's eyes narrowed. “You aren’t the First Enchanter.” He flared his magic, feeling the Fade ripple around him. “Smart to use an illusion, but it won’t work. You can let me out, or I can make you.”

“You ungrateful child!” It spat, the voice echoing. “You couldn’t just accept the dream, could you?” 'Irving' spun the staff it carried, but Daylen was faster on the attack, jabbing his own staff forward and sinking it into the demon’s gut. The demon reacted as expected to the blow, doubling over, before it looked up with a twisted grin, still wearing Irving’s face. Daylen tilted his head, before letting lightning flow from the staff directly into the demon’s body. The demon screeched, and Daylen spun his staff, bringing the head back and the butt of the weapon down on the demon’s skull, knocking it to the ground.

Daylen ducked a gout of frost from the nearby Senior Enchanter, bringing up a shield of arcane energy before planting his boot on the neck of the demon impersonating Irving and incinerating its head with a blast of arcane energy. The body thrashed violently before going still, and Daylen cast again as he turned on his heel, bringing his staff to bear on the other two demons and locking them in place with a sustained burst of frost. A final blast of lightning sent them both dissolving into the raw Fade with an echoing screech.

Closing his eyes, Daylen felt the illusion around him fraying and swept his staff around angrily, shredding the fragile magic. Flashes of an abomination’s face flitted through his memory, along with an overwhelming fatigue that seemed to lock his limbs in place.

“Really hope there’s not some abomination chewing on my leg right now,” he muttered as the world blurred around him, resolving into a more familiar view of the Fade. “Wonderful.”

“Got trapped too, I see,” Daylen looked over, spotting a mage slumped against a tree. “Sorry about that.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Daylen said, drawing his staff. “I didn’t fall for this during my Harrowing and I’m not falling for this now!”

“I beg your pardon?” the mage looked up, and Daylen faltered. “Wait, I know you.”

“Niall?” Daylen crouched. “Maker, it’s good to see you.”

“Daylen? Daylen Amell? The apprentice who left with that Grey Warden?”

Daylen frowned. “Hey, I was Harrowed before I was recruited. And I’m a Warden myself, now.”

“Lucky you,” Niall said bitterly. “Shame you’ll never make it out of here. There is no way out. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“What, so you just quit?”

“I tried,” Niall repeated. “There’s no way out. It just loops back on itself.”

“This place is prison, sure. But prisons have locks. Locks can be opened. I could use some information.”

Niall looked up at him. “Fine. This place, it’s laid out like a spider’s web. But not all the paths are open, and the ones that are don’t lead anywhere. It’s all our minds together, everyone the demon has caught. It’s a sloth demon, I think.”

“Sounds about right. So the pedestal can move me around this demon’s realm?”

“To a point, yes.”

“Right. Well, time to go punch evil in the face.”

—ROTG—

The rack tightened, and Zevran’s joints creaked. “I think I saw him flinch that time,” one of the Crow torturers said.

“Maybe,” the other allowed. “We’ll make you scream yet, apprentice.”

“We’re not going to go easy on you, trust me,” the first agreed.

Zevran groaned. “No, I wouldn’t want you to hold back. I’d be disappointed if you did.”

“This one has spirit,” the first torturer said with a twisted smile. “It’s a shame we have to break him.”

A cold voice came from the corner. “I’m going to beat you so badly the Maker won’t be able to recognize you.” Daylen burst forward, the first torturer’s skull caving in under a crushing blow from the head of his staff. The other managed to score a deep gash along Daylen’s arm before the Warden jammed the head of his staff into the demon’s gut, channeling lightning directly into its body. Both corpses vanished, and Daylen forced open the bindings before he gently helped Zevran to his feet.

“What…” Zevran winced as his body protested. “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here.”

“This is a dream,” Daylen said, healing the gash on his arm with barely a thought, before glancing at his arm in surprise. “An illusion, made by demons to trap you.”

“But the Crows…this is my test. I need to show them I can tolerate pain.”

“Except you’re already a Crow. That’s how we met, Zevran. You tried to assassinate me, and I recruited you.” His eyes brightened, and Daylen nodded. “You remember?”

“I remember charming you into taking me along, yes,” Zevran said. The landscape wavered around them. “What’s happening? Where are you going?”

—ROTG—

Zevran’s nightmare dissolving spat him into another segment of the Fade, still bound within the Sloth demon’s realm. Daylen crouched slightly, listening for any signs of life, spirit or otherwise.

He didn’t have to wait long. “Oh, hello there,” a voice said from behind him. Daylen spun, reaching for his staff. A wisp bounced backward a few steps, before resolving into a humanoid if featureless form. “I’m sorry!”

“Who are you?” Daylen challenged, feeling his mana surging in response to the newcomer. “What do you want?”

“Can you see me?” The figure asked. “I’m a spirit. I was drawn here by your pain.”

“Not hunger,” Daylen mused. “Not rage, or sloth. What are you?”

“I am Compassion,” the spirit replied warmly. “You are…odd. It is strange to see glimpses of your world, and frightening. There is much pain there.”

Daylen nodded. “There is.”

“And here,” the spirit said quietly. “You just wanted to help. The darkness is pushed back, the flesh of his arm closes, and I get tied to a post. You’re not my son. You’re a monster.”

Daylen took a step back, his face going pale. “How do you know that.”

“I hear things,” The spirit said. “I feel them as people feel them. I want to help. Heal the helpless. Give hope where there is hurt. And I have seen you before.”

“You…” Daylen pointed at the spirit. “You were there, the first time.”

The spirit nodded. “I came to you, because of how much of me is in you. You want to heal, to help. I have to be better, have to be smarter, have to be stronger, or I will be a monster.”

Daylen looked away from the spirit. “Stop. Get out of my head.”

“You truly have compassion. You are a healer. A fighter, but no less a healer. I wish only to help.”

“Spirits don’t help mortals. What would you offer me?”

“Knowledge,” the spirit answered. “Help better, help more.” Daylen staggered as the spirit held out a hand, momentarily wondering whether he was about to be possessed as the spirit’s mind linked with his before he could muster a defense. It felt like a bucket of ice had been poured directly into his skull. “Don’t waste it,” the spirit said, speeding away as a wisp.

Thoughts and facts battered against Daylen’s consciousness, and he stumbled, leaning against a tree. Closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing, Daylen let the storm rage in his mind as he gathered his will. “This is someone else’s part of the Fade, but it’s my mind.” His voice vibrated in the Fade. “Stop!”

The mental hurricane halted in an instant, and Daylen opened his eyes, a smile spreading across his face despite the pounding in his head. “That’s right. Now, let’s see what we got here.”

Anatomy and theory whirled through his head, vaguely reminiscent of the sparse medical texts the Circle had. But where those texts had focused on human physiology, the knowledge dropped into his brain followed elves, dwarves, Qunari, and even a collection of animals as well.

“But what use is this if I can’t muster the power to heal with it without knocking myself out? And what the fuck is an appendix?” Shaking his head, Daylen turned a corner and stumbled over an uneven section of the path, leaning against what looked like a door that was standing alone on a forest path. Feeling a swirl of magic, Daylen looked up in panic, moments before the spirit door spat him out into a separate section of the Fade.

Morrigan groaned as the demon impersonating Flemeth continued her incessant chatter. “Away! Away with you! I shall have no more of your pestering!”

“I am your mother,” the demon said. “Do you not love me?”

She rolled her eyes. “You are as much my mother as my little finger, right here, is the queen of Ferelden! I know you, Fade spirit. You cannot fool me.”

The demon’s tone darkened. “Are you more clever than your own dear mother? Surely such pride must be punished!” Morrigan stumbled back as the demon’s slap connected. “There! That is for not showing respect!”

“That is more like it,” Morrigan spat as Daylen stumbled backwards out of what appeared to be a solid wall. “But it is too little, too late, spirit.”

Daylen nodded at her. “Family squabble?”

“Ah, ‘tis you at last! Come and rid me of this vexatious spirit! I weary of being prodded!”

“Not a good impression of your mother, then?”

“She doesn’t even acknowledge her own mother!” The demon cried. “My heart, it breaks!”

That was when Morrigan’s patience completely ran out. “Even the true Flemeth was never as annoying as this!” Two bursts of magic later, the fake Flemeth vanished.

“Look, I think we need to talk,” Daylen said. “While we’re here, beyond any prying ears.”

“Speak, then.”

“I was trapped in a nightmare too,” Daylen said. “And I think it was thoughts of you that pulled me out. There are several demons that guarded the path to the Sloth demon that got us. I’ve gotten a couple of them so far, and your shapeshifting lessons helped a great deal with that, but I’ll explain later. If we get…oh, not again!” The scenery dissolved again as the nightmare began to break down.

—ROTG—

“Shanedan,” Sten said as Daylen shot out of a solid hill, landing on his face with all the grace of a sack of potatoes tossed from a fourth-story window. The Qunari looked back to his two companions, or rather the demons he knew to be impersonating them. The two fake Qunari were sitting around their campfire, a handful of traps in disguised locations around their campsite.

“Ow,” Daylen croaked, spitting out a mouthful of dirt, blood, and a loose tooth. “Maker, that hurts.”

“Who are you talking to?” one of the other Qunari asked.

“Don’t bother the Sten,” the other said. “Isn’t it your turn to cook?”

“Cook what, Ashaad?” The first sighed. “There’s no food in this miserable, frozen country.”

“Pashaara!” Sten snapped. “We have a guest. Make room at the fire.”

“We don’t have time for this, Sten,” Daylen said, healing the wound in his mouth. “What’s going on here, anyway?”

“Dinner, obviously,” Sten replied. “Although I don’t recommend you eat anything the Karashok cooks.”

“Unless you enjoy spending time in the latrine,” the Ashaad replied.

“Then why don’t you cook, kadan?” the Karashok shot back.

“Not my turn,” the other Qunari said flatly.

“Perhaps my memory is failing,” Sten growled. “I would swear I’ve already told you both to shut up.”

“My apologies,” the Karashok said sincerely.

“You realize none of this is real, I hope,” Daylen said gently.

“This is a dream,” Sten sighed. “I’m not a fool, Warden. I remember seeing the Karashok there have his head torn off.”

The Ashaad shrugged. “Well, at least it’s not a great loss.”

“You are so entertaining, kadan, you should perform in the square with the other trained monkeys. We could throw you peanuts.”

“It’s a dream,” Sten said softly. “But it’s a good dream.”

“Really? You’re just sitting here in the cage? Again? You’re supposed to be practical.”

“Yes. And what has that accomplished?” Sten’s face twisted. “Death, dishonor, exile. There is nothing left to fight for.”

“Nothing left to fight for?” Daylen asked, coming to his feet. “Are you mad, Sten? You came here to learn what the Blight is. Look at me!” At the command in his voice, Sten finally met his eyes. “So this is the vaunted Qunari discipline? The inner strength that you claim guides your people? You turn away, for this? You coward!”

Sten stood, coming to his full height and staring Daylen in the eye. “How dare you?”

“I dare because I refuse to give up like you have! This is my mission, Sten. This is my purpose. I will stop the Blight, with or without you. And if this is the best the Qunari can do, I’m probably better off without.”

Sten glared at him. “You are arrogant, Warden.”

“Yes, I am,” Daylen said bluntly. “That’s pride, born of confidence in my abilities and knowing I’m where I’m supposed to be. Now stop wasting my time. Give up, stay here with the demons and die, or stand with me and live. Choose your path, Sten.”

“You can’t abandon your post,” the Karashok said, standing up.

“Stand aside,” Sten ordered. “I would hate to see you all die again.”

“No!” The Karashok said, as the Ashaad drew his sword. “We won’t let you leave us again!” The Qunari staggered as a lump of conjured stone ricocheted off his breastplate, and Daylen winced, following up with a sustained burst of flame, trying to cook the Qunari in his armor. Sten was busily parrying the Ashaad’s blows as the Karashok bulled forward, knocking Daylen flat on his back. The Qunari’s sword was coming down towards Daylen’s skull when Sten’s sword sprouted from the middle of his chest, and the Qunari collapsed as Daylen rolled out of the way, a blast of lightning ending the wounded Ashaad.

“And yet, this gives me no peace,” Sten said, looking at the corpses.

“It wouldn’t. People like us, I don’t think we’re meant for peace.”

“I wish to leave this place.”

“Wait for it,” Daylen replied, nodding as the scenery began to bleed together.

Sten gave an audible cry of frustration. “What is this? More trickery?”

—ROTG—

“Hey, it’s great to see you again!” Alistair said as a battered and bloody Daylen hit the dirt in front of him.

“I have got to get the hang of this at some point,” Daylen muttered, brushing himself off as he stood and spitting out a glob of blood from a bitten tongue.

Alistair beamed at him. “I was just thinking about you! Isn’t that a marvelous coincidence?”

“Yes, just wonderful,” Daylen coughed, rubbing at a bruised rib. “Who’s the woman?”

“That’s my sister, Goldanna,” Alistair replied brightly. “These are her children, and there’s more about somewhere. We’re one big happy family, at long last!”

“You have a sister?” Daylen asked, before shaking his head. “No matter. Alistair, we need to go. This is an illusion.”

“Nonsense! This is a wonderful life,” Alistair replied. “I don’t…I don’t want to spend my life fighting, only to end up dead in a pit along with rotting darkspawn corpses.”

Daylen blinked at him. “So you don’t want to make a difference? Didn’t you tell me that was what you wanted? Didn’t you tell me that was why Duncan recruited you?” Alistair blanched, and Daylen pressed forward. “You think Duncan brought you into the Wardens so you could sit here in a demon’s illusion?”

“I…what?” Alistair closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to focus. “But…what?”

“Think about how we got here,” Daylen instructed. “We were fighting our way through the Circle. How could we have gotten from there to here and not remember it?”

Alistair’s eyes snapped open, his face twisting in anger. “Demon’s got my mind, doesn’t it.”

“Good man,” Daylen said. “Now let’s get out of here.”

“No!” The demon playing Goldanna howled. “He is ours, and I’d rather see him dead than free!”

“Well, that’s siblings for you,” Daylen said, before Alistair rounded on her and knocked the demon flat with a single blow. Drawing his sword, Alistair ended the demon before it could rise, and Daylen hosed down the minor demons that surged towards them with a long blast of frost, before arcing lightning into the mess to finish them off.

“Try not to tell everyone how easily fooled I was,” Alistair said with an uncomfortable smile.

“Our little secret,” Daylen promised. “You saw what you wanted to see. The Fade can be tricky like that. They’re controlling most of what you perceive.”

“Well, then, I…” their surroundings began to fade, and Alistair spun around. “What’s happening?”

“Just go with it,” Daylen said. “Hope this works…”

—ROTG—

Leliana ran through the next verse of the Chant of Light, the Revered Mother at her side. She was halfway through when a man in dirty clothes went sailing over a pew and tumbled to a halt in front of her, wheezing in pain. “Who are you?” she asked, as the man coughed, clutching his ribs.

The Revered Mother intervened, stepping between Leliana and the newcomer. “I beg you, do not disturb the girl’s meditations.”

“Sorry, have to,” the man wheezed, clambering to his feet and clearing his throat. “Not only are you a demon, but if I hear that wretched verse of the Chant one more time, I’m likely to start setting things on fire on principle.”

“Revered Mother, I do not know this person,” Leliana said softly.

“Well, that stings a little,” Daylen said. “Let me avoid the counterargument and just,” he grabbed the Revered Mother by the throat, channeling lightning into the demon’s head and ending it with minimal fuss. “Skip ahead a bit-hey, now!” he sidestepped a strike from Leliana’s dagger. “That was uncalled for!”

Leliana swung again, fury in her eyes. “Murderer!”

Daylen caught another strike, bracing his arm against hers to keep her from jamming the dagger into his chest. “Leliana, this isn’t real! You left the cloister, remember? Your vision!”

She paused momentarily. “My…my vision? How do you know about that?” She kicked him in the shins, and Daylen staggered back, the dagger sweeping in low towards his gut.

Daylen managed to catch her wrists just as the tip of the dagger ripped through the front of his tunic, a thin trickle of blood coming from his belly. “A rose blooming in darkness! It made you decide to join my fight against the Blight! You thought it was a sign from the Maker!” Daylen felt his strength wavering and continued talking desperately. “You believed that it was a sign that the Maker wanted you to help me, and I don’t have your faith in the Maker, but I believe in you, Leliana! I believe in you!”

The pressure on the dagger slackened, and Leliana’s eyes widened as she looked into his eyes. “Daylen?”

“Welcome back,” Daylen said with a smile, looking down at the blood staining his robes. “And just in time, at that!”

Leliana looked stricken as she realized what she had almost done. “I am so sorry! I didn’t know!”

“You couldn’t. We were put under a spell by a Sloth demon. I’ve unlocked most of the way to him – which was an adventure at that – but I had to come find you all.”

“Are the others all right?”

“So far? Yes. Some were easier than others to find, Cupcake was simply wandering. I think…” he growled in frustration as the world started to swirl together. “Never mind, I’ll tell you in a bit.”

—ROTG—

Daylen landed in a crouch this time, crowing victoriously at finally managing to translate through the Fade gracefully.

Until he noticed the corpses.

Lots of them.

Mostly children.

And standing amongst them, Wynne.

“Maker forgive me. I failed them all,” Wynne said bitterly. “They died, and I did not stop it.”

“No, they very well did not,” Daylen snapped. “Wynne, I expected better. You’re the only other Harrowed mage of our group, and you fall for this?”

“How can you say that, when you are faced with this?”

“Faced with a demon’s cheap illusions?” Daylen asked. “I’d say I’m sick and tired of being stuck here. Maker, you saw these mages alive and well mere hours ago! We were clearing the tower! Aren’t you a mage? Can’t you tell that this is the Fade?”

“The Fade?” Wynne looked startled. “I had not considered that. I always have had an affinity for the Fade. I assumed I would be able to tell…”

“Yes, well, we’re all slipping,” Daylen muttered sheepishly. “Come on, let’s get out of…” He started as the corpses began to rise, clearly not dead.

“Don’t leave us, Wynne,” one of the apprentices said, her head hanging at a grotesque angle. “We don’t want to be alone!”

“All right, that’s over the line,” Daylen spat. “Trying to manipulate her with the bodies of her students? Low, even for a demon!” The demon’s eyes turned black as it turned to him, and whatever it was going to say was cut off as Wynne broke its jaw with a conjured rock, before freezing it to death. Daylen hit another with a bolt of arcane energy that sizzled on impact, and Wynne cracked it across the skull with her staff, dropping it to the floor as Daylen incinerated the last one with a torrent of lightning.

“Lay about young upstarts with your staff, eh?” Daylen said with a laugh. “I thought you were joking about that!”

Wynne breathed deeply as the last of the bodies vanished. “Is it over?” Daylen nodded in response. “Thank the Maker for you.”

“Yes, yes. If I can bring you with me, we can work this out,” Daylen said. “There were five demons guarding the path to the Sloth demon that trapped us. Four are dead now, but the fifth is in a maze the likes of which I’ve never seen. Spirit doors, mouseholes…it doubles back so many times I couldn’t make sense of any of it. I need…” The world began to blur, and Daylen sighed. “See you in a bit, I hope.”

—ROTG—

Often portrayed as stoic and grim, the Order of Templars was created as the martial arm of the Chantry. Armed with the ability to dispel and resist magic in addition to their formidable combat talents, the Templars are uniquely qualified to act as both a foil for apostates—mages who refuse to submit to the authority of the Circle—and a first line of defense against the dark powers of blood mages and abominations.

While mages often resent the Templars as symbols of the Chantry's control over magic, the people of Thedas see them as saviors and holy warriors, champions of all that is good, armed with piety enough to protect the world from the ravages of foul magic. In reality, the Chantry's militant arm looks first for skilled warriors with unshakable faith in the Maker, with a flawless moral center as a secondary concern. Templars must carry out their duty with an emotional distance, and the Order of Templars prefers soldiers with religious fervor and absolute loyalty over paragons of virtue who might question orders when it comes time to make difficult choices.

The Templars' power derives from the substance lyrium, a mineral believed to be the raw element of creation. While mages use lyrium in their arcane spells and rituals, Templars ingest the primordial mineral to enhance their abilities to resist and dispel magic. Lyrium use is regulated by the Chantry, but some Templars suffer from lyrium addiction, the effects of which include paranoia, obsession, and dementia. Templars knowingly submit themselves to this “treatment” in the service of the Order and the Maker.

It is this sense of ruthless piety that most frightens mages when they draw the Templars' attention: When the Templars are sent to eliminate a possible blood mage, there is no reasoning with them, and if the Templars are prepared, the mage's magic is all but useless. Driven by their faith, the Templars are one of the most feared and respected forces in Thedas.

—From Patterns Within Form by Halden, First Enchanter of Starkhaven, 8:80 Blessed.

Chapter Text

Why do demons seek to possess the living?

History claims they are malevolent spirits, the first children of the Maker, angry at their creator for turning from them and jealous of those creations he considered superior. They stare across the Veil at the living and do not understand what they see, yet they know they crave it. They desire life, they pull the living across the Veil when they sleep and prey on their psyche with nightmares. Whenever they can, they cross the Veil into our world to possess it outright.

We know that any demon will seek to possess a mage, and upon doing so will create an abomination. Most of the world does not know, however, that the strength of an abomination depends entirely on the power of the demon that possesses the mage. This is true, in fact, of all possessed creatures. One demon is not the same as any other.

Demons can, for instance, be classified. Enchanter Brahm's categorization of demons into that portion of the psyche they primarily prey upon has held since the Tower Age.

According to Brahm, the weakest and most common of demons are those of rage. They are the least intelligent and most prone to violent outbursts against the living. They expend their energies quickly, the most powerful of them exhibiting great strength and occasionally the ability to generate fire.

Next are the demons of hunger. In a living host they become cannibals and vampires, and within the dead they feed upon the living. Theirs are the powers of draining, both of life force and of mana.

Next are the demons of sloth, the first on Brahm's scale that are capable of true intelligence. In its true form, this demon is known as a Shade, a thing which is nearly indistinct and invisible, for such is sloth's nature. It hides and stalks, unaware, and when confronted, it sows fatigue and apathy.

Demons of desire are amongst the most powerful, and are the ones most likely to seek out the living and actively trick them into a deal. These demons will exploit anything that can be coveted—wealth, power, lust—and they will always end up getting far more than they give. A desire demon's province is that of illusions and mind control.

Strongest of all demons are those of pride. These are the most feared creatures to loose upon the world: Masters of magic and in possession of vast intellect, they are the true schemers. It is they who seek most strongly to possess mages, and will bring other demons across the Veil in numbers to achieve their own ends—although what that might be has never been discovered. A greater pride demon, brought across the Veil, would threaten the entire world.

--"Demonic Possession," From The Maker's First Children, by Bader, Senior Enchanter of Ostwick, 8:12 Blessed.

—ROTG—

Daylen twisted as he sailed through the Fade, managing to land on his feet with barely a stumble. “I’ve found them all,” he said, crouching next to the sitting mage. “You’re sure your body will have been too drained to come back with us?”

Niall nodded. “I have been here for what feels like an eternity. Time seems to pass differently in the Fade, but I can feel myself weakening even here. It is too late for me. I think they were…feeding on me. Draining me.” Niall looked up at Daylen, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “Take the Litany of Adralla from my body. It will protect you from the worst of the blood magic.”

Daylen sighed. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t rescue us earlier.”

“I don’t fear what may come,” Niall said quietly. “They say we return to the Maker in death, and that isn’t such a terrible thing. My only regret is that I couldn’t save the Circle. But you…” Niall smiled. “You can. I know I was never meant to save the Circle, or survive its troubles – I’m dying, simple as that. But I believe you can finish this.”

“I couldn’t have done this much without assistance,” Daylen replied. “Your assistance. I’ll make sure your name is known, Niall.”

“I’m no hero. Perhaps trying to be one was foolish.”

Daylen set a hand on Niall’s shoulder. “That’s not true. The only thing that makes someone a hero is stepping up at the right place in the right time. We’re just ordinary people, but ordinary people can do great things when they have to, and you did what you felt you had to. You did a lot to save the Circle, Niall.”

Niall smiled faintly. “Dark times, greater acts of heroism, eh? You may be right. Before I was taken to the Circle, my mother said I was meant for greatness, that I would be more than my ancestors could have ever dreamed. I hope I haven’t disappointed her.”

“You didn’t, Niall,” Daylen said. “You gave us a fighting chance. Do you…do you want me to take a letter to her? A last message?”

He shook his head. “It is time for both of us to be on our way. Remember the Litany of Adralla. The Circle is all that matters now.” Daylen nodded, pulling the man into a rough hug before standing and starting to work the runic pedestal again. “Thank you and goodbye, my friend,” Niall said. “Good luck. May the Maker watch over your path.”

“Rest easy, Niall,” Daylen said with a final, respectful nod. “I’ll finish this.”

—ROTG—

Daylen plunged back into the realm of the last remaining demon that stood between him and Sloth. “Maybe now I can get through this blasted place without getting completely turned around.” Eighteen wrong turns and a full minute of bellowed profanity later, Daylen threw up his hands and perched on a desk. “Alright, I think I’m going about this wrong.” Picking a random door, Daylen felt himself flowing through the Fade.

He wasn’t sure how long it took, jumping through random doors, but Daylen spotted the final demon that stood in the way of freedom – a Desire demon. Then he cursed as she shapeshifted into a mouse, scurrying into a hole and out of sight. Jamming the tip of his staff into the hole, Daylen funneled a blast of flames into the hole, hearing a pained yelp before shifting into the mouse form he had picked up from another soul trapped in the Fade.

“You won’t find me so easy…” the Desire demon broke off as Daylen’s patience wore thin and he dropped a Mana Clash on her, ending her in a single blow.

“It’s time to end this.”

—ROTG—

The Sloth demon’s realm was surprisingly unremarkable. The other demons had built large and complex mazes, filled with lost souls and lesser demons, but Sloth resided in a single small island in the Fade, with nothing of note on the island but a runic pedestal and a large fog bank surrounding the place. Perhaps it was telling that a Sloth demon put so little work into its domain.

Then he spotted the demon. “That’s never going to heal if you don’t stop picking at it.”

Daylen thought the Sloth demon was ugly, but then it started talking. “What do we have here? A rebellious minion? An escaped slave?” The creature chuckled, an impressive feat considering it sounded like its jaw was riveted together and could barely bring itself to speak at all.

“Someone you caught in a trap, foolishly.”

“You couldn’t simply be happy? Enjoy your time and leave your burdens behind? Be what you were before?”

“That wasn’t happiness. It was just what was before. What I went through was miserable, but I grew past it. I’ve never had things simple or easy, and I wouldn’t want it that way. I’m a mage, and that’ll never change, but I’m a Grey Warden now, and there’s nothing that’ll stop me. Not you, not the Archdemon, not anyone.”

“I have traveled this plane for vast ages, and tasted the undiluted power of magic itself. The essence of the Fade is mine to mold as I see fit. By what right do you dare challenge me?”

Daylen yawned. “You can make this easy, or we can have this conversation again after I slap the daylights out of you.”

“My, my, but you do have some gall. But playtime is over. You all have to go back now.”

Daylen heard noise from behind him, and turned to see the rest of his companions stepping out of a bank of mist. “You made a dangerous enemy, demon, by toying with my mind,” Morrigan declared, pointing at Sloth. Lightning crackled along her fingertips.

“I am here,” Sten said, prowling angrily with his greatsword drawn. “And it is time to finish this. I have had enough of cages.”

“If you go back quietly, I'll do better this time. I'll make you much happier.”

“Not happening,” Daylen said. “I’m going to pop your eyeballs like grapes.”

“I made you happy and safe. I gave you peace. I did my best for you, and you say you want to leave? Can't you think about someone other than yourself? I'm hurt, so very, very hurt.”

“Not yet, you’re not!” Alistair growled.

“You wish to battle me? So be it. You will learn to bow to your betters, mortal.” A flash of light, and an ogre roared at them before it charged, only for Morrigan, Daylen, and Wynne to hit it with blasts of frost. Zevran, Sten, and Alistair set away to hacking at its limbs as Leliana sank arrow after arrow into its body, and after a few moments, the beast collapsed, only to burst into a new form – a rage demon. “Hatred! Burning! It feeds me!” More ice, and the amorphous form exploded again, an abomination uncurling from the remains. Morrigan snorted disdainfully, hitting it with a Mana Clash moments before Daylen did.

“I am your greatest nightmare!”

“You aren’t even close!” Daylen slammed a lump of conjured stone into the abomination’s gut, folding it in half. Alistair’s sword came in from the side, carving deep into the creature’s side as Leliana’s arrows caught it in the forehead. The abomination smacked Alistair aside, only for Sten’s sword to lop off its hand at the wrist. Demonic ichor spilled to the ground, and the beast roared in pain, loosing another shockwave that knocked the party off their feet and shifting form to that of a shade.

“I command the shadows of your darkest dreams!” Sloth declared, flinching as Sten cracked it in the skull with the pommel of his sword, before slamming the blade down into its body. Morrigan landed another Mana Clash, and the creature shrieked in pain, before unleashing a blast of mental energy that stunned the warriors. Daylen stumbled back, caught in the blast, and fell to the ground, his vision blurring.

An incendiary flask burst against the shade’s flank, and Zevran re-entered the battle, blades flashing as he countered the shade’s attacks. Sten shook off the mental assault first, his greatsword slamming down next to the shade as the demon dodged to one side, only for Daylen to stagger to his feet and tag it with a freezing spell. Focusing, he readied another Mana Clash, only for the spell to fizzle as the demon changed forms again after Alistair’s assault on its back proved effective.

The Sloth demon’s true form – resembling the horrors they had faced before – drew itself to its full height, and Daylen could feel power pulsing from it through the Fade. “No more games! Face me, and die!”

“You first,” Daylen hissed, staggering it with a Mana Clash. Wynne froze the demon with a sustained burst of cold, and Morrigan joined in with an equally powerful torrent of lightning. Daylen mustered the last of his ready mana and added a blast of his own frost to the mix, the volatile magic mixing together at the point of convergence. “Everyone back!” Daylen bellowed. Looking to Morrigan, he nodded, and the two mages dug deep, before dropping a simultaneous Mana Clash on the Sloth demon.

Daylen had expected a blast of released mana, or a final desperate curse, or even some cruel last words, but the Sloth demon simply collapsed, the Fade pulsing with the sheer amount of mana that had been released in such a short time.

“Now what?” Alistair asked, kicking the corpse. “How do we get out?”

“Give it a moment,” Daylen rasped, hearing the crackling noise as the constructed section of the Fade began to collapse in on itself.

Daylen’s eyes opened, and he scrubbed his face with the sleeve of his robes, feeling gummy residue smearing away. Sitting up, he spotted the others rousing themselves, coughing and groaning from various aches and pains as they awoke. He desperately wanted a drink of water, but stood and stumbled over to Niall’s corpse, pointedly kicking the Sloth demon’s body in the head on the way over.

“What are you looking for?” Alistair asked, standing and reclaiming his dropped sword. “And who was that?”

Fishing out what he was looking for, Daylen held it up. “This is the Litany of Adralla. This mage is – was – Niall. I met him in the Fade. The Sloth demon used him to build the Fade realm we were all in.” Daylen gently closed Niall’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Niall.” Scanning the text, he quickly committed it to memory, passing it around to his companions to do the same.

“All that’s left is the Harrowing Chamber,” Wynne said. “If Irving still lives, he will be there.”

“Not quite,” Daylen replied. “We need to make sure this floor is clear.”

It wasn’t.

“All right, I’ll admit I’ve been away from the tower for a bit,” Daylen grunted, trying to shift the corpse that was lying on his staff. “But when did they start keeping dragons here?”

“It’s a long story, one we do not have time for,” Wynne said softly.

Daylen nodded, still tugging on his lodged staff. “Go ahead, I’ll catch up.”

The others left, but Leliana lingered a moment. “Daylen…I…are you all right?”

Daylen braced his boot against the dragon’s corpse, finally tugging the staff free. Leaning on it, he turned to her, and Leliana spotted the tears in his eyes. “No. No, I’m really not. Almost everyone I knew is dead, or possessed, or just plain missing. That corruption you’ve seen spread around the tower? I’ve recognized faces in it.” His voice remained level, even as his face twisted in pain and anger. “Faces of people I knew and cared about. The only thing that’s keeping me from sitting down, curling up, and sobbing like a child until the Blight rolls over us is rage. I have never been more susceptible to possession than I am right now, but I haven’t heard so much as a single whisper from a demon. Perhaps they know better, perhaps they’re too scared.”

His voice dropped lower, growing cold. The archer spotted his knuckles turning white as his grip on his staff tightened, the wood creaking under his grip. “I am going to destroy Uldred. And then, after that, I may just kill Greagoir for letting things get this bad. He had a full contingent of Templars at his command, and they retreated in the face of a force we’ve wiped out in less than a day!”

Leliana stepped back in surprise at the venom in his voice. “Daylen…”

The Warden shook his head, the mask back in place. “Let’s go. Let’s just finish this.”

—ROTG—

“Oh, Maker, now what,” Daylen spat, pushing through the crowd of his companions and seeing Alistair bickering with a Templar confined inside a barrier, just ahead of the stairway up.

Then he saw the bodies. He made a momentary effort to count the ones he could – and gave up when he reached twenty, and began seeing more body parts than bodies. More of the corruption was spread across the walls and ceiling, the odd horrific squelching noise audible in the room.

That was the point Daylen threw up. Repeatedly. When nothing but bile was coming up, he dragged a sleeve across his mouth and stood, looking to the arguing warriors.

“Filthy blood mages,” the Templar said, more to himself than Alistair. “Getting in my head! I will not break. I’d rather die.”

“Nobody here is a blood mage-” Alistair sighed, only for Daylen to nudge him in the shoulder. Sighing, Alistair stood aside, letting Daylen speak to the confined Templar.

“You’re not going to die. Now snap out of it. I need information and I have no time for games.”

“Silence!” The Templar stood, glaring at Daylen. “I’ll not listen to anything you say. Now begone!”

“Watch your mouth,” Daylen growled.

“Still here?” he said, confused. “But that’s always worked before. I close my eyes, but you are still here when I open them.”

“Pretty dense, aren’t you, Cullen?” Daylen asked, finally recognizing the man through the blood, sweat, and crazed demeanor.

“Don’t blame me for being cautious,” Cullen said suspiciously, his head low. “The voices, the images, they’ve been so real.” The Templar finally looked at him closely, clearly recognizing him. “Why have you returned to the tower? How did you survive?”

“By not being completely fucking incompetent. I’ll be having words with your commanding officer after this. First I’m going to fry Uldred to a crisp.”

“Good,” Cullen agreed, looking up at Daylen from beneath lowered brows. “Kill Uldred. Kill them all for what they’ve done. They caged us like animals, looked for ways to break us. I’m the only one left.”

“Must be a surprise when the slaves fight back,” Daylen said. “Can’t agree with their methods, but what happened? Besides having the tables turned on you, I mean.”

“They turned some into monsters, and there was nothing I could do.”

Daylen grunted. “Uldred will pay for what he’s done.”

Cullen sneered. “And to think I once thought we were too hard on you.” Daylen glared at him. “Did a mage not start this? Isn’t one of you to blame? Only mages have that much power at their fingertips. Only mages are so susceptible to the infernal whisperings of the demons.”

“Were the Templars not supposed to watch for this exact situation?” Daylen shot back. “Aren’t all of you to blame? You want to blame all of us for Uldred’s actions, I’ll blame you for creating this situation, for Greagoir leaving innocents to die! Uldred did this so the Circle would be independent from Templar tyranny. Still going to kill the prick, but I can understand where he’s coming from! And as for only mages being susceptible to possession? I’ve killed at least a dozen possessed Templars today alone, so don’t start with me!” Daylen’s voice was echoing off the walls as he finished, and he clenched his fists, exhaling slowly. “Where are Irving and the others?”

“They are in the Harrowing Chamber,” Cullen replied. “The sounds coming out from there…oh, Maker.”

“We must hurry,” Wynne urged. “They are in grave danger, I am sure of it.”

“You can’t save them!” Cullen insisted. “You don’t know what they’ve become!”

“And you do?” Daylen challenged.

“They’ve been surrounded by…by blood mages whose wicked fingers snake into your mind and corrupt your thoughts!” Daylen looked around at the dozens of bodies around them and felt a momentary surge of pity for the Templar. Then the man kept talking. “You have to end it now, before it’s too late! To ensure this horror is ended, to guarantee that no abominations or blood mages live, you must kill everyone up there!”

Daylen’s face twisted. “You’re a demon too, aren’t you? Trying to trick me into killing them. I should have guessed. Some random recruit somehow survived when so many experienced Templars were killed, trying to get me to kill innocents.”

Cullen slammed a fist against the barrier. “You fool! You cannot tell maleficarum by sight. Just one could influence the mind of a king, of a grand cleric!”

“Lucky for Thedas, you don’t get to make that decision,” Daylen said flatly, downing a half-strength lyrium potion and coughing out a ragged breath. It was burning in his gut at this point. “I do. Now sit down and keep quiet.” Jerking his head at the others, Daylen led the party up the stairs.

It was hard not to think of the last time he had ascended the stairs, surrounded by silent Templars and unsure of whether he was going to his Harrowing or Tranquility before Irving spoke to him.

It was easy to spot Uldred. He still looked human, more or less, but his eyes held a wide, unblinking madness that Daylen was moderately sure had not been there at Ostagar. Then again, having that Revered Mother whining in his ear probably would have driven Daylen insane in Uldred’s position. A half-dozen abominations, their bodies twisted by the possession, were standing nearby, waiting for orders from Uldred.

“Ah, look what we have here,” Uldred sing-songed. “I remember you. Irving’s star pupil. Uldred didn’t think much of you then, and I certainly don’t see your appeal now.”

“Feeling’s mutual. I’m not terribly impressed with the new Uldred.”

“I suppose one can’t be loved universally,” Uldred sighed. “I’m quite impressed you’re still alive. Unfortunately, that must mean you killed my servants.”

Daylen nodded brightly, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes, every single one.” The others were quietly spreading out behind him, weapons ready.

Uldred shrugged. “Ah, well, they are probably better off dying in the service of their betters than living with the terrible responsibility of independence.”

“You’re next, assclown. And when I kick your sorry ass back into the Fade, tell your friends it was Daylen Amell who threw you back there.”

“Wait, wait, wait! Let’s not be hasty. I’m trying to have a civilized conversation here.”

Daylen glanced around the room, making careful note of the fact that Irving was still alive and by all appearances not possessed. So, he noted, were three other Senior Enchanters. All of them were injured, but being bound was a good sign they remained un-possessed. “You have only seconds to live. Talk quickly.”

“A mage is but the larval form of something greater. Your Chantry vilifies us, calls us abominations, when we have truly reached our full potential!”

Daylen rolled his eyes. “Even if I didn’t paint the walls with you, you’ll have about two hundred Templars coming in to kill everyone in here.”

“You are deeply mistaken, child,” Uldred sneered. “Your Chantry’s lies and leashes would have us fumbling in the darkness, unable to learn or advance. Embracing the unknown reveals truths and advancements you could never dream of wielding.”

“Don’t think I’d want to, if I’d wind up looking like you.”

“We have unleashed our true power with these demons, and–”

“Yes, yes, you’ve unlocked true power, you’re unstoppable, we’ll all bow before you or be crushed under your boot, I’ve heard all this before,” Daylen snapped. “Usually followed by screams, gurgling noises, and ‘Warden! Please stop killing me!’ and then more screaming.” He scratched his beard. “Typically a lot of screaming when I really cut loose.”

“Big talk,” Uldred sniffed. “But I could kill you any time I want."

Daylen spread his hands, the challenge clear. “Then what are you waiting for?”

“Why waste potential? Imagine the power you could wield!”

“With something like you living in my head? Not interested. You’re already annoying me.”

Uldred giggled. “Once you join with us, you will see just how freeing it is. Irving himself said as much as you, but he will see our point of view soon enough.”

Daylen's face hardened. “I don’t typically enjoy hurting people, but I’ve proven very good at it,” he said. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

He had a Mana Clash ready to cast as soon as he had finished speaking, but Uldred was faster. The possessed mage dropped a fireball on Daylen, sending him flying back, his robes smoldering and his hair and beard crinkling and crisping under the heat. Daylen coughed as he landed flat on his back and rolled onto his side, gasping as his throat ached. Shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears, he spotted Uldred as burns made themselves known across his face.

Or, rather, what he thought might have once been Uldred. Now, it was a Pride demon in its full glory, not unlike the massive beast that had masqueraded as Mouse during Daylen’s Harrowing. Vaguely humanoid, the creature was larger than an ogre, twisted horns working their way back from the top of its head and spiky protrusions erupting from its hide. Both arms bore wickedly curved spikes at the elbow, one side asymmetrically long. Far too many eyes glinted from the front of the beast’s head, a grotesque, warped muzzle that bore no resemblance to a human face.

And it was staring at Daylen, its teeth bared in what appeared to be a gleeful grin.

“Morrigan, hit the abominations!” Daylen barked, and the abominations dropped to the floor as the sharp bang rang out. His hands shaking, Daylen hit Uldred with a lightning bolt, ignoring the stench of his own burnt hair as he followed up and threw a fireball of his own back.

Uldred shrugged it off, and Daylen growled, pushing himself to his feet and pumping raw mana into the air around his body, feeling his magic surging and blood trickling from his nose. Focusing, he dropped a Mana Clash on Uldred, but the demon barely stumbled. Grabbing his dropped staff off the floor and fishing around in his satchel, Daylen pulled out a lyrium potion and chugged it as he cast. He could feel the enchantments on his staff responding to his magic, turning his torrent of lightning into a chaining stream.

The Pride demon barely seemed to care. And it was about to charge. The warriors were trying to get close, slashing and hacking – in Cupcake’s case biting – where they could, but the demon’s sweeping blows kept them at bay. Leliana’s arrows and the other mages’ spells peppered its hide, but were doing little effective damage.

Then Zevran appeared through the chaos, his blades flashing in the flickering light, and sank his sword deep into the back of the Pride demon’s knee. Zevran twisted his blade in the wound, demonic ichor spilling onto the floor of the Harrowing Chamber, and the beast bellowed in pain, twisting at the waist and kicking the elf across the room.

“Wynne!” Daylen shouted. “Get him back on his feet!” The demon fell to one knee, looking to the cluster of bound mages in the corner.

Then Uldred’s voice issued from the creature’s mouth. “Do you accept the gift that I offer?” Lightning crackled around one of the bound mages.

“The Litany!” Wynne shouted, her staff turning back towards Uldred as Zevran stood unsteadily, his more serious wounds closed. “Use it now!” A white burst of light erupted under Uldred, and the demon stopped moving – a paralyzing trap glyph from the Senior Enchanter.

Daylen was shouting the Litany even as he hit Uldred in the jaw with a lump of conjured stone. The lightning around the bound mage vanished, and Daylen breathed easier, feeling he had just saved a life. “Morrigan!” Daylen shouted. “Cast a Tempest!”

“Are you mad?” She cried. “We are too close!”

“Do it!” Daylen dug deep on his mana, going through the proscribed motions for one of his strongest spells. “Everybody get back!”

Wynne glanced over at him, her eyes widening in recognition. “Wait!”

Daylen’s blizzard landed a moment after Morrigan’s tempest – and had some unintended effects. The two spells combined, unleashing a powerful electric and icy maelstrom that ripped at Uldred’s hide, the beast curling up against the might of the magic.

For his part, Daylen collapsed, the unexpected and suddenly increased draw on his magic nearly knocking him out. Splayed across the floor of the Harrowing Chamber, wondering where his kneecaps had run off to, he fumbled with yet another lyrium potion, cursing. Yanking the cork with his teeth, he drank deeply, hearing Leliana chanting the Litany aloud as she kept up her rate of fire. Mana would swirl momentarily around one of the bound mages, only to dissipate a moment later due to the rogue’s work. Daylen felt the serum trickling into his beard through numb lips, but swallowed as much as he could, feeling a measure of strength returning to his limbs.

Wynne was suddenly at his side, pulling him to his feet with one hand under his arm. “That spell combination is extremely dangerous,” she snapped. “Move!”

The warriors were backing up, avoiding entering the storm itself. “Get the First Enchanter out of here!” Daylen shouted, Alistair sheathing his weapon and grabbing Irving under the armpits. Dragging the bound and injured mage towards the stairs, Alistair kicked a dead abomination aside, bringing the First Enchanter behind cover. Cupcake’s jaws latched around the ankle of one of the other bound mages and began dragging him over as well, the mage too dazed from days of torture to resist or help.

The storm dissipated suddenly under a burst of magic from the demon, and Uldred scrabbled forward, its hamstrung leg dragging behind it as charged at Daylen. The demon’s hide was ragged and raw from the power of the storm, and muscle and bone were visible in patches.

“Not again,” Daylen breathed, ducking and rolling forward as Uldred’s arm swung over his head. Wynne, to her credit, sprinted to one side, getting out of the Pride demon’s way. Daylen skidded forward and rolled to his feet, marveling at having not landed on his face as he hit Uldred with a heavy burst of frost. Feeding more mana into the spell, he sustained the spray of ice magic, freezing the demon solid. There was a brief pause as the party stared at the frozen demon that now looked like the world’s ugliest sculpture.

Then Daylen pointed. “Get‘im!”

Swords and arrows carved into the demon’s form, and spells sending blood splashing and splattering against the floor stones as shouted taunts, profanity, and the Litany of Adralla echoed off the walls.

One of Uldred’s horns clattered to the ground as Daylen’s latest stone projectile went high, snapping the demon’s head back before it impacted the far wall of the chamber.

Leliana’s latest arrow thunked into the demon’s exposed neck, and it gurgled, more blood spurting from the wound.

Sten’s greatsword bit into the creature’s arm behind the elbow spikes, the blade severing the muscles and leaving the arm hanging uselessly.

Alistair and Zevran’s footwork carried them gracefully around each other and the demon’s wild swing, their blades streaming blood as they hacked away at Uldred.

A blast of ice from Wynne froze the demon’s other arm to the floor, and Alistair jammed his sword into the demon’s elbow joint with a bellow, twisting the blade as he pulled it back.

Morrigan’s staff danced, entropic curses mixing with bursts of primal magic as her spells weakened the demon, twisted its mind and perceptions, and savaged its muscles with blasts of lightning.

Uldred flailed, its crippled arms whirling as it tried to batter back Zevran, Alistair, and Sten. The first two ducked. Sten’s enchanted breastplate caught the brunt of the attack, the armor holding – barely – and the warrior merely stumbling back instead of being smacked across the room.

“Blind it!” Daylen bellowed, charging up a burst of magic. Excess, unshaped lightning arced from his staff to the floor, and he felt his scorched hair and beard standing on end from the discharge. “Leliana, blind it!”

One of the demon’s eyes went dark as an arrow pierced it, and it screeched in pain, shuddering as Morrigan hit it with a Mana Clash and Zevran’s incendiary flask smashed against the side of its head. The flames licked at its ragged hide as Leliana put out another eye, and Daylen hissed as he felt the skin of his staff hand beginning to blister and burn from the sheer amount of magic he had mustered.

“Oi! Prick! Down here!” The beast turned its remaining eyes on Daylen, just in time for him to release the full force of the pent-up torrent of lightning directly into its face.

It was the single most powerful burst of magic he had ever unleashed, even outdoing the massive blizzard he had shown a knack for. Smoke streamed from the beast’s head as lightning arced between the remaining horns, the demon’s eyes bursting under the attack and demonic ichor streaming from its ears.

Daylen felt his remaining mana draining fast and dug deep, pushing his magic harder and feeling a surge of strength flood back into him as Wynne hit him with a rejuvenation spell. His vision blurring, Daylen fought to keep the staff on target, the demon’s screeches muddling with the crackling of the lightning and the pounding in his ears.

There was an enormous crash as the demon hit the ground, the body twitching grotesquely and most of its face simply seared away from the strength of Daylen’s attack. Daylen himself weaved drunkenly, digging around in his pouch for another lyrium potion. Tipping it back, he gagged as his body protested the fresh surge of mana, dropping the empty vial and ignoring the shaking in his hands.

“Is it…is it dead?” Leliana panted, nocking another arrow.

“I think so,” Daylen coughed. “Someone go poke it with a stick?”

Sten sighed, striding forward and slamming the edge of his greatsword into the beast’s mangled snout. The body remained still. “Yes. Dead.”

“Good riddance,” Daylen spat, coughing again as the coating of lyrium in his throat made it hard to breathe. “Where’s Irving?”

“Maker,” Irving groaned, standing up. “I’m too old for this.”

Daylen gave the man a stonefaced stare. “You all right?”

“I’ve…” Irving paused, wincing as various injuries protested. “I’ve been better. But I am thankful to be alive.”

Daylen jerked his head once. “Good. Now, then.” There was a sharp crack as he punched Irving on the jaw, sending the old man sprawling. “What is wrong with you?” Wynne moved to protest, but Daylen continued, leaning on his staff as his legs wavered. “The Circle is gutted! Uldred and his little pack of blood mages killed or turned nearly everyone! There’s maybe a dozen mages alive downstairs. Maybe some made it into the storage caves under the tower and maybe they’re still alive, but that’s all that’s left! Where were you?”

Irving managed a pained gurgle in response.

“I don’t want to hear it! You trusted Uldred – one man – to give you information on who was dabbling in blood magic?” He stopped short, realization flickering in his eyes. “Maker, it was Uldred who gave you the information on Jowan, wasn’t it.” Irving flinched as Daylen loomed over him, and Daylen snarled, shivering as the rush of battle began to wear off. “You bastard. For all we know, he hadn’t done it before you lot put his back to the wall. He probably learned it from Uldred!” Daylen stood tall over the man, his eyes dark. For a moment, the sense of being trapped with a predator in a small space filled the room, the terrible knowledge that he could kill everyone in the space without straining himself.

“Daylen!” He broke off at Alistair’s shout. “I think you broke his jaw.”

“Good!”

“He can’t very well answer in that state, can he?”

“This isn’t a dialogue!” He turned back to Irving. “Is it any wonder they turn to blood magic? If a demon comes with offers of power to a desperate mage, what reason does he have to refuse if he has nothing to lose?” Daylen pressed the heel of his palm into his forehead, trying to ignore the pounding headache he was developing. “You…I need to get out of here.” He pointed at the other mages they had rescued. “Make your way downstairs. The survivors will be waiting for you down there. Do not attempt to open the door to the entry hall yet. I’m going to check the storage caves.” He turned back to Irving, who was coming to his feet after Wynne had healed his jaw. “You’re coming with me.”

It didn’t take long for the party to find the survivors. Irving’s voice was distinctive enough that the barricade was removed at his order, and almost thirty mages filed out, looking about warily. Blood spattered their robes, and to a one they looked hungry and exhausted, but they were alive. Only a third of them wore the robes of apprentices.

One of the senior enchanters stepped past Daylen with a dismissive glance, looking to Irving. “Did you stop Uldred, First Enchanter?”

“No,” Irving replied. “This young man did.” The senior enchanter blanched, turning to apologize, but Daylen had already moved on.

“Anybody hurt?” He asked quietly.

“We’re more than capable of healing our own, Warden,” one of the other enchanters sneered.

“Show a little gratitude,” Alistair broke in, stepping up behind Daylen. “We happen to be the only reason you’re still alive.”

“Yes, alive for the Templars to kill us!” the enchanter shot back.

“Greagoir will stand down if Irving says the trouble is over,” Wynne replied.

“How do you know? How can you be sure he won’t kill all of us just to be safe?”

“It has occurred to me,” Daylen said softly. “But we don’t have a better choice. At least his reinforcements are still at least a day away. Now shut up, you’re scaring the kids.”

—ROTG—

The reinforcements had been delayed. The fool child’s suicide charge into the tower had been hours ago, and there was no word. The tower doors would not hold forever. They might simply need to make do with what they had, and take the final measures.

Greagoir addressed his Templars. “You must face the truth squarely and without flinching. What we will face are not people – they are no longer simply mages. Any glimpse of rationality, decency, that they may show now is a deception and nothing more. This is your duty, in the eyes of the Maker. For twenty years, I have fought and seen the darkness in our world. I have seen the vile nature of blood magic, the dangers that mages pose, the wretched abominations that they become. I have seen all the evil that they harbor. You will see this too. You will fight it as well, and you will succeed, for we are the Templar Order, armored in faith, shielded by devotion and armed with the purpose the Maker has laid down for us. We carry forth the flaming sword as a check against the dangers of magic. For it is the Maker’s will that magic shall serve man, and never rule over him. I will not counsel you against fear of demons or of blood mages. I only counsel that you cling to your faith and use it to burn away the rot of blood magic and possession, wherever it is found.”

There was a banging on the door, and the Templars readied themselves – as one, Greagoir noted with no small amount of pride.

“Oi! Open up, I’ve got the First Enchanter here!”

The boy?

A Templar called back through the door, his voice nasally and muffled from his helmet. “Prove it!”

“Please open the door,” Irving’s voice came. “I need to speak with the Knight-Commander.”

“Open the door,” Greagoir ordered. The crossbar slid back, and the two mages stepped forward, the rest of his party following them, with a group of surviving mages slowly filtering out behind them, fear evident on their faces. They were a ragged, battered mob, and most of the Templars still had their weapons drawn. “Irving? Maker’s breath, I did not expect to see you alive.”

“Not surprising, what with you abandoning him,” Daylen grumbled.

“It is over, Greagoir,” Irving said. “Uldred is dead.”

“Wait!” A voice called from deeper inside the tower. A Templar came sprinting out, and Daylen groaned as he recognized Cullen.

“Oh, not you again,” Daylen groaned. “I’d hoped you’d scuttled off to some corner to stop making trouble.”

“Uldred tortured these mages, hoping to break their wills and turn them into abominations,” Cullen declared, shoving past Daylen. “We don’t know how many of them have turned.”

Irving blanched. “What? Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Of course he’ll say that!” Cullen cried. “He might be a blood mage! Don’t you know what they did? I won’t let this happen again!”

“You won’t…” Daylen started, but Greagoir cut him off. Greagoir was a large man to begin with, but the armor so added to his bulk that even Daylen fell silent as he stepped forward, his face darkening and his presence shutting down protest.

“I am the Knight-Commander here, not you.”

Daylen blinked in surprise, taken aback at the man’s response even as he felt his hands shake. “Well, what does the Knight-Commander think, then?”

“We have won back to the tower,” Greagoir replied. “I will accept Irving’s reassurances that all is well.”

“We?” Daylen mumbled under his breath.

“But they may have demons within them, lying dormant, lying in wait!” Cullen protested.

“Enough!” Greagoir snapped. “I have already made my decision.” Cullen grimaced, but stepped away as Greagoir turned to Daylen. “Thank you. You have proven yourself a friend of both the Circle, and the Templars.”

“Somebody had to do your job,” Daylen said bluntly. “You weren’t up to the task. You had a dozen Templars here, and you couldn’t take on a force we annihilated in hours?” Knowing he was effectively talking to a wall, he closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “Never mind. You promised me aid. What now.”

“With the Circle restored, my duty is to watch the mages,” Greagoir said, giving Morrigan a sidelong glance. She glared at him, but said nothing. “They are free to help you, however. Speak to the First Enchanter about the details. Please, excuse me. And Irving…it is good to have you back.”

“I’m sure we’ll be at each other’s throats again in no time,” Irving said, turning to Daylen as Greagoir stepped away, speaking quietly with a few of the surviving Templars. “Here we are, the tower in disarray, the Circle nearly annihilated…though it could have been much, much worse. I am glad you arrived when you did. It’s almost as though the Maker Himself sent you.”

Daylen rolled his eyes, but paused and remembered where he had been when he first heard about the Templar reinforcements to the Circle. Deciding not to argue the matter, he shrugged. “I came here seeking allies against the Blight.”

“The least we can do is help you against the darkspawn. I would hate to survive this only to be overcome by the Blight.”

“There are so few mages left,” Daylen said. “Can you spare them?”

Irving nodded. “You know that we are not to be underestimated. The mages you see here will be a great help to you. You have my word as first enchanter, the Circle will join the Grey Wardens in the fight.”

“Good,” Daylen nodded. “We’ll need to resupply, and…” he paused as Wynne stepped forward.

“Irving, I have a request. I seek leave to follow the Grey Wardens.”

“Wynne, we need you here,” Irving protested. “The Circle needs you.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Irving, but the Circle will do fine without me,” Wynne said, waving off the objection. “The Circle has you.” She gestured to Daylen. “This man is brave and good, and capable of great things. If he will accept my help, I will help him accomplish his goals.”

Daylen paused, considering the situation. “Well, this is a problem. You’re definitely needed here, but my party could certainly use another healer.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, a spark of healing magic leaping between his fingers and washing away part of the headache. “All right. If you really want to, you can come with us.”

“You were never one to stay in the tower when there was adventure to be had elsewhere,” Irving said fondly.

“Why stay when I can be of service elsewhere?” Wynne asked rhetorically.

“Because these people could use a helping hand?” Daylen replied.

Nobody addressed his statement. Irving spoke directly to Wynne. “Then I give you leave to follow the Grey Warden, but know that you always have a place here.” Looking to Daylen, he gave him a sad nod. “There is much to be done here, and I must go. You must forgive me for not being a proper host. When the time comes, we will stand beside you.”

“I understand,” Daylen said, suddenly suspicious that Irving was trying to get rid of Wynne. “Until we meet again, then. Alistair, Leliana, speak to the quartermaster. Sell what we salvaged, get us some supplies. I don’t want to stay here a moment longer than we have to.”

—ROTG—

The ancient Tevinters did not originally consider blood magic a school of its own. Rather, they saw it as a means to achieve greater power in any school of magic. The name, of course, refers to the fact that magic of this type uses life, specifically in the form of blood, instead of mana. It was common practice, at one time, for a magister to keep a number of slaves on hand so that, should he undertake the working of a spell that was physically beyond his abilities, he could use the blood of his slaves to bolster the casting.

Over time, however, the Imperium discovered types of spells that could only be worked by blood. Although lyrium will allow a mage to send his conscious mind into the Fade, blood would allow him to find the sleeping minds of others, view their dreams, and even influence or dominate their thoughts. Just as treacherous, blood magic allows the Veil to be opened completely so that demons may physically pass through it into our world.

The rise of the Chant of Light and the subsequent fall of the old Imperium has led to blood magic being all but stamped out—as it should be, for it poses nearly as great a danger to those who would practice it as to the world at large.

-- “Blood Magic: The Forbidden School,” From The Four Schools: A Treatise, by First Enchanter Josephus

Chapter Text

It is a truth universally acknowledged that nothing is more successful at inspiring a person to mischief as being told not to do something. Unfortunately, the Chantry of the Divine Age had some trouble with obvious truths. Although it did not outlaw magic--quite the contrary, as the Chantry relied upon magic to kindle the eternal flame which burns in every brazier in every chantry--it relegated mages to lighting candles and lamps. Perhaps occasional dusting of rafters and eaves.

I will give my readers a moment to contemplate how well such a role satisfied the mages of the time.

It surprised absolutely no one when the mages of Val Royeaux, in protest, snuffed the sacred flames of the cathedral and barricaded themselves inside the choir loft. No one, that is, but Divine Ambrosia II, who was outraged and attempted to order an Exalted March upon her own cathedral. Even her most devout Templars discouraged that idea. For 21 days, the fires remained unlit while negotiations were conducted, legend tells us, by shouting back and forth from the loft.

The mages went cheerily into exile in a remote fortress outside of the capital, where they would be kept under the watchful eye of the Templars and a council of their own elder magi. Outside of normal society, and outside of the Chantry, the mages would form their own closed society, the Circle, separated for the first time in human history.

--"History of the Circle," From Of Fires, Circles, and Templars: A History of Magic in the Chantry, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

—ROTG—

It had been only a very short time, but between the stress of being surrounded by Templars again and the lyrium wearing off, Daylen’s patience was growing thin.

Irving finally spoke. “You are correct.”

“I know. In regards to what?”

“Uldred was my source of information on Jowan.” Daylen closed his eyes, bringing his temper under control. “But it was corroborated by other sources.”

“Other sources equally suspect. Don’t patronize me. You’ve done nothing to help me since I was a child.”

“Why do you think I stood in the way when Greagoir wanted your head?” Irving asked. “Why do you think I even allowed Duncan to see information on you?”

“You expect me to believe you did it out of, what, charity? Affection? I’m neck-deep in shit here, making things up as I go.”

“I don’t care what you believe,” Irving said bluntly. “Daylen, you’re smart enough, strong enough, and caring enough to survive outside the Circle. I would have preferred you leave us under happier circumstances, but you becoming a Grey Warden was your best chance to live free. I make no excuses for my mistakes. But assuming you lack the strength or intelligence to proceed and succeed? That is a mistake I thought you had grown beyond making. The path is laid before you. You know you have the strength to walk it.”

“We’re all supplied,” Alistair reported as Irving walked away. He had a clinking sack at his belt and a box of supplies in his arms.

“Good, let’s get out of here before anything else goes wrong.”

“Warden, wait,” Greagoir said suddenly.

Daylen stopped short. “And there it is.” He looked over his shoulder. “Yes? What is it?”

“This woman,” he replied, pointing at Morrigan. “She is a mage, is she not?”

Daylen could tell something bad was about to happen. It was just the way his luck was. “Got a point, Greagoir?”

“She is an apostate, and cannot be allowed to leave,” Greagoir declared. Several of the Templars nearby tensed, and Daylen’s eyes flicked back and forth. Counting numbers, positions, who had what weapon. He saw Zevran and Leliana nearby, doing the same.

“You will not hold me in this prison,” Morrigan spat. “I will not submit like these pet mages.”

“Morrigan, please,” Daylen said sweetly. “Allow me to handle this.” He looked to Greagoir, all friendliness evaporating. “Knight-Commander, I just spent the better part of a day doing your job, killing demons of all kinds, abominations wearing the faces of friends. I killed more demons than you’ll ever see, both here and in the Fade. I consumed enough lyrium to supply the Circle for a month. I am tired. I am angry. And I don’t give a damn what you think your duty is! You couldn’t hold her if you tried, even if she didn’t kill the lot of you on her way out.”

“Our order dictates…”

“Let me be clear. We won’t let you take her.”

“You cannot fight all of us,” Greagoir hissed.

Daylen sighed. “Haven’t you lost enough men already?”

Greagoir’s concern for his men seemed to be enough to momentarily overwhelm his training, and the man sagged. “Warden…”

Daylen gave him a weary look. “You don’t have the Templars left to police the mages you’ve got. She’s not under your purview, she’s part of a Warden task force. Let it go.”

Greagoir took a slow breath. “Go.” He raised his voice as they made to leave. “If she becomes an abomination, when she hurts someone…there is nowhere in Thedas you will be able to hide from the Templars or from justice.”

Daylen didn’t turn around, merely calling over his shoulder. “You don’t know what justice is.”

—ROTG—

It hadn’t been too difficult to track them down – there was only the one inn near the Circle Tower, and they were a rather distinctive group. Bodahn spotted Daylen and Alistair almost immediately, the two seated at a table far from the fireplace. Alistair was stretched out, leaning back in his chair, and Daylen was hunched over the table, staring into a tankard as if it held answers. A plate of chicken bones and a few scraps of greens sat on the table next to them. The Wardens’ others companions were at tables nearby, and the hound was lounging near the fire.

“Hoped I’d find you here,” he said to Alistair. “I heard there were problems at the tower?”

Alistair shrugged. “Something like that. They’re…cleared up now.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Daylen grunted, staring into his beer. The burned sections of his hair and beard still clung to his head, the hairs gnarled from the heat. “Two down, two to go.”

Bodahn frowned, glancing at Alistair, who jerked his head away from Daylen. The two stepped away from the table. “Sorry about that, Bodahn,” Alistair said quietly. “The tower…there was an uprising. Blood magic, demons, the whole bit.” The dwarf flinched, and Alistair glanced back at Daylen. “We cleaned the place out, but most of the Circle didn’t make it. He saw a lot of his friends dead. He’s…not dealing with it very well.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Daylen called. “I’m depressed, not deaf. Sorry about leaving you behind, Bodahn, but we had to get here ahead of the Templars.”

Bodahn waved off his apology as they rejoined Daylen at the table. “Nothing to worry about. It gave me the chance to find out about an opportunity, actually. Should you find yourself passing by Sulcher’s Pass on the way to Orzammar, you might be interested – there’s a man set up at the trading post there who claims to have a golem for sale. A golem like that could kill a lot of darkspawn!”

“Doubt it would be cheap, though.”

“Few things in life worth having are,” Bodahn replied.

Daylen shrugged, raking his hands through his hair. Burned hair crumbled away, and he grimaced as he felt the newly ragged shape of his beard. “We can look into it. Anything else?”

“You’ve heard Arl Eamon has come down with some deadly sickness. Now they’re saying it’s probably the Blight. If he dies from this, nobody else can stand up to Teyrn Loghain in the Landsmeet.” He paused. “Rather fortunate turn for the Teyrn.”

“Well, that’s…impossible,” Alistair remarked. “To contract Blight sickness, you need to be in contact with ghouls or darkspawn, or those who have. I’m sure the darkspawn haven’t reached Redcliffe yet, and Arl Eamon wasn’t at Ostagar. Refugees could spread it, maybe, but it still doesn’t make sense.” He gave Daylen a pained look. “Daylen…”

“No argument. It was our next stop anyway.” He downed the rest of his beer. “Between Wynne and I, maybe we can bring him back to health.”

“You can heal illnesses?”

“Some. I’m better with injuries – you’ve seen me work.”

“Quite the fan of it, actually,” Alistair deadpanned, rubbing at a shoulder.

“If we can help him, we’ll have gained another powerful ally. Maybe Arl Eamon can help us out financially. If nothing else, we’ll need a place for the armies to gather.”

“Well, what about that place that trader mentioned?” Alistair asked. “Soldier’s Peak?”

Daylen shook his head. “Soldier’s Peak was abandoned two hundred years ago. I’d only ever heard of it as myth. If it exists and if it’s there, we’d have to restore it first. And if Levi marked the map correctly it’s in the north of Ferelden, between Highever and Amaranthine.”

“Understood.”

“Maybe after the Blight,” Daylen continued with a snort. “If we survive.” He glanced out the window, frowning at the setting sun. “We’ll have to stay the night. We have enough for rooms?”

“Not enough for everyone,” Alistair said flatly. “Not enough for most of us, in fact.”

Daylen pinched the bridge of his nose. “There’s a bloke outside in a cowl with a sack next to him. Take Zevran with you, just in case. Give him these,” he passed over a sheaf of vellum sheets, “and bring back the coin he gives you. That ought to cover most of the party. Sten and I will sleep outside. I’m not putting anyone else out for me. Doubt any of these beds would fit Sten anyway. Get our people billeted – Wynne and Leliana look especially weary.”

Alistair quirked an eyebrow. “Our people?”

Daylen glanced over at him. “Last I checked you’re a Grey Warden too.”

“You’re the leader here. You’ve gotten us this far. If I was in charge, we’d still be wandering the Korcari Wilds looking for a clue. When people say ‘the Warden,’ they’re talking about you, not me.”

“When they tell our story, they’ll be talking about two Wardens,” Daylen replied. “Don’t put yourself down, Alistair. You’re vital to this team.”

“In that case, I’m sleeping outside with you.”

“First things first. Get what rooms you can.” As the two left the building, Daylen looked across the room at the table where most of the rest of the party was seated. Morrigan and Wynne were glaring at each other, and Leliana had an exasperated look on her face. Shaking his head, he stood and crossed the room. Wynne looked over at his approach and opened her mouth to speak. “Before anyone says anything,” Daylen said, drawing himself up to his full height, “you all can like or dislike each other as much as you want. But I expect all of you to do your utmost to help each other out and work together without any issues or reservations. Is that clear?” A pause. “Is that clear?” There was a chorus of muttered agreements, and he nodded. “Good. Now, here’s the situation. We don’t have enough money for everyone to get rooms, so Alistair, Sten, and I will be sleeping outside. The rest of you will sleep in here. We’ll leave tomorrow morning. Any questions?”

“No, but I should like to retire,” Wynne said, standing up with a sigh. “Oh, it’s been a long day. Rest would be welcome.”

Daylen’s brow furrowed. He noted Alistair re-entering the inn and passing behind him, heading for the innkeeper. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes of course. I am just a little…weary,” she replied, glancing away. “As you may have noticed, I’m no spring chicken.”

Morrigan opened her mouth to comment, but Daylen gave her an exasperated look. The witch glared at him, but remained silent. “From what I saw at the Circle, you’re still very sprightly.”

“Thank you,” Wynne said warmly. “You’re very kind to say so.” The two stepped away from the others as Alistair finished arranging the rooms, a pile of coins on the counter. Alistair nodded to the two as they passed by. “But in all honesty, I do not know how many years I have left in me. I have lived for such a long time. But there’s always something else to do, and I have to keep going to do it. I think I will be glad when I am…done.”

Daylen shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll be kicking around for years yet. After all, you’re helping me end the Blight, and it could last years. The last one lasted over a decade.”

“I don’t know,” Wynne said softly. “I really don’t.” There was a long pause as the two went up the stairs before she spoke again. “Have you encountered many abominations apart from the ones in the Circle Tower?”

“One,” Daylen replied softly. “Why do you ask?”

“You are younger than I, and your nerves yet have some steel in them,” Wynne explained. “Did you feel any fear facing the abominations?”

“Some, but I knew it was either kill or be killed,” Daylen said. “I froze at Ostagar. Faltering or hesitating here wasn’t an option. And I had the advantage.”

“Yes, that interesting spell you and Morrigan used was rather useful,” Wynne agreed. “The first time I saw an abomination, my blood turned to ice. It was months before the nightmares stopped. It was the knowledge that I could easily become one of them that frightened me the most.”

Daylen’s cheek twitched, and he forced a nod. “Seeing what you apparently could become is unsettling, yes, but that drives us to be cautious.”

“One slip,” Wynne said. “All it takes is one slip, and everything you are is simply gone, replaced by madness. And there is no turning back. Or, at least that’s what they say.”

“I haven’t seen any abominations regain their senses, but I haven’t left any alive long enough to test that,” Daylen replied. “You have doubts?”

“Of late I have begun to wonder if…if there is any way an abomination can be…cured. Or if a mage could be so possessed and still retain their sanity. Their humanity.”

Daylen shrugged. “If it were a benevolent spirit, not a demon, then perhaps, but benevolent spirits don’t typically make contact, in the Fade or elsewhere. If one retains their senses and mind, I would say one isn’t an abomination – yes, the term in the strictest sense means any mage who is possessed, but it was also defined by rather short-sighted people who couldn’t or wouldn’t conceive of such a situation.”

“Yes,” Wynne said softly, her eyes distant as she thought about his words. “It is madness and cruelty that define abominations. If those are lacking, if the mage remembers the person they truly are, then…then they are not an abomination.” She looked at the younger mage and smiled. “I never saw that. Thank you for showing me another way of looking at it.”

“Demons are…they don’t hate us,” Daylen went on. “To say they’re a problem because they hate or envy mortals isn’t correct. It would be easier if they did. I’ve spoken with spirits before. Most of them are harmless unless you harm them first, but most people will never see that. Demons, the hostile ones…they know how to get to you. They know what drives people, and they use it against us. Darkspawn just want to kill me. Demons want to use me.”

Alistair came around the corner a moment later with Zevran, Morrigan, and Leliana in tow. “You’ll be in these rooms,” he said, pointing out the rooms their freshly-spent coin had procured.

“In that case, I will retire,” Wynne replied, nodding politely to the two Wardens. “Goodnight.”

—ROTG—

Daylen groaned as he sat up, tugging his blanket closer around himself. Crawling out of his tent, he stood up straight, wincing as his back popped. Alistair was already awake, his tent packed up and sitting on a barrel. “This miraculous ability I have to sleep on the one spot that has a hidden rock to jab me in the back all night is going to kill me.”

Alistair looked over, squinting at him. “You all right?”

Daylen nodded. “I’m starved, but we’d best get on the road. Where’s Sten?”

“Not a clue,” Alistair said. “I was busy sleeping.” He caught the eye of a passing fisherman. “Excuse me. Have you seen a man about seven feet tall, greatsword on his back, look on his face like his son just told him he wanted to juggle fish for a living?” The fisherman pointed up the hill, and Daylen nodded his thanks, quickly packing up his gear.

He found Sten at the top of the hill, looking to the south, motionless, his face utterly blank. Daylen waited a respectful distance, but the Qunari made no indication that he even noticed Daylen’s presence. He resolved to wait until the giant made the first move.

It was several minutes before Sten broke the silence. “I failed my men, Warden.” It was a simple statement, devoid of emotion.

“You led them into a situation you were unprepared for. All it takes a single mistake.”

“I led them here. I failed. I was not worthy to lead.”

“Is that why you follow me?”

“Do you wish me to take command?” Sten asked flatly.

“Hardly,” Daylen said dryly. “I only ask why you follow me when the Qun demands that I be leashed.”

The Qunari did not turn to face him, but there was a slight tensing in the big man’s frame. “What do you know of the Qun?”

“Very little,” Daylen admitted. “I have read of the Qunari’s approach towards the…containment, of mages. It doesn’t matter. I’m aware of how little I know of your culture.” Daylen fell silent for a moment, and the two stood in silence. “Do you truly believe I will lead you to your atonement, or is this merely seeking death?” Sten didn’t answer, and Daylen shrugged. “For what it’s worth, Sten, I am very glad to have you with us. And I will do what I can to help you.”

Sten finally turned to look at him. “Let us move on.”

—ROTG—

Loghain’s usual chair was the only filled one in the council room. Maps, reports, and plans lay scattered on various tables around the room, and he leaned to one side, resting his elbow on the chair arm and resting his chin in his gauntleted hand. Some might think wearing full plate in one’s council room was strange, but dealing with assassins over the years had taught him the value of protection.

His confidant coughed discreetly as he entered the room. “Sire? I have more news.”

“What is it, Rendon,” Loghain sighed, not looking up.

The Howe patriarch nodded. “Er…yes. Well, it seems the fighting has gone exactly as you-”

“Enough,” Anora said, striding into the room. “I would like to know what you intend to accomplish, father. Should we not be fighting the darkspawn instead of each other?”

Finally, Loghain moved, sitting up straighter and looking his daughter in the eye. “The nobility shall be brought into line, and then the darkspawn defeated.” He shook his head scornfully. “This is no true Blight, Anora. Only Cailan’s vanity demanded it be so.”

Howe spoke up. “Beg pardon, sire, but Blight or no, if this fighting continues we soon may not have the manpower to face the darkspawn.”

Anora gritted her teeth in frustration. “Cailan approached the Orlesians for support, did he not?”

The wood of Loghain’s chair protested as he slammed an armored fist down on the arm. “Never! Maric and I drove those bastards out! We will not roll out the welcome for them now!”

Anora refused to back down. “We need help, father! We cannot deal with this crisis alone!”

“Ferelden will stand on its own!” Loghain declared. “I will lead it through this, Anora! You must have faith in me!”

Anora’s blue eyes narrowed at her father. Finally, the question she hadn’t dared ask made its way to the surface. “Did you kill Cailan?”

There was a brief, but deeply uncomfortable pause. “Cailan’s death was his own doing,” Loghain finally replied.

Anora stared at her father a moment longer, before shaking her head, throwing up her hands, and storming out of the room. Her father turned back to his work, but Howe’s eyes followed her.

—ROTG—

Wynne tutted as Cupcake bounded past their wagon again. “Your dog is filthy,” she remarked. “I can smell him fifty yards off.” The dog paused, looking back and giving a hurt whine.

“Good!” Daylen declared with a grin, winking at Alistair, who was riding alongside Bodahn in the other wagon. “He will fell our enemies with his stench!” The warrior snorted out a laugh, and Leliana rolled her eyes in the back of the wagon.

“That may be so, but all the same, I would like your permission to bathe him,” Wynne said.

“Once you’ve seen him rip the throat out of a hurlock, you stop thinking of him as bathe-able,” Daylen replied. “Besides, he’s a warhound, not some pampered and powdered lapdog.”

Wynne sighed in resignation. “I suppose that’s true.”

“He’s more of a lap-and-a-half dog,” Daylen mused. That time, Leliana giggled.

Wynne sighed again. “Just…make him sleep on the other side of the camp. With Alistair. With any luck, that will keep all the stench confirmed to one small area.” Alistair protested, but Cupcake whuffed happily, his tongue lolling out.

“So, Leliana,” Daylen said, looking over his shoulder. “I heard that in Orlais, minstrels are often spies. That true?”

“Where did you hear this?” Leliana asked.

“Well, I’ve spoken to a few Orlesians in my time, and I read it in a few history texts as well.”

“And you believe everything you hear?” Leliana asked with a laugh that lasted a few moments too long.

“Well, when several people tell me something that’s backed up by written texts, I tend to give it a little more credibility,” Daylen said quietly.

“Not all minstrels are spies, most are just singers and storytellers. But some of them are. Some are what we call bards.”

“This is one of those things where the words are different in a different language, isn’t it,” Daylen realized. “Fereldans use the words interchangeably. What’s the difference?”

“To do so in Orlais would cause misunderstanding. Bards are minstrels, and more. Spies, as you say. Some say there is a bard order, but I don’t think this is true. Many bards work alone, or in small groups, doing the bidding of a patron who pays for their services. If there is an organization behind it all, no one knows who they are.”

“What sort of services does a bard offer?” Daylen asked, making a few connections.

“What do you think?” Leliana asked rhetorically. “They infiltrate, steal, sometimes assassinate. It depends on the bard. In Orlais there is much rivalry amongst the high-born. They fight over land, influence, the favor of the empress. But they cannot do this openly – to do so would be impolite – and so in public they wear smiling faces and pretend to be civil. In secret they plot and scheme to destroy each other. It is a game – the Great Game – completely meaningless to anyone but its players.”

“And how long were you a bard?” Daylen asked bluntly.

Leliana paused. “I…never said I was one.”

“You didn’t have to,” Daylen replied. “I figured out you’d had some sort of training the minute you started stabbing people in that tavern in Lothering. I thought you were something, but you knowing so much about bards filled in the rest.”

“I would know a lot about them, having spent most of my adult life as one, as you’ve concluded.” Leliana admitted. “But does it really matter what I was? What’s past is past.”

“It is. My question is how you went from an Orlesian bard to a cloistered sister in rural Ferelden.”

“I…found myself in Ferelden and sheltered from bad weather in the Chantry,” Leliana said carefully. “And when the storm passed, I just…did not want to leave. I like to say the Maker brought me here.”

“Well, if it is the Maker that brought you to us, I’ll have to send a thank you gift one of these days,” Daylen mused. “Sheltered from bad weather, eh?” Leliana nodded, her expression guarded. “I can understand that.” Leliana waited for him to continue, but Daylen seemed lost in thought, and the rogue was all too happy to let the matter go.

“Warden, I must ask you something,” Wynne said after a pause. Daylen looked over, his eyebrows raised. “Irving told me about how you became a Grey Warden, and that unpleasant incident that occurred prior to your departure from the Circle. Did you know of Jowan’s practicing blood magic?”

Daylen sighed, turning away. “No. I did not.”

“How could you not? He was your best friend. Surely you must have noticed something when-”

“I get it, all right?” Daylen snapped. “I helped a maleficar escape. Jowan used me. He was my best friend and he lied to me. Is there a point to this line of questioning, or are you just looking to scold me?”

Wynne gave him a wary look. “You really never noticed anything?”

“He fooled me pretty well,” Daylen admitted. “He told me about Lily. I assumed that his absence was just him seeing her in secret. And it was, just not as much as I thought.”

“And he didn’t seem any different after he started practicing forbidden magic?”

Daylen sighed in frustration. “Not really, no.”

“There were no signs?”

Daylen scowled. “One, I suppose. Jowan used to push his sleeves up a lot. When he was getting frustrated with a new spell, when he was winning or badly losing a card game. It was only on the way to Ostagar that I realized I hadn’t seen Jowan’s sleeves pushed up in weeks.” Daylen shook his head. “I should have been smarter. More aware.”

“Yes, you should have,” she said primly.

“I stand by the decision I made back then.”

“I’m sure you do,” Wynne allowed. “Irving told me he was relieved Duncan was still willing to recruit you. But that aside, you’re a Grey Warden now, and perhaps I presume too much by saying this, but the Circle is proud of you.”

“Maybe,” Daylen replied. Wynne smiled faintly. “You don’t speak for the Circle, nobody there was happy to see me, and I broke a lot of rules before leaving, so maybe it is presuming.” The smile faded. Daylen felt smug for a moment but didn’t press the point, instead turning to Leliana again. “So, do you miss anything about Orlais?”

“I miss Val Royeaux,” she admitted. “Unlike other cities, where the people are the life-blood and the character, Val Royeaux was her own person, and her people little more than decorations.” Daylen blinked in confusion at the strange turn of phrase, but said nothing as Leliana continued. “There was always music in Val Royeaux, streaming from windows – quiet refrains and triumphant choruses. And always, floating above that all, the Chant, coming from the Grand Cathedral. It was magnificent.”

“I’ve never been to Orlais,” Daylen admitted. “Come to think of it, I’ve never been most places. Kirkwall, Amaranthine, and Kinloch Hold. They didn’t let us out much.”

“If you get the chance, you should see it, at least Val Royeaux,” Leliana replied. “Of course, there are good things and bad things about Orlais, like anywhere else. Sometimes I miss it dearly, and sometimes I am glad I am rid of it.” She paused. “And you will laugh at this, but I miss the fine things I had in Orlais.” Daylen stared at her blankly. “What?”

“You’re talking to someone who has never owned anything,” Daylen replied. “This isn’t something I can relate to. What ‘fine things’ are you talking about?”

“Dresses,” Leliana said. “Fine dresses, and furs.” Her eyes lit up. “And shoes, of course. One can’t mingle with nobility with bad shoes, you see. Orlais is very fashionable. Almost ridiculously so. Living with those ridiculous trends was worth it for the shoes.”

“Suddenly a lot of what my mentor at the Kirkwall Circle went on about makes sense,” Daylen muttered. “What’s the big deal about shoes?”

“When I left Orlais, the fashion was shoes with delicate, tapered heels and embellishments in the front – a ribbon perhaps, or embroidery. In soft colors of course – it was spring!”

“That sounds lovely,” Daylen said dryly, utterly baffled at the obsession with footwear.

“I had my eye on a pair my shoemaker was working on. It was covered in pale blue silk, with amber beads on the toe. The shoes made in Orlais were exquisite. Not at all like these clunky fur-lined leather boots you have in Ferelden.” She looked down at the rough boots they had picked up for her from the Dalish. “Just look at them!”

“They’re comfortable and they keep the cold out,” Daylen said with a shrug.

“They’re sturdy shoes,” Leliana agreed, “but sometimes a girl just wants to have pretty feet.”

“And that’s my cue to relieve Sten,” Daylen said, hopping out of the moving wagon and nodding to the Qunari. The two swapped places, and Daylen clambered into the other wagon.

“Fleeing the females?” Alistair asked dryly, nibbling on a trail biscuit as Daylen sat down hard.

“Hush you,” Daylen grumbled. “Between Wynne’s grudge over my leaving the Circle and Leliana talking about shoes, anyone would have made a hasty exit!”

Bodahn snickered from up front in the wagon. “I can’t say I blame you. I fled an entire city to get away from womenfolk.”

Daylen fought back a smile, before turning to Alistair. “It’s rare that I’m dealing with a group of people like that and not one of them wants to knock boots with me.” Alistair spat out a mouthful of biscuit, coughing out crumbs. “Sorry, mate, had to wait until you took a bite.” The warrior made a rude gesture at him, and Daylen went on. “Actually, that raises a question. I don’t mean to pry, but if you were raised in the Chantry, have you never…?”

Alistair’s brows raised. “Never what? Had a good pair of shoes?”

Daylen gave him a hard look. “Well, you asked for it. Have you never dipped the wick? Gone for a four-legged frolic? Had a party for two? Or three, if you’re particularly lucky? Played twenty toes? Gone heels to Andraste? Threaded the needle? Thrown a log on the fire? Slapped bell-”

“I get it!” Alistair cried as Bodahn roared with laughter. “Well, if you really want to know, you tell me first.”

“You know I have,” Daylen replied. “Ask Zevran. We’ve talked about it.”

“Er, on that note – do you trust him?” Alistair asked.

“Yes, actually,” Daylen admitted. “He's had at least one opportunity to kill me. He and I were in bed, and…” he broke off, flushing slightly behind his beard.

Alistair stared at him in confusion for a moment, before gasping. “You slept with Zevran?”

There was a moment's pause as Daylen looked only slightly guilty. “He was very persuasive.” Alistair gaped at him, and Daylen shrugged. “It wasn't just him, you know. This pirate captain named Isabela was there too.”

Alistair stared at him openmouthed for another moment. “That doesn't make it any better.”

Daylen shrugged. “I came out with everything still attached, so I’m going to count that as a win. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“I, myself, never had the…pleasure,” Alistair said, dragging out the last word. “Not that I haven’t thought about it, of course, but…you know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Lack of opportunities, or are you one of those men who don’t rush into things?”

Alistair looked uncomfortable. “Well, living in the Chantry is…not exactly a life for rambunctious boys. They raised me to be a gentleman. That’s not so bad, is it?”

“Of course not,” Daylen said quickly. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to seem like I was making fun, Alistair.”

“I’ve no urge to rush into anything. We may not even survive what is to come, after all.”

Daylen looked away. “I’m sorry, Alistair. I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine. I don’t think I want to talk about this anymore.”

—ROTG—

That evening, as they made camp, Daylen made a careful inspection of the ground before laying out his bedroll. He heard a throat clearing behind him and winced, before standing up. “Something on your mind, Wynne?”

“I’ve noticed that you set sentries around the camp,” the enchanter said. “Do you think it necessary?”

Daylen blinked in confusion. “Well yes, otherwise anyone else could simply sneak up on us.”

Wynne frowned. “You did learn the camp glyphs at the Circle, did you not?”

“Camp glyphs?” Daylen scratched his beard. “Never heard…wait, weren’t those taught by Enchanter Matthias?”

“Yes, the one who passed away some…” Wynne winced. “It would have been the year before you would have taken those classes. I am sorry, I did not realize.”

Daylen huffed out a laugh. “Well, now I’m glad we have you along.”

Wynne nodded. “They will alert or even wake the caster if they are tripped by anyone. A simple enough spell, invaluable to anyone traveling in a small party.”

“Well, now we don’t have to draw straws for who gets to lose sleep,” Daylen mused. “Show me?”

Within a half hour, the camp was surrounded with a layer of warning glyphs. Wynne nodded in satisfaction as she examined Daylen’s spellwork. “These will do. If we were in a more confined area, we could put up actual barrier spells, but they are far more draining and more conspicuous. These will deprive any would-be ambusher of the element of surprise without their knowledge.”

As Daylen returned to the middle of the camp, Zevran was finishing off a bowl of stew, mopping up the remnants with a crust of bread. “Do you trust these spells?” he asked, tearing off a hunk of the bread with his teeth.

“The spellwork is sound,” Daylen said. “If you’d like to take it on yourself to set a few traps around the camp, that’s fine by me, but let the others know where you place them.”

The assassin nodded, before swallowing the mouthful of bread and stew and setting the bowl aside. “I’ve a question, if I may.”

“What’s on your mind?” Daylen asked, accepting a bowl of stew and another piece of bread from Leliana with a grateful nod.

“Well, here is the thing,” Zevran replied hesitantly as Daylen dug into his meal. “I swore an oath to serve you, yes? And I understand the quest you’re on and this is all very fine and well. My question pertains to what you intend to do with me once this business is over with. As a point of curiosity.”

Daylen raised an eyebrow. “Does your oath expire then?”

“Not precisely. I said I would serve you until you saw fit to release me. One simply assumes that, once your Grey Warden business is finished, you would have no need of an assassin to follow you about. Am I wrong?”

“I suppose you could leave, if you wanted,” Daylen said quietly.

“Could I?” Zevran replied. “And…if I didn’t wish to leave?”

Daylen blinked in confusion. “Why wouldn’t you go, given the chance? I mean, you signed up with me to prevent people from killing you, and people do seem to enjoy trying to kill me. Why stay?”

“How should I know?” Zevran asked with a shrug. “I cannot see the future. What if I liked it here? What if we became fond of each other, hmm? Stranger things have happened.”

“I can’t think of why you’d like working with me. I mean, look at us. We’re living on the road, eating whatever we can scrape up. If Leliana couldn’t cook, we’d probably all be chewing bark at this point, and damn the splinters.” Zevran broke into laughter. “In the future? I imagine I wouldn’t need an assassin, no,” Daylen said slowly. “A friend, though? I could always use a friend.”

“Indeed?” Zevran asked. “I might even be glad to call myself such, come to think of it.”

Daylen looked down at his food again, hiding his smile. “You’re a better person than you think, Zevran. I already count you as a friend.”

“It is good to know what my options might be,” Zevran said, retrieving a satchel from his gear. “But that is for another time. For now, I have much to do, yes? I would not trust our safety to magic alone.”

As he strode off, Alistair sat down, rubbing his face. “How’s the stew?”

Daylen swallowed a mouthful of food. “Even if she weren’t good in a fight, Leliana would be worth keeping around for the skill in cooking alone.”

“You’re too kind,” Leliana said softly as she handed Alistair a bowl.

Alistair looked up in surprise. “Oh. Thank you, you didn’t have to do that.” She smiled softly at him, before pouring out another bowl for Sten.

“Alistair, I want to ask a favor,” Daylen said, downing the last of his stew. “I don’t expect you to say yes, but I’ll try anyway.”

“If you want my first-born, that may be an issue,” Alistair replied dryly.

Daylen snorted, setting the bowl down. “Can you teach others to be a Templar?”

“Others, yes, but not yourself,” Alistair said.

Daylen blinked in confusion. “I…well, I didn’t mean me, but alright. Can I ask why not? Is it something to do with having magic in the first place?”

“Not exactly,” Alistair replied. “I need someone who’s trained first as a warrior. It’s as much about discipline as anything.”

“Saying I’m undisciplined?” Daylen asked, amused. “It takes force of will to control the elements.”

“You know what I mean. I can’t teach them the more active talents – not without dosing them with lyrium. I can still use the abilities, but I’d rather not subject anyone to that, even if we had the lyrium.” Daylen nodded in understanding, and Alistair shrugged. “But I can teach them to resist spells, the mental discipline it takes.”

Daylen nodded. “Thank you. Would be very useful if we encounter any other mage-related problems. I suppose for now Sten is the only one you could pass these abilities to, unless…” he glanced over at Cupcake, who was eyeing Alistair’s bowl of stew and wagging his tail. “I don’t suppose…”

“No, I can’t teach your dog to be a Templar.” Alistair looked to Leliana as she sat down with a bowl of stew. “How about you, Leliana? You have any skills you could pass along?”

She looked uncomfortable. “I suppose. I don’t think either of you have the correct…aptitude, however. I could give you some pointers, though. You may be able to pass them on to someone you know. We would have to step away from the others, however. For safety, yes? I expect there would be daggers flying about willy-nilly for a time.”

Daylen looked over at Alistair. “That sounds like a fun time. I was learning to juggle back at the Circle. They wouldn’t let us have knives, though.” As the warrior shook his head, grinning around a mouthful of stew, Daylen turned to look at the bard. “I appreciate your willingness to share your skills.”

“If it means we stand a better chance,” Leliana said, “I’d be glad to help.”

Daylen stroked his beard, grumbling as he felt the gaps in it. Standing up, he grabbed his empty bowl. “Thanks for the stew, Leliana.”

“Where are you off to?” Alistair asked.

“Going to go bother Morrigan.”

—ROTG—

It is no simple matter, safeguarding ordinary men from mages, and mages from themselves. Each Circle tower must have some measure of self-government, for it is ever the Maker's will that men be given the power to take responsibility for our own actions: To sin and fail, as well as to achieve the highest grace and glory on our own strength.

You, who will be tasked with the protection of the Circle, must be aware of its workings. The first enchanter is the heart of any tower. He will determine the course his Circle will take, he will choose which apprentices may be tested and made full mages, and you will work most closely with him.

Assisting the first enchanter will be the senior enchanters, a small council of the most trusted and experienced magi in the tower. From this group, the next first enchanter is always chosen. Beneath the council are the enchanters. These are the teachers and mentors of the tower, and you must get to know them in order to keep your finger on the pulse of the Circle, for the enchanters will always know what is happening among the children.

All those who have passed their Harrowing but have not taken apprentices are mages. This is where most trouble in a Circle lies, in the idleness and inexperience of youth. The untested apprentices are the most numerous denizens of any tower, but they more often pose threats to themselves, due to their lack of training, than to anyone else.

--Knight-Commander Serain of the Chantry Templars, in a letter to his successor

Chapter Text

He announced his approach with a polite cough, and the witch looked up, shaking her hair out of her eyes. “How are you this evening?” Daylen asked, wondering how she managed to look graceful doing such a simple action.

“I have a thought,” Morrigan said after a moment, standing up. “We have an opportunity that I believe we should take advantage of.” At Daylen’s questioning look, she went on. “My mother was once divested of a particular grimoire by a most annoying Templar hunter. It occurred long before I was born, but even today Flemeth speaks of the loss with great rage.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Daylen interrupted. “A Templar managed to anger your mother – who hunts Templars for sport – and live?”

After a pause, Morrigan shrugged. “Everyone has bad days.” Daylen broke out laughing, and Morrigan went on. “With the Circle of Magi in such disarray, this might be the perfect time to recover the tome from their possession, for surely it eventually ended up in their hands.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Daylen said uneasily. “The Templars don’t typically let texts seized from hedge mages or apostates circulate amongst the Circles. Encourages outside thinking and they don’t like that much. What makes you think they’d still have this book?”

“Flemeth is a sorceress of legend, is she not? And her grimoire would be more than a mere curiosity to mages that daren’t even glance toward the places my mother has walked for eons. No doubt ‘tis considered something dangerous, perhaps best locked away somewhere dark, yes? And if not, then at least I know it does not exist. But there is no harm in looking, surely.”

“And this grimoire, being suited to your particular style of magic, would be incredibly useful,” Daylen surmised. Morrigan nodded. “And I imagine it has some of your mother’s secrets in it, things she might not have told you.”

“Very perceptive. Mother has assumed for a long time that the tome was lost forever. I would like the chance to recover it.”

Daylen looked over his shoulder in the direction of the tower. “You bring this up now?”

“It did not occur to me earlier,” Morrigan replied crossly. “I wish it had. Would it not be easier to secure such an item, with the tower in the state that it is?”

Daylen sighed. “Very well. Next time I’m in there, I’ll look for it. There’s an awful lot of books there, though. Do you know what it looks like?”

“Good. It is a leather-bound tome, adorned with a leafless tree on the front.” Morrigan frowned as Daylen burst out laughing. “You take amusement at this?”

“Oh, Morrigan, how lucky you are,” Daylen said, a grin stretching across his face. “Is there some sort of bonus for fast delivery?” At her baffled look, Daylen moved to his bedroll and fished a book out of his gear. Golden eyes widened as Morrigan almost reverently took the book, her lips parting slightly. Daylen noticed her pupils blowing wide and wondered if he had managed to arouse her.

She brushed a hand across the worn leather of the cover, her fingers tracing the lines of the tree. “You found Flemeth’s grimoire? You had it already?”

“Look, anything that the First Enchanter has hidden in his office, in a locked chest with three kinds of glyphs I’ve never seen protecting it? Definitely worth stealing. His office was ransacked anyway; I’d be amazed if he connected it to me.”

“When I spoke of it to you, I did not truly hope…ah, but this is most fortuitous!” She looked up from the grimoire, a genuine smile lighting up her face.

That was the moment that Daylen realized he was in trouble. He felt his body relax, a faint smile pushing forward and making his beard twitch as Morrigan looked back towards the book. Shaking himself, he blinked hard, bringing himself back to the moment. “Glad to help.”

“You have my deepest thanks,” she said softly.

Daylen waved her off as Cupcake trotted over, nosing his hand. “Consider it a repayment of a debt.”

She raised an eyebrow. “If you speak of my assisting my mother in healing your wounds, I considered that debt repaid after the incident in the Brecelian Forest.”

“Oh, no, not that. When I was stuck in my nightmare, the thing that snapped me out of it was the memory of golden eyes. I’ve only met two people with such eyes.”

Morrigan sighed in dismay. “Oh, do you not fancy my mother?”

Daylen snorted. “I prefer my Witches of the Wild younger and less gray than that.”

“What a shame. I shall be very disappointed to tell my mother of this.”

“You’re a handful on your own,” Daylen chuckled. “Your mother would be a terror.”

Morrigan’s face darkened. “Would you prefer if I were more supportive? More submissive? More tame?”

Daylen shuddered. “Please, no. A wild, untamed woman is far more fun to be around than some meek thing with a broken spirit.” He scratched his beard in thought as Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “Now, that doesn’t apply to horses, but that’s a completely different kind of riding. At least, I hope it is…” Morrigan laughed despite herself, and Daylen smiled at the small victory. “Morrigan, if I wanted everyone to agree with everything I said, I’d be a Templar. I expect people to disagree with me. It’s a fact of life. If everyone agrees with what you’re doing, they don’t know what you’re doing. Trick is convincing them that they should be working with you anyway, no matter how odd it seems.”

A brief cloud passed over Morrigan’s face, before she spoke. “Which leads me to another thought. Exactly how many are required to gain such knowledge of untamed women?”

Daylen tilted his head. “You’re asking me how many people I’ve fucked?”

“A rather crude way of putting it, but accurate.”

Daylen scratched his beard. “I don’t particularly keep count. Round numbers, at best. You want the number of women, the number of men, or the total?”

“You enjoy the company of both?”

Daylen waggled his eyebrows at her. “At the same time, when I can get it, but yes. It may have been a prison, but the Circle had no shortage of willing partners. Total? Somewhere in the dozens, I should think. More than twenty, less than forty.”

“Suddenly the ease with which those mages accept their fate makes more sense,” Morrigan mused. “I have but one more question for tonight, I think. What is it you hide in that belt pouch?”

Daylen’s beard twitched as he reached into it. “I knew you would ask about that eventually.” Carefully retrieving the item from the pouch, he held out the necklace. “A little gift.” Several strands of silver chain wound together, forming an exquisitely-made necklace. Morrigan’s eyes widened, and she took the necklace gently, turning the jewelry over in her hands and watching as it caught the firelight.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “Why?”

“It’s a gift. It’s not given with the expectation of receiving anything in return.”

“Everyone wants something for a gift,” Morrigan snapped. “Why are you giving me this?”

Daylen smiled faintly. “Maybe someday you’ll figure it out.”

She frowned, tucking it away. “Maybe someday, indeed. What do you think of our chances of success?”

“I wouldn’t put money on us,” Daylen said bluntly.

“Such optimism.”

“We’re not heavy on numbers or resources,” Daylen said dryly. “And the darkspawn are a nightmare in the flesh. If you asked me to come up with the worst enemy I could think of…they’re not quite there, but they’re close. Born ready for battle, and don’t need sleep or rest. Their blood burns, their emissaries use a type of magic we don’t understand, and they don’t feel pity, remorse, or fear. They carry a disease that kills the land itself. They take orders from a single figure that is very hard to kill. They can’t be reasoned with, they can’t be bargained with. They don’t negotiate, they don’t ransom prisoners, they don’t ever hesitate to kill. You can’t cut their supply lines and starve them, you can’t intercept or meddle with their orders, you can’t break their morale and send them running. And from what Duncan told me, darkspawn that are wounded and live can heal quickly even without the attentions of a mage. The only thing we’ve got going for us is that without an Archdemon, they aren’t organized. And facing all that, it’s just me and a handful of other would-be heroes trying to end this Blight. A bunch of misfits trying to save the world.”

“Seven misfits true, but you and I could end this Blight ourselves if we had to.”

Daylen grunted. “You clearly have more faith in our abilities than I do. Hopefully Arl Eamon can offer some level of assistance once we figure out what’s going on over there.” He paused a moment. “And we’re eight misfits. Don’t forget Cupcake.” The dog’s tongue lolled out as Daylen scratched him behind the ears fondly.

Morrigan sighed. “Yes, let us not forget the flea-ridden mongrel.”

Daylen frowned. “He’d better not have fleas. He’s crawled into my tent a couple times when it’s been cold.”

“Perhaps you should consider a bath,” Morrigan offered dryly, a smile tugging at her lips. “For him as well as yourself.”

Daylen paused, gave himself an experimental sniff, and winced. “I still stink like demon. Yes, a bath is definitely in order.”

“There was a stream not far in that direction,” the witch noted, pointing over her shoulder.

“Just promise not to peek,” Daylen said with a wink. “The streams around here are rather chilly.”

“Yes, Warden, I promise not to witness your inadequacies,” Morrigan said, rolling her eyes.

Daylen pouted. “You wound me. I thought I proved myself adequate when I turned Uldred into paste.”

“That was impressive magic,” Morrigan allowed. “Perhaps the Circle is not as incompetent at producing capable mages as I thought.”

Daylen smirked. “Careful, Morrigan, that was dangerously close to being amenable.”

“Take it how you will,” she replied dismissively. “For now,” she hefted the tome, “again, you have my thanks. I will begin study immediately. I do not intend to squander this opportunity to learn more than Flemeth wished me to know. This should be…interesting.”

—ROTG—

Daylen plunged into the water, the protesting hound in his arms. Cupcake thrashed as they surfaced, wriggling free and paddling for the bank. “I know, I know, it’s undignified,” Daylen said, wiping water from his face. “I just wanted to get the stink off!” Cupcake ignored him, rubbing his face on the grass near the water, before flopping onto his back and wriggling. “And there you go stinking up again.” Retrieving his own kit laying next to his discarded clothes, Daylen set to cleaning himself off, feeling blood and grime washing out of his hair and beard.

Sinking beneath the surface and feeling the painfully-cold water biting at his skin again, Daylen rinsed off, coming up and gasping out a breath. “Shit that’s brisk.”

Something solid and distinctly un-fishlike brushed past his leg, and Daylen twisted, sending a wave of ice crashing through the water with a downward slash of his hand. The stream split as he blocked some of the path, and he caught sight of a blur of pale skin before whoever it was vanished beneath the dark water again as the ice washed away in the current. “Not funny,” he growled, sending another wave of ice through the water and seeing bare legs flashing in the scant light. A shock of black hair was visible before the water flowed back into place, and Daylen paused, sinking deeper into the water as he recognized his unexpected companion. “What was that about not peeking?”

A head poked above the water, wet hair hanging over golden eyes. “Do not be alarmed, ‘tis only I.”

“Thought you’d be reading,” Daylen said. “Or did you just come to watch? Because I’m finished bathing.”

“In this icy water? I would…” Morrigan broke off as Daylen stepped from the water, and he could swear he heard her give a quiet whine as his body was exposed.

He glanced back, and she quickly tore her eyes away. “Sorry? You didn’t finish your sentence.”

“What? Ah. ‘Tis…not important. I felt the need to refresh myself as well. The stench of the Circle seems to linger.”

Daylen merely grunted at that, pulling his breeches on and dipping his other clothes into the water, one item at a time. He’d learned to handle laundry in the field on the way to Ostagar – Duncan had been ready to teach, knowing his lack of real-world experience – and it felt good to have something simple to work on for a moment. “Since you’re here. I respect your desire for privacy. Nobody would insist you make your camp with us, although I’d prefer you keep it a bit closer. But if you continue to distrust us, that’s a problem. I know it isn’t easy.”

He heard the noises of soap sliding across skin, and wondered when he’d learned to recognize the sound. “What would you know of mistrust?”

Daylen focused on his clothes. “Night I left the Circle, my best friend lied to me. Fleeing the Rite of Tranquility, I had no problem with. When we were cornered, he revealed he’d been practicing blood magic.”

“A pity to see a mage of your power so indoctrinated about such magics,” Morrigan sniffed, working some sort of soap through her hair.

Daylen rolled his eyes. “Didn’t care about the blood magic. Jowan was never the type to hurt someone unless he absolutely had to. And I’ve never shied away from knowledge. It mattered that he outright lied to me about it.”

She paused a moment, seemingly lost in thought, and he glanced up, seeing her facing away. The sudsy water was dripping down her bare back, and he tried not to choke on air. She finally replied with a quiet, “I see.”

“Growing up in the Circle, you learn to trust everyone who’s in your situation to do their best to simply live and not mess up,” Daylen said, wringing out his shirt and trying not to pay attention to the bare skin Morrigan had to know she was displaying. “Just how things are, there. Out here, you can only judge people as they are. None of us are entirely pleasant, none of us have spotless pasts. We can only assess each other on how we act.”

Morrigan merely gave a “Hm.”

Daylen finished wringing out his socks, bundling up his clothes. “You going to stay in there all evening?”

“Fair is fair, after all,” she said, standing up properly and slowly walking from the water.

Daylen made no secret of watching – she kept her eyes locked on him the entire time, so there was no doubt her display was intentional.

She was perfect.

There had been ancient stories of wood nymphs that Daylen had read in the Circle, pre-Chantry tales of otherworldly creatures that inhabited the world. Now he knew where they came from.

For all her professed lack of skill as a healer, there wasn’t a single scar on her. And Daylen was quite sure of that, because every inch of her was on display. Beyond a handful of freckles that he wanted to get to know on a personal basis, Morrigan’s skin was flawless. She seemed to almost glow in the moonlight, and with his heart pounding in his ears Daylen could only watch as droplets ran down her figure.

When did his mouth get so dry?

She walked purposefully past him, an unabashed vision, and he confirmed that yes, she did have dimples on her back just above her bottom, and yes, they did complement her figure perfectly.

Her robes were neatly arranged nearby, but she merely twisted her hair into a knot on top of her head before picking them up.

She raised an eyebrow, giving him a mocking smile as she left, still naked. “Pleasant dreams.”

“You can say that again,” Daylen muttered, deeply confused.

—ROTG—

“Alistair,” Daylen began the next day as they pulled the wagon onto the highway, heading south towards Redcliffe. “What changes about you after the Joining?”

“You mean other than becoming a Grey Warden?”

Daylen gave his friend an irritated look. “I mean what changes physically. You’ve been a Grey Warden longer than I have, after all.”

He grunted. “You know, I asked Duncan this, too, and a ‘you’ll see’ was all I got.”

“Six months in and he hadn’t told you?” Daylen asked incredulously. “What was he waiting for, Satinalia?”

“It’s not that Duncan wanted to keep it a secret,” Alistair said defensively. “It’s just that the Grey Wardens don’t discuss it much. I gather it’s not a pleasant topic. The first change I noticed was an increase in appetite. I used to get up in the middle of the night and raid the castle larder. I thought I was starving. I’d slurp down every dinner like it was my last, my face all covered in gravy. When I’d look up, the other Grey Wardens would stare, and then laugh themselves to tears.”

Daylen scratched at one of the burned patches in his beard. “I haven’t felt anything like that.”

“Really?” Alistair asked skeptically. “I saw you eating dinner the other day. Savage.”

Daylen thought for a moment, trying to find a mature response. “Yes, well…” Inhaling, he belched.

“Ah, yes,” Alistair said. “The classy camaraderie of two men traveling out in the open. I take it you were like this before the Joining, then?”

“Crude? A bit, but not necessarily. Immature? Oh, yes.”

Alistair shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. “It’s not all funny, though. There were the nightmares. Duncan said it was part of how we sense the darkspawn. We tap into their…” he shrugged. “I don’t know what you’d call it. Their ‘group mind,’ I guess? And when we sleep, it’s worse. You learn to block it out after a while, but early on it’s hard. It’s supposed to be worse for those who Join during a Blight. How is it for you?”

Daylen felt a sour taste in his mouth as he thought back to the previous night. “I have had nightmares, yes, but being a mage, it’s nothing too unusual – we have to deal with demons prodding at us at night sometimes. I have to say, a Desire demon is more pleasant to deal with than a hurlock.”

“Some people never have trouble,” Alistair said. “That’s rare. Some have trouble sleeping for the rest of their lives. It all ends the same, though.” He paused, looking uncomfortable.

Daylen shot him a look. “Why do I get the feeling you’re about to tell me another thing I wish I’d known before the Joining?”

Alistair winced. “Once you reach a certain age, the real nightmares come. That’s how a Grey Warden knows his time has come.” At Daylen’s confused look, Alistair gave him a mirthless smile. “Oh, that’s right. We never had time to tell you that part, did we? Well, in addition to all the other wonderful things about being a Grey Warden, you don’t need to worry about dying from old age. You’ve got thirty years to live. Give or take. The Taint…it’s a death sentence. Ultimately your body won’t be able to take it. When the time comes, most Grey Wardens go to Orzammar and die in battle rather than…waiting. It’s tradition.”

More pieces fell into place. “Well, that’s cheery. Why Orzammar?”

“They’re never short of darkspawn, except during a Blight. And you wondered why we kept the Joining a secret from the new recruits! There you have it.”

“Never expected to die of old age anyway,” Daylen mused. “I’m a mage. It’s a rather hazardous existence. For most, it seems like it would be a high price to pay.”

“I suppose it is,” Alistair allowed. “We’re the only ones who can stop the Blight, however. Is there a price too high to pay for that?” Daylen didn’t reply, and the two Wardens fell silent for a few moments before Alistair went on. “You know, Duncan…he had started having the nightmares again. He told me that. In private. He said it wouldn’t be long before he’d go to Orzammar himself. I guess he got what he wanted. I just wish it had been something worthy of him.”

“He’ll be remembered, Alistair,” Daylen promised. “As will the others.”

“I know. Ending the Blight…should make this all worthwhile, right?”

“Should, yes. Will? I don’t know.”

“If you two are so undedicated to your task, we are truly doomed,” Morrigan chimed in from the back of the wagon, her nose buried in Flemeth’s grimoire.

“Morrigan, I swear-”

“Stop, both of you,” Daylen sighed. “There’s been enough infighting. If you two can’t get along, I will swat you both on the nose.” Shaking his head as Alistair hopped down from the wagon, he bit into a piece of jerky. “Anyway. Morrigan, I’ve been meaning to ask – did you grow up in the Wilds?”

“Why do you ask me such questions?” she said irritably. “I do not probe you for pointless information, do I?”

Daylen shrugged. “Fine, I’ll leave you be.”

“I did not ask to be left alone,” Morrigan replied, a little too quickly. “I simply wondered from whence comes this strange curiosity.”

“Well, I’ve annoyed Alistair with questions already, as well as Leliana,” Daylen said dryly. “We don’t need to be strangers, do we?”

“What a stranger does not know cannot hurt him.”

“Well that’s just not true,” Daylen muttered.

“Have it your way,” Morrigan sighed, snapping the grimoire shut and climbing into the bench seat next to him. “What is it you asked? If I ‘grew up’ in the Wilds?” Daylen nodded. “A curious question. Where else would you picture me?”

“I ask because your choice of words isn’t much like any other person’s I’ve met,” Daylen said. “Did you meet many people?”

Morrigan remained silent for a moment. “For many years, it was simply Flemeth and I. The Wilds and its creatures were more real to me than Flemeth’s tales of the world of man. In time, I grew curious. I left the Wilds to explore what lay beyond. Never for long. Brief forays into a civilized wilderness.”

“A place as strange to you as the Wilds were to us,” Daylen said softly.

“Your world is an unforgiving and cold place. The Wilds is home to me, and I a natural denizen. For all that I had been taught, however, the truth of the civilized lands proved to be…overwhelming.” Daylen nodded in understanding. “I was unfamiliar with so much. So confident and bold was I, yet there was much that Flemeth could never have prepared me for.”

Daylen smiled faintly. “Very daring. Sounds like you.”

She laughed quietly. “Equal parts daring and foolhardy, perhaps. Only once was I accused of being a Witch of the Wilds, by a Chasind traveling with a merchant caravan. He pointed and gasped and began shouting in his native language, and most assumed he was casting some curse upon me. I acted the terrified girl, and naturally he was arrested.”

“Quick thinking.”

“Men are always willing to believe two things about a woman: one, that she is weak, and two, that she finds him attractive. I played the weakling and batted my eyelashes at the captain of the guard. Child’s play.”

Daylen thought back to their encounter in the stream the night before and only felt more confused. Was she toying with him? It had certainly felt like a brazen, blatant attempt at seduction that he would have reacted better to if he hadn’t been so tongue-tied. “Well, I never threw another apprentice under the wagon at the Circle, but I was usually the one who got tasked with talking the Templars into believing that no, we weren’t just doing something against the rules.”

“The point being that I was able to move through human lands fairly easily. Whatever people think a Witch of the Wilds looks like, ‘tis not I.” She paused, before continuing, clearly uneasy. “Not that I did not have trouble. There are things about human society which have always puzzled me. Such as the touching. Why all the touching for a simple greeting?”

Daylen raised an eyebrow. “Touching? Like a handshake?”

“To begin with, yes,” Morrigan said, seizing upon the example. “What is the point of touching my hand? I find it an offensive intrusion.”

“I actually know the origins of the gesture,” Daylen admitted. “Clasping hands was a way of showing you didn’t have a knife up your sleeve. Meant as a sign that you were there to conduct yourself honestly.”

“I hardly need a knife.”

Daylen looked over at her and smiled. “Yes, well. Such things rarely account for people like us.”

Morrigan smirked, before continuing. “There were many nuances that Flemeth could never tell me of. When to look into another’s eyes, how to eat at a table, how to bargain without offending…none of these things I knew. I still do not understand it all, truth be told, but then I gave up long ago any hope of doing so. When I returned to the Wilds last, I swore to Flemeth that I had no intention of leaving again.”

“Yet here you are.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “Here I am.”

“To be fair, I don’t know how to bargain with merchants myself, or the finer points of etiquette. They weren’t common at the Circle.” He shrugged. “Maybe we can figure this out together.”

“I…perhaps.” Daylen smiled to himself at the slight tinge that appeared in her cheeks. “Might I ask you a question, if you are quite finished prodding me?” Daylen shrugged. “What is it you want?”

“Pardon?”

“What do you want? Do you simply intend to continue being a Grey Warden, or do you have any other desires? Did you ever want anything for yourself?”

Daylen paused. “If I did, I don’t remember it anymore. After you go to the Circle, the indoctrination…I…” He sighed. “There isn’t much I want for myself. Safety, comfort, some personal freedom. I’m not used to wanting, or maybe I’m not used to my wants being possible. Back at the Circle, it was survival, and growing in knowledge and ability was typically the way to achieve that. But now?” He shrugged. “It might be why you fascinate me.”

“Ah, now comes the profession of adoration. T’was expected, but not so soon.”

Daylen laughed. “Maybe not adoration, but fascination, definitely.” He glanced around surreptitiously, seeing nobody within earshot. “Besides you surprising me last night, I…” He shrugged. “You’re many things I don’t know how to be, and you don’t play at being anything other than what you are. Ambitious, craving power, fiercely independent and uncaring what anyone thinks about it.”

Morrigan smirked. “A man of taste.”

“It would have been one thing had you surprised me while I was bathing, taken the power in the situation, and made a few pithy remarks before leaving. Instead, you put yourself on even ground – showed up in the water itself and then just…” He trailed off, remembering and trying not to blush. “I can’t figure you out.”

“Would you prefer I made it easy for you?”

“Hardly. I enjoy a challenge.”

—ROTG—

The group took the West Road from Kinloch Hold, hooking around the north of Lake Calenhad to avoid passing Lothering, before heading south for Redcliffe. Days passed as the group moved down the Imperial Highway, fending off the odd bandit attack and avoiding checkpoints from Loghain’s troops. A few unavoidable incidents left the group bloodied but victorious, and Bodahn promised to sell the looted equipment in separate places in order to avoid arousing suspicion.

Alistair was wiping the blood from his sword with a sour look on his face when Daylen walked over, healing a nasty cut on his shoulder he’d picked up from a stray arrow. “What’s wrong?”

“These men didn’t need to die,” Alistair said softly, sheathing his blade. “If Loghain hadn’t turned them against us…” He looked at Daylen, frowning harshly. “How many more will we need to kill?”

“Too many,” Daylen replied, crouching and checking the corpse at Alistair’s feet. Closing the dead man’s eyes, he sighed. “It’s already been too many.” The warrior shook his head, walking away as Wynne approached Daylen.

“What a waste.”

“Was just discussing that with Alistair. Neither of us enjoys killing.” He pocketed the dead soldier’s wages. “We’ve got darkspawn swarming all over the south of this country, and thanks to that horse’s ass, I’m robbing a dead man.”

“I must ask,” Wynne replied slowly. “What does being a Grey Warden mean to you?”

Daylen thought for a moment. “Means I’ve been chosen to do something important. Killing as many darkspawn as possible before they get the chance to hurt someone.” He stood up, shaking his head. “When I’ve been allowed to do my job, that is.”

“There’s that, of course, but there’s more to being a Grey Warden than killing darkspawn and saving the world from the Blight.” Daylen blinked in confusion, but Wynne went on before he could reply. “Ultimately, being a Grey Warden is about serving others, about serving all people, whether elves or dwarves or men. As a Grey Warden you are a guardian of men. And you guard them because their continued existence is more important than you are. Thus it is you who serves, not they.”

Daylen stared at her for a moment, remembering Duncan killing Jory. “No. No, it is not about serving all people. The Wardens bow to no one. We are not beholden to anyone. And yes, it is all about killing darkspawn and stopping the Blight. That is our single and sole purpose. I have that on the authority of the Fereldan Warden-Commander.”

“Be that as it may,” Wynne insisted. “Your actions do have an effect on the people around you.” Seeing Daylen’s glare, she shrugged. “But I’ve lectured enough for today. I should stop before I wear out my welcome.”

“Right,” he drawled. “Gather the bodies, salvage what we can, and let’s move on. Only a matter of time before this happens again.”

—ROTG—

“Daylen, you got fleas or something?” Alistair asked as Daylen scratched at his neck again. The skin was already raw, but the itch continued. “You did fall in that bush back there. Maybe you should have stayed with the wagon, let the rest of us scout the path.”

“No, I’ll be fine. Just got a bad feeling,” Daylen grunted, turning a corner and glancing up the path. “Feel like we’re being watched. My neck prickles.”

“And is this feeling reliable?” Leliana asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Well, the last two times I felt this were when we met Morrigan, and when the Dalish made contact with us.”

“Get down!” Zevran cried, tackling Leliana to the ground. A barrage of arrows landed where she had been standing a moment later, and Daylen ducked as a fireball landed a few feet away from the party, knocking Sten and Morrigan off their feet. Alistair shoved Daylen aside as another flurry of arrows snapped past, catching a pair of them on his shield and deflecting another off his bracer.

“Leliana!” Daylen bellowed, pointing at a woman carrying a staff that had lightning crackling along its length. “Kill that mage!” The archer rolled to her feet as Zevran drew his own bow, the two rogues ducking another clutch of arrows and returning fire, the enemy mage’s spell dissipating as Leliana’s arrow speared through her neck. Zevran’s arrow pinged off the plate armor of a charging mercenary, and Sten snarled as he pushed himself to his feet, drawing his greatsword. It was only as Sten charged and the two crossed blades that Daylen realized just how large the mercenary really was. Then Sten shortened his opponent by a head, and the corpse collapsed as blood spattered Sten’s gleaming armor.

Leliana had dropped another two men by the time Alistair, Sten, and Zevran engaged the remaining mercenaries, charging up the path with Sten leading the way.

Daylen found Morrigan still laying in a heap. “Morrigan, you all right?” She stared at him groggily as he rolled her onto her back, dazed from the fireball. A trickle of blood ran from a nasty scrape on her forehead, and Wynne fell into a defensive stance in front of them, a burst of frost collecting around her staff and freezing the armored leader of the band.

“I am fine,” she insisted, trying to stand and weaving drunkenly. “I need no assistance.”

“You’re injured, let me…”

“If you insist,” Morrigan groused. Daylen clicked his fingers, a spark of healing magic jumping from his fingertips to Morrigan’s forehead. The scrape closed, and Morrigan’s eyes cleared as she scrubbed at the blood on her forehead. “I…” she shook her head. “Thank you.”

Daylen nodded in response, before peering over Morrigan’s shoulder. “Get down!” Yanking her down, Daylen kicked Wynne in the back of the knee, dropping all three mages to the ground as another clutch of arrows zipped past. “I think it’s time we joined the fight, don’t you?”

“Agreed,” Wynne groaned from the ground.

By the time the three mages got themselves back to their feet and ready to engage, the others had wiped out all but one of the mercenaries. Their leader was facedown in the dirt, his helmet knocked off and his sword hand twisted behind him between the hound’s mighty jaws. The man was trembling as Cupcake growled.

“Got a live one, boy?” Daylen asked. The dog whuffed around the limb in his mouth, and Daylen gave a tight smile. “Well, you got yourself the chew toy, you decide what to do with him.”

“Stop,” Leliana said suddenly, looking at the bodies more closely. “Don’t kill him.” Cupcake tilted his head, the mercenary leader groaning as his arm bent at a painful angle.

Daylen tilted his head. “Got use for this one?”

“He is no common bandit,” Leliana declared, nudging one of the nearby corpses with her boot. “None of them were. Look at them. Their weapons and armor are of fine make, and they were well-trained.”

Daylen looked at the body, before examining the survivor more closely. “I…oh. Good eye, Leliana.”

Leliana knelt, grabbing the man by the hair and jerking his head up to look him in the face. “You know what I am talking about, don’t you? Who are you?”

He coughed as his neck stretched. “Someone who regrets taking you on. Was told it would be an easy job.” He looked her in the eyes, blood smeared across his face from a flattened nose. “Kill the little red-haired girl, deal with the others as we pleased.”

“Wait, you’re after Leliana?” Daylen asked. “I…” He blinked. “Huh. I’ve gotten so used to being the target I’m not sure how to deal with this.”

Zevran shrugged. “It does happen from time to time.”

“You came to kill me?” Leliana asked. “Why? Who sent you?”

“It don’t pay to ask why someone wants someone else dead. I just need to know what to do, and where to get my money.”

Daylen laughed. “You took the wrong contract. Two Grey Wardens, an Orlesian bard, an Antivan Crow, one of the Qunari's finest, a Senior Enchanter of the Circle of Magi, and a Witch of the fucking Wilds.” He shook his head. “I hope you got paid in advance, at least.”

“Ha, money!” The man scoffed. “I’ll be lucky to get away with my life, it seems.” He smiled weakly at Daylen. “Maybe we could work something out?”

“You going to recruit him as well?” Zevran asked. “Or do you not make a habit of recruiting people who tried to kill you.”

“Only when they’re exceptionally charming.” He addressed the mercenary. “It’s not up to me at the moment. It’s her you’ll need to convince.”

“Speak quickly,” Leliana ordered.

The man obliged. “I’ve no real quarrel with you. Wasn’t me that wanted you dead.”

“Who, then?”

“Don’t have a name, but I have some directions written down on how to get to the house in Denerim. They’re in my belt. It’s the best I can do.”

“Your life for information, then,” Leliana pronounced.

“I think you can do better,” Daylen interrupted.

“What?” the man asked. “What else could I do? I told you, I don’t have any names!”

“You’re going to need work. And we’re building an army to fight the darkspawn. Take the road north, around Lake Calenhad. When you get to Kinloch Hold, wait there. A group of mages will be leaving there and heading to Redcliffe. I expect you to help ensure their safe arrival.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” the man said. Daylen nodded to Cupcake, and the man winced as his arm was released, bringing it around front of him and working his aching shoulder. “I’ll just…be on my way, then.”

As the man left, Leliana looked pensive. “Marjolaine. It has to be.”

“Who’s Marjolaine?” Daylen asked. Leliana gave him a pained look, and Daylen sighed. “Look, if this person is trying to have you killed, it’s important.”

Leliana sighed. “You’re right, of course. Can we speak in private?”

“Of course. Alistair?”

“Stripping the bodies already.”

The two stepped away from the rest of the group, Cupcake following closely. “This is going to take a moment, so please, bear with me.”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

“My mother was from Denerim, and served an Orlesian noblewoman who lived here when Orlais ruled. When Orlais was defeated and the common folk began to resent the presence of any Orlesian, the lady returned to Orlais. She took my mother with her. I was born in Orlais, and did not set foot in Ferelden until much later, but I consider myself a Fereldan. Mother was always telling stories of her homeland, I think she missed it. She died when I was very young, and the lady – Lady Cecilie – let me stay with her. I had no one else. She was quite old then, and she had me study music and dance to entertain her.” She shook her head. “Strangely, the only thing I really remember of my mother was her scent. She kept dried flowers in her closet, amongst her clothes. Small, white Fereldan wildflowers with a sweet fragrance. Mother called them Andraste’s Grace. They were very rare in Orlais.”

“Leliana,” Daylen said gently. “You were going someplace with this?”

“I came to Ferelden and the Chantry because I was being hunted, in Orlais.”

“Hunted? What for?”

“I was framed,” Leliana said softly. “Betrayed. By someone I thought I knew and could trust. Marjolaine – she was my mentor, and my friend. She taught me the bardic arts – how to enchant with words and song, to carry myself like a high-born lady, to blend in as a servant. The skills I used to serve her, my bard-master, because I loved her, and because I enjoyed what I did.”

“She was a bard as well?”

“She claimed to have retired,” Leliana said defensively. “She married a noble and inherited his wealth when he died. To many, she was just a rich widow.”

Daylen stared at her. “Leliana, you’re a storyteller! You know nobody is ever just a rich widow!”

“I thought I knew her. My devotion to her blinded me to her less than noble attributes. You can say it was my fault.” The words began to come faster as the rogue rushed through her confession. “I was sent to kill a man and bring everything he carried to Marjolaine. I don’t know who he was, but she gave me a name and a description, and I hunted him down. I found documents on his body – sealed documents.” She gave Daylen a weak smile. “My curiosity got the better of me. Something told me that I needed to know what was in those letters. Marjolaine had been selling all kinds of information about Orlais to other countries. Nevarra, and Antiva, among others. It was treason.”

“Isn’t that what bards do?”

“Some do,” Leliana admitted. “But I had always assumed Marjolaine only operated within Orlais. This was an unhappy surprise for me. My life as a bard taught me that my loyalties should be kept fluid. My concern was not that she was a traitor, but that her life would be in danger if she was caught. Orlais has been at war with so many countries. It takes a harsh view of such things…as I later discovered.”

“Most countries don’t appreciate treason,” Daylen said slowly. “What happened?”

“I should have left well enough alone,” Leliana replied bitterly. “But I didn’t. I had to tell Marjolaine I feared for her life. She brushed aside my concern. She admitted her guilt, but said it was in the past. That is why the documents had to be destroyed, she said.”

“I’m guessing things didn’t work out that way.” He leaned back slightly. “She set you up?”

“I believed her. And I kept believing her up until the moment they showed me the documents, altered by her hand to make me look the traitor.”

Daylen winced. “They?”

“Orlesian guards. They captured me.” Leliana’s voiced cracked, and Daylen put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Did terrible things to make me confess and reveal my conspirators. It was a traitor’s punishment I endured, and at the end of it, all that awaited me was eternity in an unmarked grave.” Cupcake nosed at her hand, and Leliana forced a smile as she scratched the dog behind the ears.

“Clearly you didn’t wind up there,” Daylen said. “How’d you get out?”

“The skills Marjolaine taught me were good for something, at least. I broke free when I saw the opportunity, but I did not seek Marjolaine out. If she thought I was coming for her, she would have me caught again.”

“So you came to Ferelden, to Lothering,” Daylen said. “A little out-of-the-way village.”

“I was tempted to confront her,” Leliana admitted. “I was furious, betrayed, scorned, but what could I do against her? So I fled to Ferelden, to the Chantry, and the Maker. Ferelden protected my person, and the Maker saved my soul.  And I found peace, for a time. And then I found you.”

“And you took up your weapons again to help Alistair and me against the Blight,” Daylen said. “Leliana, you’re not a bad person. You’re doing a noble thing, here, helping us. Thank you for trusting me with this.” He scratched at his beard, idly lamenting the long stretch between proper baths. “If it’s been so long, why would she come after you now?”

“Maybe someone saw me. Maybe she’s finally found me and wants to finish what she started.”

“Makes sense,” Daylen said with a shrug. “But one question remains.”

“What do we do now?” Leliana guessed.

Daylen nodded. “We should go to Denerim, confront her. Or she’ll just keep sending assassins.”

“Perhaps it’s time to settle this score for good,” Leliana conceded. “She needs to answer for what she’s done to me. If we are ever in Denerim, I would like to seek her out.”

“We’ll go as soon as possible,” Daylen assured her. “We’ll find her. And we’ll do what we have to do.”

“You are…very kind, to help me like this.”

Daylen sighed. “Leliana, I promised Morrigan’s mother that so long as she was with me, I would keep Morrigan safe. The same goes for you, for Sten, for Alistair, for Zevran,” he reached down to pat Cupcake on the head, “and for the furball here.”

“Whuff!”

“Now, let’s get to Redcliffe. I get the feeling we’ll have a whole new bushel of problems to deal with there.”

—ROTG—

The Fereldans are a puzzle. As a people, they are one bad day away from reverting to barbarism. They repelled invasions from Tevinter during the height of the Imperium with nothing but dogs and their own obstinate disposition. They are the coarse, willful, dirty, disorganized people who somehow gave rise to our prophet, ushered in an era of enlightenment, and toppled the greatest empire in history.

There are few things you can assume safely in dealing with these people: First, they value loyalty above all things, beyond wealth, beyond power, beyond reason. Second, although they have nothing in their entire country which you are likely to think at all remarkable, they are extremely proud of their accomplishments. Third, if you insult their dogs, they are likely to declare war. And finally, the surest sign that you have underestimated the Fereldans is that you think you have come to understand them.

--Empress Celene I of Orlais, in a letter to her newly appointed ambassador to Denerim

Chapter Text

“Do you really expect that detour to have been worth it?” Alistair asked as they came back down the trail. “All that way for a golem control rod – not even a golem, just the rod?”

“If we can retrieve it, that would be a big help,” Daylen replied. “It might be worth it. We'll have to head into the mountains anyway, to get to Orzammar.”

“I suppose,” Alistair sighed.

“Besides, it was free,” Daylen said, spinning the control rod around his hand and promptly dropping it. Kneeling, he picked the rod out of the dirt.

“What in the…” Alistair peered ahead. Daylen looked up, spotting a large crater with a trail of smoke ahead, and two peasants peering into the hole.

“How did a child survive that?” the woman asked. “The crater is still smoking.”

The man shrugged, cradling an infant swaddled in blue fabric. “It’s a boy – five fingers, five toes, that’s all that matters to me. The Maker has answered our prayers, love. Let’s go home, Marta, and raise the tyke as our own.”

As the new parents walked away, Zevran looked at Daylen. “Nothing is ever ordinary with you people, is it.”

“I wish I could say that’s not true,” Daylen sighed. “Let’s just move on, shall we?”

“Not yet,” Alistair said, hopping over the edge of the crater and sliding down the slope. “There’s some ore here.”

“And this benefits us how?” Daylen asked, scratching his head.

“Such ores are typically very good for making blades,” Leliana explained. “A fine weapon could be made from such ore, if we could find a blacksmith with the skill to forge with it. If nothing else, it would be very valuable to the right people.”

—ROTG—

“Have any idea where we are?” Alistair asked.

Daylen cocked his head as he stared at the map. “Sort of. You know…if you squint, Lake Calenhad looks like a bunny.” Leliana hissed a warning, and the mage looked over. “Eh?” Zevran grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him down into a crouch. “What’s going on?”

Leliana pointed down the hill. “Down there. Those men have the colors of Bann Loren.”

“Is that bad?”

“Not in and of itself,” Alistair explained. “Bann Loren’s just a minor lord, known for…fluid allegiances, but that doesn’t look like a friendly conversation.”

Daylen peered at the men gathered by the stream below. The men wearing Loren’s colors were outfitted mostly in leathers, surrounding a single man. Words were being exchanged, but the loner looked distinctly uneasy. “Alistair, do you recognize that other bloke?”

“Ostagar,” Alistair replied. “He was part of the honor guard of King Cailan.”

“Long way from home,” Daylen murmured, moments before one of the patrol drew a dagger and sank it into the man’s gut. “Maker’s breath!”

Zevran groaned as one of the men turned, hearing Daylen’s surprised exclamation. “And now we have to fight.”

Fortunately, the group had the support of three mages and two archers, as well as the high ground. They approached slowly after the fight, kicking weapons away from the bodies as Daylen knelt next to the stabbed man. “Definitely a member of the honor guard,” Alistair confirmed. “Elric Maraigne. He was a close confidant of the king. A good man, at that.”

The man groaned, and both Wardens jumped. “Goodness, he’s alive,” Daylen said, rather unnecessarily as the man rolled onto his back.

“Not for long,” he groaned, clutching the wound in his gut. “I didn’t expect the Bann’s men to notice my escape so quickly. I tried to hide here in the woods, but there wasn’t time.”

“Let me heal this,” Daylen urged. “I can help you!”

“Leave it,” Elric sighed. “It was either this, or die in some darkspawn’s belly, or be hanged as a deserter. You were there at Ostagar. You know how things went.” He gritted his teeth in pain. “There was no way we could win. Even Cailan, for all his bravado, knew there would be no victory at Ostagar. He entrusted me with the key to the royal arms chest. If anything were to happen to him, he said, it was vital I deliver it to the Wardens.”

“Is this chest important?” Daylen asked. “And do you still have the key?”

“The royal arms chest,” Alistair broke in. “It’s where Cailan kept his father’s sword, the one he always said he’d slay the archdemon with.”

“More than that,” Elric said. “There was a secret compartment, as well. He kept documents in there, they might help you.”

“Where’s the key, and where’s the chest?”

“The Maker has a sense of humor, doesn’t he?” Elric asked rhetorically. “I suppose it’s for the best, however. I stashed it in the camp. It’s probably still there.”

“Still there?” Daylen asked incredulously. “You mean, at Ostagar? Where there’s now thousands of bloody darkspawn?”

“The key’s behind a loose stone in the base of a statue,” Elric went on. “It is vital that the king’s documents not fall into the wrong hands. Maric’s sword is too powerful to be pawed at by those monsters. Same goes for the king’s other arms and armor.” He paused briefly, his strength clearly fading. “And…if you happen to find Cailan’s body, see it off. He was our king. He shouldn’t be left to rot amidst the darkspawn’s filth. It would have been honorable to die at Ostagar. I suppose here will do.”

“We’re going to need you alive,” Daylen replied, light flaring from his hands. “Once I’m done here, I’ll need you to draw a map so we’ll know where to search.”

“You’ll be taking me along, won’t you?” Alistair asked. “Call me sentimental, but I left behind some darkspawn that really deserve a sword through the middle.”

“How am I supposed to live?” Elric asked. “I’m a deserter.”

“You’re a survivor. That’s all that you can hope for, sometimes, just living another day. We’re building an alliance to fight the Blight. A member of the royal honor guard would be a welcome addition.”

—ROTG—

“We’re getting close to Redcliffe,” Alistair said, surveying the landscape. “Just past that next ridge, I think.”

Daylen peered at the map, looking around. “How can you tell? None of this matches!”

Leliana rolled her eyes, snatching the map out of Daylen’s hand and turning it around, before handing it back. “You’re looking at it the wrong way, Warden.”

Daylen looked closer at the map. “Oh, I see.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cupcake sat down, putting his paws over his face. He looked over at Alistair. “You sure you don’t want to lead?”

“We are in a great deal of trouble,” Sten muttered. Cupcake whined an agreement.

As the wind shifted, Alistair’s face clouded, and he sniffed the air. “Anyone else smell a dead body?”

“You think we’re in the wrong line of work, that you can identify the smell of a corpse that easily?” Daylen asked.

Alistair shrugged. “It’s a living. When you’re not dying.”

“If there’s bodies nearby, that could mean Redcliffe is worse off than we thought,” Wynne declared. “We should hurry.”

“Actually,” Alistair said suddenly, turning to Daylen, “can we talk for a moment? I need to tell you something I, ah, should probably have told you earlier.”

“If this is about that missing block of cheese last week, we figured that out pretty easily.”

Alistair winced. “No, I wish it was, though.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I,” Daylen sighed. “All right, come on. Your turn for the private conversation.” The two stepped away from the group, and turned away from the others. “What’s on your mind?”

Alistair gave him an uneasy look. “I told you before Arl Eamon raised me, right? That my mother was a serving girl at the castle and he took me in?”

Daylen nodded. “You mentioned you were a bastard, I figured either some relative of Eamon, or Loghain himself.”

Alistair blanched in surprise. “What?”

“Some sort of political hostage situation,” Daylen said. “Not to keep you safe, and that really only leaves one likely father.”

“I…no. That’s…no. Loghain is not my father.”

“Oh. Well so much for the ‘Loghain wants Alistair dead so badly because Alistair is his bastard son’ idea. If not Loghain, then why would Eamon take you in?”

“Because my father was King Maric. Which made Cailan my half-brother, I suppose.”

Daylen blinked in confusion for several seconds. “You’re Maric’s child?” he asked finally, his voice significantly higher in pitch. “You don’t think you could have brought this up before? Oh, this is so much worse than I thought…”

“How? When would I say that? ‘Oh, by the way, King Maric had sex with a servant girl and she produced a bastard son. That’s me.’ Great way to broach the subject!” Daylen huffed a laugh. “I would have told you, but…it never really meant anything to me. Anything good, at least. I was inconvenient, a possible threat to Cailan’s rule, so they kept me a secret. I’ve never talked about it to anyone. Everyone who knew either resented me for it, or they coddled me. Even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn’t want you to know. I hoped this wouldn’t come up. I’m sorry.”

Several puzzle pieces clicked together. “So when Cailan sent you and me to light the signal at Ostagar…”

“He was keeping us both alive, yes,” Alistair finished.

Daylen was pacing, his mind spinning. “You should have told me. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this.”

“Look, I said I’m sorry! I know I should have said something. This…it’s never brought me anything but problems. I wish it weren’t even true.”

Daylen stopped pacing, looking at his friend incredulously. “Alistair, are you daft? I get that you didn’t want to talk about it, I don’t have a problem with that.”

“Then what…”

“Why do you think Loghain’s trying so hard to have us killed? It’s not just because we’re Wardens – sure, we know too much about what happened at Ostagar, but he’s already painted us as traitors. But you? You’re a threat, to his rule and to his daughter’s rule. You have a claim to the throne!”

“I don’t want to be king! I’ve never wanted that!”

“I know that, and you know that. Loghain does not, and I doubt he’d care. Right now, there is a commoner on the throne of Ferelden and her father, a commoner raised to nobility, acting as regent. If you pressed a claim, you’d stand a good chance of taking the throne. He can’t afford that risk, because if you wind up on the throne, he winds up on the block.”

“If there’s an heir to be found, it’s Arl Eamon himself. He’s not of royal blood, but he is Cailan’s uncle. And more importantly, he’s very popular with the people. Though, if he’s really as sick as we’ve heard…” he shook his head. “No, I don’t want to think about that. I really don’t.”

“It doesn’t matter. You have some sort of a claim to the throne, so he’ll try to knock us off. He doesn’t strike me as the type to tolerate any possibility of a future threat.”

“Wonderful,” Alistair said bitterly. “Doesn’t anyone care about what I want?”

“I do,” Daylen said softly. “But they very clearly do not. Else they wouldn’t be trying so hard to murder us. Alistair, I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to. Not sure I could. But I do think you could unite this nation. You’re stronger and smarter than you think.”

“I don’t want any part of it,” Alistair groused. “I’m no king. I’m a Grey Warden, and I’m the son of a commoner to boot. It was made very clear to me early on that there was no room for me raising any rebellions or such nonsense. And that’s fine by me. At any rate, that’s it. That’s what I had to tell you. I thought you should know about it.”

“Are you sure?” Daylen asked sarcastically. “You’re not hiding anything else?”

“Besides my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair, no, that’s it,” Alistair drawled. “Just the prince thing. But please, can we move on? I’ll just pretend you still think I’m some…nobody, who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens.”

Daylen cocked his head. “And what does that make me?”

“The reason I think we have a chance of setting things right.”

Daylen put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I couldn’t do this without you, Alistair. You may think you’re some nobody, you’re my friend and brother in the Wardens, and I wouldn’t trade that for all the princes in Thedas.” Alistair gave him a halfhearted smile. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Now let’s go find out what’s happening in Redcliffe.”

—ROTG—

True to Alistair’s word, the village was past the next ridge, the scent of rotting bodies getting stronger. “That’s the castle, up that way,” Alistair explained, pointing at the structure in the middle distance. “Apparently, Ferelden has never fallen to any force that didn’t first capture Redcliffe. It’s the first, last, and best defense for the sole land route into the country.”

“The village is a hub for trading,” Leliana added. “The mountain pass to Orzammar is near here, as well as the route to the Orlesian border.”

Cupcake growled, and Daylen looked over to see an archer approaching them, his bow strung but not raised. The archer stopped a fair distance away, speaking as they closed on him. “I…I thought I saw travelers coming down the road, though I scarcely believed it. Have you come to help us?”

“We’re on important business. I need to see Arl Eamon,” Daylen said bluntly.

“The arl?” The archer asked incredulously. “Then…you don’t know? Has nobody out there heard?”

Daylen frowned. “I’ve heard he’s sick, if that’s what you mean.”

“He could be dead for all we know! Nobody’s heard from the castle in days!”

“All right, calm down, mate,” Daylen said soothingly. “Take a deep breath. What’s your name?”

“Tomas.”

“All right, Tomas. Start from the beginning, and tell me what’s going on.”

“We’re under attack,” the archer said. “Monsters come out of the castle every night, and attack us until dawn. Everyone’s been fighting…and dying.”

“Well, that’s just typical, isn’t it,” Zevran muttered.

“We’ve no army to defend us, no arl to lead us, no king to send us help. So many are dead, and those left are terrified they’re next.”

“Hold on,” Alistair broke in. “What is this evil that’s attacking you?”

“I don’t rightly know,” Tomas admitted. “I’m sorry. Nobody does.”

Daylen sighed. “Is it animal, vegetable, mineral, what?”

“Walking corpses, undead creatures that drag off the living,” Tomas said bitterly.

“Oh,” Daylen replied after a brief pause. “Well that, we can handle.” Tomas gaped at him, and Daylen shrugged. “We live kind of an interesting life.”

“I should take you to Bann Teagan,” Tomas said, clearly wanting to get away from the crazy people and back to dealing with imminent death at the hands of the undead. “He’s all that’s holding us together. He’ll want to see you.”

Alistair perked up. “Bann Teagan? Arl Eamon’s brother? He’s here?”

Tomas nodded. “It’s not far, if you’ll come with me.”

He led them down a steep hill, past a windmill that was slowly turning in the noontime breeze and overlooking the deep red cliffs that gave the village its name. In the center of the village, a man with a truly magnificent mustache was shouting at a ramshackle militia drilling behind a rough palisade. Tomas led them through the mess, up the short set of stairs to the Chantry’s doors.

Daylen’s face fell as the group entered the Chantry. “Maker…is this all that’s left of the village?”

The Chantry was filled with women and children huddled together. The normal scent of the inside of a Chantry – incense smoke, wax, and wood varnish – had been covered with the tang of sweat and fear, the stink of too many scared bodies packed into too small a space for too long. The sound of soft weeping was coming from multiple directions, and the villagers that the group could see were filthy, clearly scared, and eyeing the group suspiciously.

As the group moved through the Chantry, Daylen began speaking quickly and quietly, issuing orders. “Wynne, there’s wounded over there, see to them. Leliana, talk to people, see what you can find out about the situation. Morrigan, scout the area from the air. If you see anybody approaching the village, find me and let me know. Zevran, take Cupcake and scout the village by ground, see if there’s any other ways we could be attacked by these creatures than the castle itself. Sten, Alistair, with me.” He paused when he finished, surprised at his own initiative.

“This way,” Tomas urged, leading them through the Chantry. Shaking it off, Daylen spotted Tomas heading for two men talking. One bore a sword and shield, but rather than armor was wearing finery that had clearly seen better days. An elderly man was listening intently, his face drawn with tension and fatigue.

“See to it,” the younger man ordered. The elder nodded and bowed, leaving as the younger man turned at their approach. He looked to the archer first. “It’s…Tomas, yes?” He nodded. “And who are these people with you? They’re obviously not simple travelers.”

“No, my lord,” Tomas replied. “They just arrived, and I thought you would want to see them.”

“Well done, Tomas,” the man – presumably Bann Teagan, Daylen thought – said approvingly. “Greetings, friends. My name is Teagan, Bann of Rainesfere, brother to the arl.”

“I remember you, Bann Teagan,” Alistair said quietly. “Thought the last time we met I was a lot younger and…covered in mud.”

“Covered in mud?” Teagan asked, looking closer at him. His eyes widened in recognition, and a genuine smile spread across his face. “Alistair? It is you, isn’t it? You’re alive! This is wonderful news!”

Alistair nodded, forcing a smile. “Still alive, yes. Though not for long if Teyrn Loghain has anything to say about it.”

Teagan’s face darkened. “Indeed. Loghain would have us believe all Grey Wardens died along with my nephew, amongst other things.”

“Most of us did,” Daylen chimed in. “Alistair and I made it out. You don’t believe Loghain’s lies?”

“What, that he pulled his men in order to save them? That Cailan risked everything in the name of glory?” Teagan scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Ah,” Daylen said uneasily. “That last part may be…somewhat true.”

“Loghain calls the Grey Wardens traitors, murderers of the king. I don’t believe it. It is an act of a desperate man.” Teagan looked at Daylen. “So, you are a Grey Warden as well? A pleasure to meet you.”

“Daylen Amell, Bann Teagan Guerrin,” Alistair said. “He’s the captain of our group.”

“I’m a captain?” Daylen asked. “Hm. Suppose that fits.” He shook hands with Teagan. “Bann Teagan, I wish we could meet under better circumstances.”

“As do I, but we make do with the ones we have. If you’re here to see my brother, that might be a problem. Eamon is gravely ill.”

“What a remarkable coincidence,” Zevran said as he rejoined the group. “We’ve found a few things worth notice, Warden.”

“Good,” Daylen replied, looking to Teagan. “What’s the situation?”

“No one has heard from the castle in days,” Teagan said. “No guards patrol the walls, and no one has responded to my shouts.”

“I understand you’ve got an undead issue, too.”

Teagan nodded. “The attacks started a few nights ago. Evil…things…surged from the castle. Walking dead, decomposing corpses returning to life with a hunger for flesh. We drove them back, but many fell, and each night, they come with greater numbers. With Cailan dead and Loghain starting a war over the throne, no one outside Redcliffe can or will respond to my urgent calls for help.” He sighed, and Daylen realized how exhausted the man was. “And I have a feeling tonight’s assault will be the worst yet.”

“Bann Teagan,” Daylen interrupted. “We may be few in number, but my companions and I stand ready to help.”

Teagan’s shoulders slumped in relief. “I am grateful to hear you say that.” He gave Daylen a wry smile. “I was about to ask.”

“There are no darkspawn here,” Sten growled. “And nothing to gain. It is a fool’s errand.”

“If there’s a chance to rescue the arl, we have to try,” Daylen replied. “There’s plenty to gain.”

“Perhaps.”

Daylen went on. “Besides, we’re trying to protect people where we can. I’m not abandoning these people.” Alistair smiled faintly at his words.

“Thank you,” Teagan said gratefully. “This means more to me than you can guess.” He looked to Tomas. “Please tell Murdock what has happened, then return to your post.”

“Yes, my lord,” Tomas replied, bowing and leaving quietly.

“Now then,” Teagan went on. “There is much to do before night falls. I’ve put two men in charge of the defense outside. Murdock, the village mayor, is outside the Chantry. Ser Perth, one of Eamon’s knights, is just up the cliff at the windmill, watching the castle. You may discuss the preparations with them.”

“Murdock,” Daylen said. “The chap with the impressive mustache? Sounds like a mountain range learned to talk?”

“That’s him,” Teagan nodded.

“Right. I’ve got plenty of questions, but I’ll save them for tomorrow.”

Leliana and Wynne rejoined them as Teagan stepped away. “The wounded have been seen to,” Wynne reported. “They will be as safe as they can be. The walls of this building are thick and the doors strong, but they are not impregnable.”

“All those who cannot defend themselves are in here,” Leliana replied. “The children, the elderly, and the women who are not trained to fight are all here. This is what’s left.”

“The women should not be fighting regardless,” Sten rumbled. “It is not done.”

Daylen rolled his eyes. “Maybe that's the case in Qunari lands, but here, no one cares about what’s swinging between your legs when you’re swinging a warhammer above your head.”

“The people are terrified,” Leliana said. “If the knights and the militia fail to keep the monsters from getting inside, Bann Teagan will be their only defense.”

Cupcake tugged at Daylen’s sleeve, and he looked down as the hound ran over to a crying woman. “Anything else?” Daylen asked, starting to follow the hound.

“Nothing yet,” Leliana admitted. “If I learn more, I shall tell you.”

“Excuse me,” A woman asked as Daylen passed by. “You’re a Grey Warden, right? Were you in Ostagar? In the Korcari Wilds?”

“I was, yes,” Daylen said. “Something wrong?”

“My husband and son went there to bring the Chant of Light to the Chasind, but I haven’t heard from them since.”

“Are you Jetta?” Daylen asked, flashing back to a pair of corpses he had seen in the Wilds.

“I am. You’ve heard of me?” Her face fell as Daylen’s face gave away his thoughts. “Oh, no.”

“I, ah, I found your husband and son. Unfortunately, so did the darkspawn.” He fished around in his satchel, finding the lockbox he had recovered what seemed like a year ago. “I have something here from your husband. I’m sorry.”

The woman was clearly fighting back tears as she accepted it. “Thank you so much for bringing this to me. It means a lot to…” she bowed her head, and Leliana stepped forward, wrapping a comforting arm around the woman’s shoulders. “Maker’s blessings upon you,” the woman mumbled.

Daylen nodded, heading towards the crying girl as Cupcake whined impatiently. “Are you all right?”

“Sorry, am I bothering you?” the woman asked through her tears. “I’ll try to be more quiet.”

Zevran spoke up. “Is this just fear, or is there something else wrong besides the horde of undead besieging your village?”

The woman burst into fresh tears, and Daylen shot him a dirty look. “Those things dragged my mother away,” she explained. “I don’t know what happened to her, but I hear her screaming all the time, everywhere! And now my brother, Bevin! He ran off! I don’t know where he is. I’m so scared they got him, too!”

Daylen took her hands in his, squeezing them gently. “What’s your name?”

It seemed to calm her. “Kaitlyn.”

“Kaitlyn, I’m Daylen Amell.” He let go of her hands. “Why would Bevin run off? He’s safer here.”

“He said something about saving mother,” she explained. “He’s just a little boy! He doesn’t understand she’s gone.”

“Grief can make us do many things that don’t make any sense, I’m afraid.” Daylen stroked his beard, before glancing at Cupcake. “Do you have anything of his handy?”

“Well, he left his coat,” Kaitlyn offered, holding out the garment. “Why?”

Daylen smiled. “We’ll find your brother. Well, specifically, my dog will. He’s a mabari hound. If your brother is within five miles of here, he can sniff him out.” Cupcake gave a hurt whine. “All right, all right, ten miles. Do you know where he might go?”

“Our house by the square, maybe, but I searched there! I searched the rest of the village, too.”

“We’ll find him,” Daylen assured her. He stumbled back as the woman wrapped him in a tight hug, sobbing thanks into his chest. “Uh, Leliana? Alistair? Sten? Little help?”

—ROTG—

Alistair sniffed as the wind shifted. “What is that smell? Fish? And something else…oh. More fish.”

“It’s a fishing village, Alistair,” Leliana commented. “It’s going to have that…scent.”

Morrigan walked out of an alleyway. “Warden, the area around the village is clear. I see nothing in sight on the castle, either.”

“That was risky.”

“Very few sentries take aim at birds,” she replied dryly.

Daylen conceded the point with a shrug, before turning to Alistair. “Go find this Ser Perth, see if there’s anything he needs. I’m going to have a talk with Murdock.”

“Warden, before you do,” Zevran spoke up. “I checked out the general store. Besides a not insignificant amount of coin, there is lamp oil there. Several barrels, in fact.” He tilted his head. “Think of how lovely a bonfire would be if we used these monsters as kindling.”

“Zevran, I like the way you think,” Daylen replied with a grin. “Go with Alistair, tell them where to find the oil.”

The two departed, and Daylen turned, his smile fading as he overhead some of the archers speaking quietly. “You know we don’t have the men we need,” one said. “And their numbers just keep on growing each night.”

“Well, sure, they take the dead and they…you know,” another replied.

“I guess this might be the last night after all,” a third commented grimly. “The king isn’t coming – nobody is.”

“So what can we do? Leave? Try to get out of the village?” the first asked.

The second paused mid-shot. “And abandon everyone? No. We fight.”

The third nodded in agreement. “We’ve no other choice.”

“Gentlemen,” Daylen said quietly. “Have a little faith. You’ve just gotten reinforcements.”

“And just who are you, to come tell us that?” the first archer asked.

“Daylen Amell. Circle mage, Grey Warden, and all the support you’re going to need.”

“After Ostagar, pardon me if I don’t have much faith in the Wardens,” the second archer said scornfully.

Daylen rolled his eyes, before raising a hand and lobbing a fireball straight up. The fireball exploded after a few seconds of flight, the crash drawing the attention of the entire militia.

“Listen to me, all of you,” Daylen said, raising his voice. “You’re scared, I understand. You don’t know me, you don’t know my companions. You lot have had it rough. We’re here to help you out, but if you don’t think you can cope, take a minute and dig deep for a bigger set of balls, because you're gonna need them before we’re through! They say the price of victory is paid in blood. I say we make sure it’s their blood, not ours. Your families will be safe! You’ll survive this! And when we do, the first round’s on me!” A ragged cheer went up, and Daylen nodded. “Where’s Murdock?”

“Here,” a gravelly voice said. “That was some display.” The man stepped out of the crowd, and Daylen was once again struck by the magnitude of the man’s mustache.

“This place does still have a tavern, right?” Daylen asked. Murdock nodded, and Daylen sighed in relief. “Good. If I promise everyone a pint, I want to be able to deliver.”

“Good to hear it. So you’re the Grey Warden, are you? Heard they all died with the king.”

“You heard wrong.”

“So you say,” Murdock rasped. “A damned Qunari could walk up and say he was a Grey Warden – I wouldn’t know the difference.”

“Sten?” Daylen looked at the giant. “Any comments?”

“No.”

“We aren’t going to turn aside anyone who wants to help,” Murdock continued. “Don’t take me for being an ingrate or nothing. I’m mayor of what’s left of the village – providing we aren’t killed and hauled off to the castle tonight. From what you said, I’m guessing we won’t be.”

“Don’t guess,” Daylen said. “Know. Nobody’s dying here tonight.”

“I hope you’re right,” Murdock said. “I’ve been trying to hold us together, but it isn’t easy. Anyhow, you’re here, and they tell me you’re in charge.”

Daylen shook his head. “No. You know these people better. We’re here to help, not take over.” Murdock seemed slightly more at ease. “What needs doing?”

“We don’t have much armor or weapons. What we do have needs repairs, and fast, or half of us will be fighting without either. Owen’s the only blacksmith who can do it, but the stubborn fool refuses to even talk. If we’re to be ready for tonight, we’ll need that crotchety bastard’s help.”

“And what’s up his ass?” Daylen asked. “Why does he refuse to talk to you?”

“His daughter, Valena, is one of the arlessa’s maids. So he hasn’t heard from her since this whole business started. He demanded we attack the castle, break down the gate, and force our way in. I said it was impossible, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s locked himself in the smithy now. I can’t force him to do repairs. He says he’d rather die first.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Anything else you need?”

“We could use some extra bodies, but you’ve helped with that issue,” Murdock said. “Having a veteran like Dwyn in the militia would help a lot, but he flat out refuses.” At Daylen’s questioning look, Murdock went on. “He’s a trader, a dwarf. Lives near the lake. Locked himself up in his home with some of his workers, he has, says he doesn’t need any of us. We could use someone with his fighting experience, but he won’t come out.”

“A dwarven trader with combat experience?” Alistair asked.

“He’s a collector, as well,” Murdock said. “Likes Qunari weaponry.” Daylen’s eyes widened. Behind him, Sten tensed. “He’s just back from Orzammar, too. Bet he regrets stopping by.”

“He collects Qunari swords?” Daylen asked.

“Just brought a big one back with him,” Murdock confirmed. “Why?”

“Because the giant behind me is a Qunari,” Daylen explained. “Who is missing his large sword, and wants it back rather badly. We’re going to go have a talk with him.”

“Good luck, Warden.”

Daylen looked at the sun overhead. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Then there is no time to waste,” Wynne replied.

“No, no there isn’t. Which is why I need you to leave.”

Wynne started. “What?”

“I have a very special job for you, Wynne. If it’s going to be as bad as they say, our lives will depend on you.”

—ROTG—

Daylen eyed the house in front of them as Cupcake scratched at the door. “Are you telling me that Kathryn’s little brother went straight to his own house and his sister couldn’t find him?” Cupcake tilted his head in confusion, before sitting down and scratching behind an ear. “Oh well. In we go.” He glanced at his companions. “Sten, Morrigan, wait out here. If Alistair or Zevran come looking, we shouldn’t be long.”

Sten nodded, taking a rigid stance outside the house. “As you wish.” Morrigan remained silent, leaning against the side of the house and scowling.

“Any reason you left Sten out there?” Leliana asked as they entered the house.

“If you were a scared little boy and an armored, scowling giant with a very large sword surprised you in your own home, would you react well?” Cupcake sniffed the air, before the hound put his nose to the ground, sniffing about for a few moments. “You sure he’s here, pup?” The dog turned to look at him for a moment, before resuming his search. “First time I’ve seen a dog be personally offended.” Cupcake snuffled, before padding into the bedroom and sitting in front of a cabinet. “You find the boy?”

“Whuff!”

There was a quiet thump from inside the cabinet, and Daylen could hear a short, surprised gasp from inside. “Hello?” He said softly. “Is someone in there?”

A young voice came from inside the wardrobe. “Go away! This isn’t your home!”

Daylen rolled his eyes. “Look, little one, come on out of there before I nail that door shut and carry the whole thing out of here.”

There was a brief pause. “I…yes, sir.” The door opened, and a young boy with blond hair the same color as Kaitlyn’s stepped out, looking at them warily. “All right, I came out. You won’t hurt me, will you? I’ll go back to the chantry if you really want.”

“Are you Bevin?”

The boy looked up, squinting at Daylen. “You know me?”

Daylen knelt in front of the child. “Your sister is looking for you. She’s worried sick. This is your house, isn’t it?”

“It was my mother’s house,” Bevin said quietly. “She’s dead now, and Kaitlyn said we have to move away. If we survive.”

“So what were you doing in here? You’re safer in the chantry,” Daylen asked.

“I…I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”

“Are you sure?” Daylen offered, looking the child square in the eyes. “Maybe I could help you.”

Bevin shuffled a moment, before nodding. “I just…Father said I could have his sword when I grew up. It was Grandfather’s, and he was a great dragon-slayer. I thought…if I was brave like Grandfather, I could use his sword and…kill the bad people who took Mother.”

Daylen smiled faintly. “You’re a little young to be taking on dragons, Bevin, but you’re very brave to try.”

“Thank you, ser,” Bevin stammered. “But the sword is too heavy for me. I guess…I guess I’m not as strong as someone like you.”

Daylen put a hand on Bevin’s shoulder. “You’ll grow up eventually, don’t worry. You should see my friend standing outside. You might be as big as him one day.”

“That doesn’t help us now. Kaitlyn says everyone’s going to die tonight.”

Daylen shook his head fiercely. “Nobody’s dying tonight if I have anything to say about it. I’m a Grey Warden. My companions and I are going to help you.”

“Really? You must be very brave. I wish I was like you.”

“Where’s this sword now?”

“In the chest in Mother’s room. Father gave me a key, but I’m not supposed to give it to anyone.”

“Perhaps I could help you and your sister in return?” Daylen offered.

“You could? Maybe you could…give my sister money? She said if we had money we’d be all right, even if Mother is dead.”

“I’ll talk to your sister about it,” Daylen promised. “Meanwhile, I could use that sword to help the village.”

Bevin dug around in a pocket, pulling out a brass key. “Here’s the key. I hope you use it to kill a lot of those bad people. I should…go back to the Chantry.”

Daylen nodded. “Cupcake?” The dog looked at him. “Make sure he makes it back all right.”

“Whuff!” Cupcake bounded forward and licked Bevin’s face, and the boy giggled before the two left the house.

“Leliana?” She grabbed the key and headed upstairs quickly, returning with an oilcloth-wrapped bundle in her arms. Daylen accepted the bundle from her, stowing the weapon in his pack. The hilt of the weapon poked out of his rucksack, and Daylen made a mental note to bend his knees when he went through doors. “It is elven-made,” Leliana said. “Veridium. Very well-balanced.”

“Well, that’s one sword recovered.”

“What’s next?” Leliana asked. “That blacksmith, or the dwarf?”

“Let’s talk to Dwyn next. Sten looked like he was about to march over there and beat the sword out of him.” As they exited the building and found the rest of the party back together, Daylen looked to Sten. “Let’s go have a talk with Dwyn.”

The giant remained impassive, but Daylen spotted a slight clench in the Qunari’s jaw. “Yes.”

Finding Dwyn’s house was simple enough with Murdock’s directions, but Daylen shouted and hammered on the door to no reply before turning to Leliana. “Leliana, can you pick the lock?”

“I can,” Sten said, rearing back and planting his armored boot just above the lock. The door held. The doorframe did not, and the group entered the house, confronted almost immediately by two mercenaries in leathers and a dwarf in thick armor.

“Wonderful,” the dwarf sneered. “Intruders. I hope you’ve a good reason for breaking and entering into my home.”

“You’re talking to a mage,” Daylen snapped at him. “Care to rephrase that?”

The dwarf flinched. “You know what? In the interest of keeping my face from bursting into flame, I think I will. The name’s Dwyn. Pleased to meet you. Now, kindly tell me why you’re here.”

“Two reasons. First, I’m looking for a Qunari sword you bought.”

“You broke into my house for that?” Dwyn asked incredulously, pointing at a massive blade mounted on the wall. Sten’s eyes widened as he saw it. “It must be worth something to you, then.”

“Not personally, but it’s worth a lot to my very large, very angry friend here, who happens to be the rightful owner of that blade,” Daylen replied, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the increasingly-impatient Sten, who leaned forward slightly, maximizing his stone-faced glare and looming presence. Daylen looked up as the Qunari’s shadow blotted out the light. “Either it’s a total eclipse, or Sten’s getting impatient…”

“So it’s your sword?” Dwyn asked, pointing at Sten. “Faryn didn’t mention he took it off a live giant.”

“He wants his blade back,” Daylen explained. “He’s rather attached to it. Would be good for your soul, not to mention your limbs, to return it.”

“You know, that sounds like a great idea,” Dwyn agreed. “Now why don’t you take your sword and leave?”

“Leads me to my next question,” Daylen went on. “What are you doing shut up in here?”

“Surviving,” Dwyn replied. “We have supplies to last for quite some time, and my boys and I can swing a weapon better than any of those fools out there.”

“So I hear. Your boys certainly look like they can handle themselves. But you’ll die in here just as easily as you would out there.”

“Thanks, but I’ll take my chances in here. Everyone else can run around in the open, waiting to die.”

“Can’t I change your mind?” Daylen asked. “They could use your help.”

“Maybe. Let’s hear what you’ve got.”

“I could put in a good word for you with Bann Teagan or the Arl.”

Dwyn grunted. “You might just be able to pull that off. Fine, I’ll throw in with the militia. For now. You better be out there too, when the sun goes down. I’m not fighting for a lost cause, you hear me?” The men trooped out, and Daylen pulled Sten’s sword off the wall mounting, turning it over in his hand and briefly marveling at the weight of the weapon before handing it to Sten.

Sten inhaled deeply as he took the weapon back. “Strange,” he remarked, hefting the blade. “I had almost forgotten it. Completion.” He looked to Daylen, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Are you sure you are a Grey Warden? I think you must be an ashkaari to find a single lost blade in a country at war.”

“I made you a promise, Sten,” Daylen replied.

“I would thank you for this, if I knew how.”

“You’re welcome, but what will you do now?” Daylen asked. “After all, you owe the Arishok a report.”

Sten dropped the looted greatsword he had been using to the floor, strapping his own blade’s sheath in it’s place. “I promised to assist you in the Blight,” Sten said, drawing the weapon. “And I could deliver a much more satisfying answer to the Arishok's question if the Blight were ended, don't you agree?”

“Absolutely,” Daylen agreed.

Sten cracked a warm smile. Daylen was surprised that the big man’s face didn't shatter under the sudden strain. “Then lead the way.”

“Thanks for persuading Dwyn to come out here,” Murdock remarked as they passed by. “He’s going to be a great help, I just know it.”

“I’m off to talk to Owen now,” Daylen said. “Those knights get the oil?”

“They’ll have a nice trap set for those monsters.”

—ROTG—

King Calenhad Theirin once famously declared, “The fate of Redcliffe is the fate of all Ferelden.” Certainly, the castle is the first and last defense for the sole land route into Ferelden, and the country has never fallen to any force that did not first capture Redcliffe.

The castle, which despite being three times captured is popularly described as “unassailable,” also guards one of the largest and most prosperous towns in Ferelden. Redcliffe village is well situated near the mountain pass to Orzammar and the Orlesian border, and so serves as a center of foreign trade. For these reasons, Redcliffe is accounted an arling despite the smallness of the domain.

The inhabitants of Redcliffe village are primarily fishermen or merchants who ship dwarven goods through the pass from Orlais to Denerim. When the entire village smells of smoked fish on certain late autumn mornings, the merchants in their finery do their utmost to pretend otherwise.

--"Redcliffe," From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi

Chapter Text

Daylen hammered on the door of the smithy, glancing nervously at the sun as it moved lower in the sky. “Oi! Open the door!”

“Go away, curse you!” Came the muffled reply. “Leave me in peace! You’ve already taken everything out of my stores! There’s nothing left!”

“I haven’t taken a thing from you!” There was a confused noise from behind the door. “Look, this is Owen, right? The smith? I need to speak with you.”

There was a brief pause, before the voice came back with a note of confusion. “Who is that? What do you want?”

“Daylen,” Alistair said. “We are short on time…”

“I’d prefer not to speak through a door,” Daylen replied. “Can I come in?”

“All right, all right, let me undo the locks. All I ask is that you don’t make any trouble.”

As they entered the smithy, Daylen practically gagged as the smell hit his nose. “Sweet Maker!”

Leliana flinched as she sniffed the air. “What is that smell? It’s like someone set a brewery on fire!”

“Somebody’s been drinking,” Alistair commented.

“So I let you in,” Owen said, dropping an empty bottle next to a pile of its mates. Scratching an unkempt beard that had a great deal of scorch marks in it, he fished around in a crate for a fresh bottle. “You wanted to talk. Now we’re talking. Mind telling me who you are?”

Daylen was pinching his nose, breathing through his mouth. “You’re Owen, right? Daylen Amell, a Grey Warden helping Bann Teagan.”

“A Grey Warden, is it? Huh. It takes all kinds.” The smith found a fresh bottle, biting the cork off and taking a pull. “Care to join me as I get besotted? Or is there something in particular you wanted?”

“I need you to get back to work,” Daylen said bluntly. “Why are you leaving those men unprepared?”

“My girl, Valena, is one of the arlessa’s maids and she’s trapped up there in the castle, but the mayor won’t send anyone for her.”

Daylen dropped his hand and raised an eyebrow as the smith passed by him. “So rather than help them through this and save enough lives to make an attack on the castle, you’re going to drink yourself to death?”

“Why not? It’s not like we’re going to live past the night anyhow.” Owen scoffed. “Or are you going to save us?”

Daylen drew himself up to his full height looked him square in the eyes. “Yes, I am.”

Owen paused. “Is that so? Huh. Maybe it’s the drink talking, but you almost sound like you believe that.”

“Owen, in the past few months I’ve survived the Battle of Ostagar, fought demons, darkspawn, and werewolves, ended a curse that’s lasted for centuries, and cleansed a Circle of blood magic and demonic possession. All you have is a living dead infestation! I may fight left-handed, just to give them a fair chance!”

The smith laughed. “I don’t know if you can help us or not, but you can brag with the best, Warden!” He sighed, growing somber. “Look, it’d do me a world of good to think maybe someone like you could go in and find her, provided any of us live through the night.”

Daylen’s voice was soft, but sincere. “Owen, you get the militia outfitted, and I give you my word I’ll find your daughter for you.”

Owen peered at Daylen for a few moments, his bloodshot eyes meeting Daylen’s. The two stared each other down for several moments. “I’ll accept that,” Owen said finally. “It’s something to hope for, at least.” Dropping the half-empty bottle in a rack, he rolled his shoulders, several pops coming from the joints. “It seems I have some work to do, re-lighting the forge, and I suppose I’ll have to find some iron. Maybe at the mill?” He shook his head. “Murdock just better send his men here as soon as possible if I’m gonna get to all these repairs and get them done by nightfall.” He looked back at the Warden. “If you need anything done, just let me know.”

—ROTG—

“Well, looks like Owen’s finally ready to do the repairs we need,” Murdock remarked, eyeing the smoke coming from the forge stack. “The damned fool is falling over drunk and he’ll still manage to make smithing look easy.” He looked over at Daylen. “I’ll inform Bann Teagan the militia is ready to fight. We’ll give those bastards a welcome they won’t soon forget!”

“We’ll win this, don’t worry.”

“I hope you’re right,” Murdock said. “We may just be village folk, but we’re going to fight like there’s no tomorrow.”

Daylen gestured to his companions as Murdock made for the Chantry. “All right, everyone. That bridge from the castle is the only way those monsters can get to the village, so we’re going to keep them out. Zevran, Alistair, did Ser Perth need anything?”

“He does,” Alistair nodded. “He’s a decent enough fellow. Tried to call me as ‘my lord,’ spoke with me frankly. He and his knights are set for weapons and armor. He mentioned they’d barricaded the bridge a few times, but it hardly slowed the monsters down. The oil’ll help, but I’m not sure we can supply what he needs.”

“What’s he need?”

“Holy protection,” Alistair said flatly.

Daylen winced. “Yes, I think that’s a bit out of our line. Maybe the Revered Mother could help us?”

—ROTG—

The Revered Mother sighed as Daylen asked. “I have done all I can for Ser Perth and his knights. I pray for them, each knight, and seek the Maker’s forgiveness for their sins before they face their deaths. What Ser Perth seeks is something that is not my power to give!”

Daylen tilted his head. “What exactly do you mean?”

“Ser Perth believes that I can protect them against these creatures,” she explained. “A shield only the Maker can provide.”

“Oh, he meant actual protection?” Daylen asked. “Oh, dear.”

“I would not withhold this power were it within my ability to grant it, especially not now!” She went on as Daylen opened his mouth. “And I will not lie to them and let them think the Maker protects them in a real sense!”

“Morale is a powerful thing. If they think it helps them, it could inspire them!”

“It still seems like trickery,” the priestess groused. “Very well. If it keeps them alive, I will do what I must. I have several silver-cast holy symbols. Tell Ser Perth that he can have them, and that wearing them will confer the Maker’s protection.”

“I don’t like lying to them either, but we’re short on options here. Thank you.”

Ser Perth was a broadly-built knight, shorter than Daylen but heavily armored and encouraged to hear of the Revered Mother’s concessions.

“Well, that’s just about everything,” Daylen declared as Ser Perth trotted off, tasking one of his men to retrieve the amulets from the Revered Mother. “Anyone fancy a pint?”

As the group entered the pub, Daylen spotted an elf eyeing them warily. The elf stared at him a moment longer, before hurriedly looking down at his ale.

Daylen flashed a smile at a redheaded bar wench as she passed by, before murmuring to Leliana. “That elf over in the corner. He look a little suspicious to you?”

“Very,” Leliana agreed. “Shall we?”

“Leliana, Zevran, with me. Everyone else, hang back, but if he tries anything, he doesn’t make it out the door.”

As he approached, the elf looked up. “Not looking for company,” he said brusquely. “I’m not here to talk.”

“Too bad,” Daylen replied. “Last time someone stared at me like you do, I had to kill him.”

“Sure you did,” the elf snapped. Daylen winced, realizing his bluff had failed.

“There’s something about him,” Leliana said, meeting the elf’s eyes. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? I know a spy when I see one.”

“Look, I don’t know you, and I don’t want to,” the elf spoke hurriedly. “I’m not…I mean I was just told to…I mean, just leave me alone!”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Daylen said, as Leliana and Zevran spread out slightly, emphasizing that the elf was cornered. “Start talking.”

“About what? Just because you’re a Grey Warden doesn’t mean you can go around threatening people!”

“Who’s threatening?” Daylen asked, smiling sweetly. “I haven’t said anything about how I could incinerate you with a thought. But how do you know I’m a Grey Warden?”

The elf glanced at Daylen’s companions. “I just…overheard it,” he replied evasively. “That’s all. If you’ll excuse me, I want to get to the Chantry before the sun goes down.”

Daylen clicked his fingers, and the elf stiffened as a burst of frost froze him to his seat. “This will be much easier if you just tell me what you’re hiding.”

The elf stammered a bit, before slumping. “Oh, all right, I’ll tell you! Just…don’t hurt me.”

Daylen leaned forward, emphasizing their size difference. “Start talking.”

“Look, they just paid me to watch the castle and send word if anything should change. But they never said anything about monsters! I haven’t even been able to report anything since this started! I’m stuck, same as you, I swear!”

“Who hired you to do this?”

“I, ah…he was a tall fellow, I never got his name. He said he was working for Howe. Arl Rendon Howe.”

Zevran hissed out a breath. “Ah, of course. One of Loghain’s compatriots.”

“He’s an important man!” The elf protested. “Teyrn Loghain’s right hand! So I didn’t do anything wrong!”

Daylen sighed. “Congratulations, you’ve helped a regicide take out one of the threats to his coup.” The elf blanched. “You should help defend Redcliffe tonight. Speak to Murdock, tell him I sent you. Now beat it.” The elf scrambled out the door, the bench crunching as he came unstuck.

“How is it you manage to recruit the enemy so easily?” Zevran asked as they headed for the table the others had gathered around.

“Raw sex appeal,” Daylen muttered, catching the wench’s eye again. “Should we go to the counter, or can you help us out?”

“Another pack of doomed souls come to drown their sorrows here, I see?” she replied. “I’m Bella. If you came for a drink, you’ll have to talk to Lloyd. He’s got a vise grip on the spigots. I’m just here to keep the boys from mutiny.”

“Shouldn’t you be in the Chantry with everyone else?” Daylen asked.

“I would be if I didn’t need this job so badly,” Bella grumbled.

Daylen reached into the pouch Zevran had given him, fishing out some of the coin. Thumbing out five sovereigns, he watched as Bella’s eyes grew wider with each clatter of the coin hitting the table. By the fifth coin, her mouth was slightly open. “When we survive this, you take this money, you get out of here.” The woman looked almost frantic as she looked back and forth between Daylen’s completely serious face and the money on the table. “It should get you to Denerim. Just promise me you won’t wind up in another place like this.”

“You jest, surely,” Morrigan said as Bella walked away, her mouth still slightly open and the coin in her pocket. “Why not simply throw all our coin in the river?”

“It’s not our coin,” Daylen replied. “We didn’t make this money working honest jobs.” He glanced around to make sure nobody was in earshot. “Zevran nicked it.”

“Why do you insist on helping these people?” Morrigan asked disdainfully. “They would not help against the Blight, even if they could.”

Daylen shook his head. “If you don't get it, I doubt my explaining will do any good.”

Golden eyes flashed at him. “Try me.”

Daylen paused, gauging his companion, before shrugging. “It's not just about gathering allies. When a person commits an act of goodwill, it transforms into something more. Something greater. Something better. A gift to everyone around me. Hope. Grey Wardens fight the darkspawn, but in doing so they protect, preserve, and if necessary create hope where there is none. And that’s what I’m going to do. Bring hope.”

“These people will little remember or care for you,” she pointed out.

The words came almost too easily. “It doesn’t matter that they won’t remember me. What matters is I helped.”

Morrigan groaned. “Fine. Have it your way.”

“What do you think the odds are?” Alistair asked, trying to change the subject. “These people are desperate.”

Daylen projected confidence he didn’t feel. “We can handle it. Now, we’ve got a few hours to kill before nightfall. Can anyone think of anything we missed? Anything more we can do?”

“We could set some traps along the path to the castle,” Zevran offered.

“Take Alistair, Leliana, and a couple of the militia, and get it done,” Daylen ordered. “Tell Murdock you need anyone skilled with traps. Anything else?” Nobody provided any suggestions, and Daylen nodded. “All right then. Spread out, do what you can. But make sure that you’re by the mill before nightfall. Those monsters don’t get past us. Understood?” A chorus of agreements sounded. “Good. Let’s move.”

As the others spread out, Daylen made for the bar, eyeing the hefty man scratching under a filthy apron behind the bar. “Hello there, friend,” the barkeep replied. “Haven’t had many travelers lately. All this nonsense is bad for business. Bet you regret coming!”

“Not at all,” Daylen replied. “People would be in real trouble if my companions and I hadn’t arrived. You seem less worried than everyone else about all this.”

“Well, I don’t much know what I can do about all this, so I try not to worry too much about it,” the barkeep said. “So what’ll it be? You are here to drink, I hope?”

Daylen grunted. “Who are you, anyway? And why are you in here, instead of out with the militia?”

“Name’s Lloyd, and I’m not abandoning my tavern because of a few monsters. The second I’m in the Chantry, Murdock and his men’ll be here drinking all my ale. When them creatures attack, I lock myself in the cellar. Just batten the hatches and wait it out. What’s the point in getting myself killed with all the rest of them? If that makes me a coward, then I’m a coward.”

“Wait it out?” Daylen asked skeptically. “You mean wait for the monsters to kill everyone else? They need everyone to help. That includes you.” Lloyd rolled his eyes, and Daylen leaned closer. “Seems like a bad idea to turn your back on them. I mean, they’ll remember who didn’t help out when this is all over.”

“But, but…ach, fine,” Lloyd grunted. “Fine, I’ll go. But all this better be here when I get back! I don’t want this place drunk out from under me!” Grumbling under his breath, the portly man stormed out. A bewildered Bella glanced between the door and Daylen.

“Looks like you’re in charge for now.” Daylen winked. “Don’t water down the drinks too much.”

—ROTG—

Daylen eyed the setting sun again. “For all that we had to do, it’s amazing how quickly we managed to get it all done.”

“Hardest part of any battle is the waiting,” Alistair replied, working a whetstone down the length of his sword. “You spoke to Bann Teagan again?”

“Got as much information as I could out of him. Mostly about this quest the arlessa has all the knights on.”

“This search for the Ashes of Andraste?” Alistair shook his head. “I can’t imagine why she’d think that a handful of knights could find an artifact that has been lost for nine hundred years in the middle of a Blight and a civil war.”

“Well, ‘she is a woman of great faith,’ as Bann Teagan said,” Daylen said acidly. “Which I took to mean she prefers sending good soldiers on insane errands on the off chance a miracle happens. I also spoke with him about what the plan is for tomorrow. He believes that we can find the source of these monsters and stop them before any more lives are lost.”

“You spoke to the Revered Mother as well, I saw,” Morrigan chimed in.

Daylen nodded, slightly wide-eyed. “Interesting woman. She was able to tell that I’m a mage, yet not only did she not quote that one verse of the Chant at me, but also actually seemed grateful that I was here.”

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “This shocked you?”

“I’m used to Chantry workers being barely tolerant of magic, even when it’s personally helped them. I once watched an enchanter heal a Chantry sister that had sliced her hand open to the bone and was bleeding badly. There wasn’t even a scar. She thanked him by screeching at him and claiming he had no right to use his ‘filthy magic’ on her. Templars had a real pickle with that one.”

Alistair cocked his head, looking at his friend. “Daylen, don’t take this the wrong way, but are you…gaining weight?”

Daylen looked down. “Am I? You know, my clothes have been fitting a little tighter across the chest and shoulders lately.”

Alistair nodded. “You look like you’re bulking up. Is that magic doing that?”

Daylen’s head popped up. “Magic. Of course. The Life Gem!”

“What?”

“The Life Gem, back in those ruins in the Brecelian Forest! It taught me how to turn my magic inwards and strengthen my body! I just didn’t realize what it meant by that!”

“So, what, your magic did this?”

“I don’t know,” Daylen admitted. “But lately I have felt stronger. Healthier, too. Like everything took less effort.” He shrugged. “I figured it was a Warden thing.”

“That does happen to a degree after the Joining,” Alistair admitted. “Wardens tend to be in good health regardless, but some talked about how they had more energy, more vigor, after their Joining.” He bent, grabbing a pair of sticks from a woodpile that had been used to construct some makeshift fortifications. Tossing one to Daylen, he fell into a ready guard. “Let’s see if it helps.”

“If you pop me in the ribs again, I swear I am going to freeze your…” Daylen broke off as he found himself parrying Alistair’s blows. “How did I do that?”

“I guess you picked up some actual skills from that thing, as well as the knowledge of how to strengthen yourself,” Alistair said, stepping back as Daylen took the offensive, a wide grin on his face.

“This is great! I can finally stop running away!”

“Even better, I won’t have to keep jumping in the way of pointy objects for you,” Alistair said.

“Oh come on, that was one time!”

“One fight. Three arrows,” Alistair shot back.

“You healed!” Daylen shook his head. “We’re getting off topic. You think I should start wearing armor?”

“Yeah. Maybe the blacksmith can make something for you?”

“I doubt he could make me a properly fitted set of armor before nightfall,” Daylen remarked. “But…” he looked over at the sword sticking out of his pack. “Maybe that sword we picked up?” Retrieving the blade, Daylen felt the hilt fit into his hand in a way that felt far more comfortable, more right, than he had thought possible. The blade cleaved through the air as he twirled it experimentally, the light glinting off the weapon as he moved through several strikes, parries, and counter-strikes. “Oh, Maker, that feels good.”

“You said that you learned these skills from the spirit of an elf,” Alistair said, thinking out loud. “That blade is elven-made. It probably works well together.”

“I doubt that has anything to do with it, but I certainly can work with this,” Daylen replied, gleefully sweeping Alistair’s stick out of the way and slamming the pommel of the sword into Alistair’s shield, leaving a scuff mark on the metal. “You think the darkspawn are ready for a mage that can wear armor?”

“I hope not. At first, I was teaching you a basic style. It’s not nuanced and pretty defensive-based, since you don’t carry a shield and you don’t have the muscle mass for heavier blows. One of my trainers never carried a shield when he was training against other swordsmen, but his defensive work was flawless.”

“What’s your style?” Daylen asked.

“Still defensive, but more focused on counterattacking with power. Sort of turning blows aside and hitting back harder. Compare that to Zevran, who focuses more on his agility for defense and speed for offense.”

“Plate armor doesn’t flatter me,” Zevran added.

“But now, between you gaining strength and this technique you’ve picked up, I think if you blend them all together, you might just have something special.”

Daylen stretched. “I haven’t been gaining much muscle mass, but it feels like I’m just…healthier, I guess.”

“It hasn’t been that long since your Joining. But the strength you’re talking about doesn’t match your build. You’re still awfully skinny for how tall you are.” Daylen tilted his head, before grabbing Alistair under the armpits and casually lifting him up over his head. “Hey! What are you doing?”

“Testing a theory,” Daylen said, setting Alistair down gently. “It’s like…flexing a muscle. I can feel the magic flowing, and lifting something heavy, like a full-grown man in armor,” he gestured at Alistair, “feels like someone’s lifting something with you. Like it doesn’t weigh as much. Does that make sense?”

“Sort of. It’s still alarming to be picked up like that.”

Daylen winced, rolling his shoulders. “Still feels like I’m lifting too much, though. That soreness afterwards.”

—ROTG—

Daylen gnawed on a piece of jerky as the sun disappeared over the horizon. “Is everything ready?” He asked for the fourth time in the past half hour.

“Yes,” Ser Perth replied. “We are as prepared as we can be.” As the sky darkened, Ser Perth signaled to his men. A quartet of knights hauled barrels of oil out to the narrowest point in the path to the castle, where a shallow trench had been dug beyond a spiked palisade that would funnel the enemy into a narrow path. Uncorking the barrels, the knights poured them out, standing clear of the spilling oil as it coated the topsoil. “Be ready,” he warned. “They come soon after dark.”

“I can’t believe you sent Wynne away,” Alistair said quietly. “We needed her magic.”

“Do you trust me?” Daylen asked.

“With my life,” Alistair said immediately.

“Poor judgment,” Daylen sniffed. “I’m not thrilled about it myself, but I’ve made a gamble. We’ll see if it pays off.”

The sky darkened further, and Daylen sighed, knowing he had made a mistake.

“We’ll make it work,” Daylen said, wondering when he had become so confident. His eyes widened as he saw a greenish glow lighting the way from the castle. “Is that…”

“Yes,” Ser Perth growled to a militia runner as the greenish glow began to move along the bridge to the town, a trail of unworldly light following it. “Send word. They are coming.”

The man sprinted off, hollering at the top of his lungs. “To your positions! Make ready!”

“Prepare yourselves,” Ser Perth said. He took a deep breath, his face calm. “Maker, please watch over us in this trying time.”

Mist began to gather around their feet, and Daylen glanced about. “Has this happened before?”

“Every time,” Ser Perth replied, donning his helmet. “Be alert, Warden. They hide in the mist.”

The sound of clanking armor came from the path down to the village, and Daylen turned, seeing gleaming armor and a flaming sword symbol. Twelve Templars, and a trio of Circle mages. Wynne was leading them.

“Warden,” the lead Templar nodded in greeting. “Knight-Captain Hadley. Senior Enchanter Wynne brought your request for aid against these risen undead. She sped our return across the lake.”

“Understood.” Daylen spotted figures moving among the mist, and thumped the base of his staff into the ground, his companion wisp flaring to life and his skin hardening. “Knights, keep your formation. Let our ranged fighters handle them until they get closer.” He looked to Hadley. “We’re on the defensive here, holding until dawn.”

“Obviously, Warden,” Hadley replied dryly. “This is not my first time dealing with creatures twisted by magic.”

“First time actually standing against them though, I’ll bet,” Daylen snapped. “I asked for the mages, not you.”

“Bicker later, fight now,” Alistair said. “Knight-Captain, the creatures don’t attack in the daytime.”

Zevran snickered as the sounds of clanging and snapping reached the defenders. “It seems they found my little surprises.” He, Leliana, and Alistair readied their bows, Sten and Cupcake staying out of the way as Morrigan and Wynne ensured they had clear lines of sight on the chokepoint.

Daylen addressed the newcomer mages. “Enchanters, if you wouldn’t mind showing off a bit, I’d appreciate some assistance.”

One of them smirked at Daylen, cracking his neck. “With pleasure, Amell.”

“Light the traps!” Ser Perth ordered as the walking corpses came into view.

“Maker preserve us,” Wynne breathed as more of the creatures flooded down the hill. “There are so many…”

“Why are those traps not lit?” Ser Perth demanded. One of the knights looked up, fumbling with a set of flint and steel as another waited with an arrow wrapped in an oil-soaked rag. Daylen sighed, spinning his staff and lobbing a minor fireball into the oil trench, sending bodies flying and igniting the oil. Ser Perth flinched at the blast, but drew his blade.

“Wynne, Morrigan, with me,” Daylen called, striding forward. “Archers! Aim carefully!” An arrow whizzed by his ear and caught a walking corpse in the eye socket, and Daylen turned to glare at the sheepish knight. “For them, you nonce!”

Wynne moved first, a cluster of glyphs blazing to life on the ground ahead of the field of fire. As the corpses strode through the fire heedless of the flames licking at their rotting flesh, they stepped into the trap laid by the enchanter, setting off the glyphs. Some were blasted backwards into the fire, black smoke streaming from their bodies as they burned. Others were frozen in place, paralyzed by the magic.

The archers and Circle mages let loose, and arrows and bolts of magic zipped and sizzled past the trio, felling undead left and right. More pushed past them, and Morrigan took over, snapping off a cluster of entropic curses and finishing up with a sustained blast of lightning, several of the paralyzed undead dropping as their bodies were too damaged to continue.

Daylen for his part was weaving magic, mana flowing through the air around him and resonating with his building spell. Peering through the flames, he spotted more of the undead stomping down the path from the castle towards the defenders. The magic reached its peak, and Daylen thrust his staff into the air, a localized blizzard exploding into being past the edge of the flames. The edge of the fire closest to the castle was snuffed out by the flames, but the undead walked through the ice and wind, as unmindful to the damage it was doing as they were to the flames beyond. The flow of undead coming through the flames slackened off as Daylen sagged, his eyes watering as the spell consumed a hefty chunk of his mana reserves. Patting down his satchel, he fished out a lyrium potion, downing the serum in two swallows and flinging the empty vial at an approaching corpse’s head, before freezing it in mid-stride with a burst of frost. Several arrows thudded into the undead creature’s body, and Daylen spotted a cluster of undead halfway through the grease fire as the frozen body keeled over, shattering on impact with the ground.

The mist thickened, and out of the corner of his eye, Daylen spotted the glow along the path growing brighter. Sidestepping out of the way, Daylen watched as another flurry of arrows zipped through the open ground between the firetrap and the defenders. A conjured lump of stone from Wynne snapped an animated corpse’s neck, the head lolling backwards grotesquely as the broken bone stabbed through the skin. The body stumbled forward, staggering about almost comically until Morrigan hit it with a bolt of lightning and finished it off. Daylen followed Wynne’s example on another charging undead, the stone hitting slightly lower and shearing the corpse’s head off entirely.

Zevran dropped his aim, hitting a corpse in the kneecap and dropping it to the ground. It snarled at them, and Zevran loosed another arrow, ending the creature.

Leliana, to her credit, was dropping corpse after corpse with arrows to the face and head, every single shot steady, methodical, and perfectly on target. Alistair’s shots were slower, more hesitantly aimed, but the warrior had his sword at his belt and his shield slung over his back for when things got interesting.

Another cluster of glyphs erupted into being, and Wynne sagged slightly at the magical expenditure. Daylen wordlessly passed her a lyrium potion, and in thanks the enchanter slammed a lump of conjured stone through the torso of one undead and into the chest of the one behind it.

Morrigan weaved through another spell somewhat hesitantly, mimicking Wynne’s motions, before smiling smugly as a series of her own glyphs sprang into being. Wynne glanced her way, frowning, but continued casting.

The mages were arcing fireballs overhead, bombarding the undead at range to thin their numbers.

Daylen offhandedly blasted a corpse with lightning until it dropped, before glancing at Morrigan. “Anyone else feel this is too easy?”

Wynne nodded in agreement. “From the stories the villagers told, I had expected an unending flood of these creatures.”

“Can you hold them?” Daylen asked. The other two mages nodded, and Daylen fell back to the knights’ line. “Ser Perth. Level with me. Is there any other way from the castle into the village?”

“Not that I know of. Why? You intend to attack?”

“Not if I can avoid it. But where are the numbers of these things we’ve been expecting?”

As if on cue, a militiaman sprinted up the path. “They’re coming from the lake!”

“Maker, am I tired of being right,” Daylen growled, tossing Wynne another lyrium potion and downing one of his own. “Sten, Wynne, Leliana, hold here with the knights and Circle group! Everyone else, with me!”

They charged down the path, passing the militiaman on the way down, spotting a large group of the undead swarming the makeshift fortifications that had been erected. Still at a sprint, Daylen let loose a confined cone of frost, freezing the front line of the group of corpses as he, Alistair, and Zevran came in from the flank. The militia used the brief reprieve to regroup and hack the frozen corpses to pieces. Cupcake lunged, ripping the throat out of one of the undead and continuing to rip and tear until the creature’s head came off. Morrigan lingered behind on the path behind them, dissolving into the darkness.

Daylen grunted as an undead clawed at his arm, smacking the end of his staff into the creature’s face. The corpse behind it grabbed the end as he missed on a second strike, yanking the weapon out of his hand. “Oi! That’s mine!” Grabbing the closest undead by the neck, Daylen shoved it back, clearing a few feet of space momentarily and drawing the elven-made sword he had recovered from Bevin’s house. He felt the knowledge and experience planted in his mind kicking in. The blade felt familiar in his hand, and he spun into action, the blade flashing in the firelight as he carved the nearest corpse into pieces, kicking the head away as it snapped at his ankles. Propelled by his enhanced strength, the severed head bounced off another corpse’s skull hard enough to knock it flat.

Alistair shouted in a corpse’s face a few feet to Daylen’s right as he shoved a trio of them back with his shield, before lopping one’s head off and parrying an attack from the next, shoving it to the side as Zevran’s sword came down, the corpse’s head dropping cleanly off its shoulders. Zevran turned, kicking the next in the kneecap, parrying two independent attacks before his blades whirled, body parts flying left and right. One of the odd hands that came loose bounced off Cupcake’s flank as the warhound tackled a corpse off a screaming militiaman, the dog’s mighty jaws snapping the creature’s neck easily. The dog bounded away, blindsiding a corpse that was charging Daylen from behind, the Warden spinning and lopping one of the corpse’s hands off as he heard the clattering of paws and jaws. The edge of the sword caved in the undead’s skull as he brought it down in an overhand swing.

It was then that the wind shifted, the torches flickering, and Daylen spotted massive webs spun between the houses with numerous corpses caught in them, a giant spider ripping the limbs off one of the undead. More corpses were pushing at the webs, heedless of their comrades already caught. “Morrigan’s been busy,” he quipped to Alistair, shoulder-checking a corpse out of the way and nodding as Zevran lopped the creature’s head off.

“Disgusting, but effective,” Alistair acknowledged, offhandedly bashing a corpse in the face with his shield, ignoring the squawk the undead made and stomping on its skull. “There’s wounded.”

“If I had time to heal them, I would,” Daylen replied, shifting the sword to his off hand and freezing an approaching corpse in place, before taking its head off with a carefully aimed two-handed swing. He saw one of the webs give way and whistled to Zevran, before dropping a grease spell at the choke point. The rogue jammed one of his blades into a corpse’s chest before retrieving an incendiary flask from his belt, pitching it at the grease field and igniting it. Zevran planted a boot on the corpse’s torso, ripping his blade free and moving on down the line of undead.

“Fall back!” Alistair said as another one of Morrigan’s webs gave way, the spider scuttling over one of the houses and vanishing. “They’re coming from that direction!”

Daylen lobbed a fireball, grimacing at the draw on his magic. Fire magic had never been his strong suit. Hacking at a corpse’s neck, he kicked the undead away and followed Alistair closely, retrieving his staff from underneath a pile of corpses.

As is common in battles, things went bad with surprising speed. Corpses flooded through the gaps, and Morrigan appeared from out of the shadows in human form, her staff crackling with lightning as her spell arced from one corpse to another, dropping several of them with a single burst.

But for every one that dropped, three took their place. Alistair was forced back by the weight of the corpses against his shield, stabbing instead of slashing with his blade as he tried to stand his ground. Zevran’s blades flashed as he took ‘disarming’ literally and relieved several corpses of various limbs, before dropping a frost bomb and backing hurriedly away as more corpses swarmed over the pile of bodies. Cupcake yelped as he was smacked aside, bouncing across the ground and hitting Daylen in the side of the knee, knocking the Warden off his feet.

Daylen watched as Lloyd dropped, blood streaming from a chest wound, and Teagan fell to one knee, desperately trying to fend off a pack of hissing corpses. Magic swirled around him, lacking direction, and panic clawed at his focus.

They would be overwhelmed.

Their job would end here.

Ferelden would fall.

Daylen's slammed a fist into the ground, an icy focus fixed on his face. “No! Morrigan, glyphs! Now!” The magic streaming off him expanded outwards, intent driving it with a very singular purpose as Morrigan dropped several paralyzing and repulsion glyphs around the defenders, buying them a few precious moments. Around him, flesh knitted, bones set themselves, and men felt their flagging strength restored as Daylen pumped more and more magic into the sustained spell. He raised his voice, hands outstretched to either side of him. “On your feet!” Ripping a lyrium potion from his satchel and downing it, Daylen lobbed a fireball into the thickest concentration of corpses, setting them alight. Flinging a blob of grease into the other chokepoint, Daylen yanked an incendiary flask from Zevran’s belt and tossed it, sealing off that point temporarily.

“Stand fast, men!” Alistair hollered, his voice ringing out above the clamor of battle. “We’re not dead yet! We will not fail! Form up! Defenders of Redcliffe, to me!”

“Morrigan,” Daylen said, preparing another lyrium potion. “Can you create a tempest right now?”

“Where?” Daylen pointed out the area in question, and she began weaving the magic, even as Daylen looked at the last chokepoint, eyeing the distance between the two buildings. Dropping a blizzard on top of Morrigan’s tempest, the resulting storm began tearing apart the corpses charging through the gap, the wood and stone of the buildings warping and bending under the assault.

“Focus on the remaining chokepoint!” Teagan ordered.

“No!” Daylen shouted, downing the potion and coughing, blue flecks appearing in his beard. “Leave it to me.” Striding forward, he called upon a primal spell he rarely used. Offhandedly punching an attacking corpse in the face and knocking it off its feet, Daylen stomped on its skull as he began weaving magic, aiming precisely before dropping a blazing firestorm in the final chokepoint. Ignoring the searing heat on his face, he unleashed blasts of frost on the buildings on either side of the firestorm, keeping them from igniting. Scraping his tongue against his teeth to get the sticky feeling of lyrium off, Daylen watched as corpses burnt or froze trying to run through the spells. Backing towards the defenders, he watched as wounds sustained healed themselves as his magic filled the air.

“This is new,” Morrigan said, feeling the magic thrumming in the space around her.

“Not sure how it works,” Daylen admitted, feeling the firestorm winding down and swayed slightly, feeling the extra pull on his mana from the unfamiliar magic. “Think it’s sort of a constant healing effect.”

“Regardless, ‘tis turning the tide,” Morrigan said. “Stand firm.”

Daylen pushed out a mass rejuvenation spell, and the defenders stood straighter even as he sagged. “Zevran, did you happen to see any sign from the upper defense point?”

“No signal.”

“Sten will hold the line,” Alistair said reassuringly.

“He better,” Daylen growled. “We can’t be in both places at once!” Morrigan blasted a corpse in the face with a bolt of lightning, dropping the smoking body to the ground. “Alright, Alistair, you’ve fought more battles than me. Do we hold, or do we push them back to the lake?”

“Hold here,” Alistair replied. “We have the defenses on our side, and lack the numbers to push them back. We can outlast them.”

The grease fire continued to burn as more corpses staggered through, and Zevran and Alistair went to work on the far-right avenue, hacking them to pieces even as Daylen and Morrigan’s combined storm burned out and collapsed in on itself, frost-encrusted body parts scattered about the area the storm had covered.

As the firestorm collapsed, it revealed more corpses shambling forward, and Daylen groaned. “Men, time to get back to work.” Taking a steadying breath, he did a quick count of the defenders before wincing. “This is going to hurt.” The drain on his mana increased as he called upon another spell, elemental frost collecting around the blades and arrowheads of the defenders. Daylen grimaced at the strain, leaning heavily on his staff.

Blades that froze flesh as they cut were surprisingly effective against the undead, locking them in place as the defenders cut them apart. Morrigan charged up a long burst of lightning that arced from corpse to corpse, dropping a half-dozen in a single spell. Alistair smacked one undead into another with a sharp blow from his shield, before running through both with a single thrust, drawing his blade back and beheading both corpses. The warrior whooped in triumph, backhanding another corpse with his shield. “Did you see that?”

“Yes, yes, very impressive,” Zevran replied, his blades flashing as a trio of corpses dropped, various muscles severed and leaving them as snarling piles on the floor. Zevran dropped another incendiary flask in his wake, igniting the bodies.

Alistair gave him a mock glare. “Showoff.”

The militia, to their credit, were making a fair accounting of themselves. The archers, supported by Daylen and Morrigan, were holding down the left, a growing pile of bodies beginning to block the path. The warriors and skirmishers were holding down the center, the walking dead striding heedlessly into swords, axes, and Cupcake’s jaws.

“Maker, how many of these things are there?” Alistair asked as he and Zevran put their shoulders to the pile of bodies they had made, blocking the path. Another corpse tried to clamber over the pile, and Zevran pulled a pair of flasks from his belt, tossing the grenades over the pile and grinning as they unleashed devastating effects on the other side, the hiss of ice and the crackle of lightning audible over the sounds of the battle.

“Some questions, we don’t ask,” Daylen said as they rejoined the group. “Take some of the pressure off the militia if you can.”

The defenders fell into a simple, if terrifying, pattern. The undead would charge, the defenders would hack them to pieces as they came, and any wounds sustained would close in a matter of moments as Daylen’s magic knitted flesh and fused bone.

Daylen was weaving, feeling his strength flagging, when the undead began to come again. “They’re making another push!” Murdock shouted. “Hold them, men!”

Morrigan snarled, casting again. A tempest burst across the left-hand alley, and she blurred into the shadows as Daylen dug deep, bringing up a spell of his own. “Alistair, Zevran, pull back!” The air began to crackle and snap as his spell built, and a highly localized blizzard exploded over the undead on the right, the wind whipping Daylen's clothes back and forth as ice, snow, and freezing cold battered the walking corpses. Daylen dropped his staff and collapsed against the palisade, his limbs trembling and his vision blurring.

A roar rang out above the sounds of the battle as Morrigan charged from the shadows in the form of a bear, swatting one of the undead aside with a single swipe. The body crunched as it slammed against a wall, and Morrigan bellowed a challenge, several undead that had been harassing Alistair and Zevran breaking off to charge her.

Daylen threw his hands up again, calling down more elemental power, and he cried out from the strain even as he brought down a second storm, this one of lightning rather than frost, and placed it on the far-left avenue, taking the pressure off the defenders. The undead fell in droves as the storm took its toll, as Daylen downed another lyrium potion, gasping for breath. The storm finally dissipated, the street clear of undead, and Daylen slowly slid to the ground.

Daylen was still slumped against the wooden stakes of the palisade when Morrigan approached some-time later, once again in human form. “Think I passed out,” he said dully. “A few times.”

“Dawn approaches,” Morrigan said quietly. “Well done, Daylen. You can rest now. The knights on the hill sent word. The defenders, to a man, are still alive. A resounding success, I should say.”

“Good,” Daylen said, leaning back against the palisade. “I haven’t a scrap of mana left, and I’m going to be pissing blue for a while.” Cupcake came over and nosed his hand, getting a tired scratch behind the ears. “What's up, boy?” The dog snuffled, and Daylen checked his teeth, working a shard of bone out of the dog’s gums. The dog barked happily and licked Daylen’s face before trotting off to rally the other defenders.

—ROTG—

The waters of Lake Calenhad are steeped in legends. The Avvar people say that it was once the site of Belenas, the mountain which stood at the center of the world, from which Korth the Mountain Father surveyed the earth and sky. But it was destroyed in the battle between Korth and the serpent Nathramar, leaving only a vast crater behind. When the Lady of the Skies saw that Belenas was gone, she wept, and her tears filled the crater, making the lake.

The Tevinters believed that the waters of Lake Calenhad were blessed by Razikale, god of mysteries, and that those who drank from them were granted special insights. This was why they built the great tower on an island in the middle of the lake, hoping the powers of the lake would aid their magical research.

But most of us know the legend of King Calenhad, which gives the place its name. It is said that Calenhad Theirin spent a year and a day in the Tower of the Magi. Each day, he drew a single cup full of water from the lake and carried it to the Formari at the top of the tower. By magic, each cup of water was forged into a single ring of the mail armor the Circle gave to Calenhad. In that armor, made from the lifeblood of the land itself, no blade could strike him, no arrow pierce him, so long as he stood on Fereldan soil.

--"Lake Calenhad," From Thedas: Myths and Legends, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

Chapter Text

By the time the sun had fully risen, the defenders of Redcliffe had regrouped and had taken stock of what remained. Bann Teagan had gathered the people in front of the Chantry to address them.

“Dawn arrives, my friends, and we remain. We are victorious!” A hearty cheer went up.Between the healing magic and the stunning defensive effort, losses had been minimal. One of the enchanters and three of the Templars had fallen in the defense, but all of the village’s defenders remained. Daylen’s head was sagging as he leaned on Alistair, the warrior fighting a smile as Daylen dozed standing up.

“And it is these good folk you see beside me that we have to thank for our lives today,” Teagan went on. “Without their heroism, surely we would all have perished.” He addressed Daylen directly. “I bow to you, ser. The Maker smiled on us when he sent you here in our darkest hour.” Alistair nudged Daylen, who stared blearily at Teagan before nodding, keeping his jaw clamped shut to avoid yawning.

“Allow me to offer you this: the helm of Ser Ferris the Red, my great-uncle and hero of Ferelden. He would approve passing it to one so worthy.” Teagan passed over the helmet he had been wearing the previous night, and Daylen accepted it, blinking hard.

“Thank you, Bann Teagan,” Daylen replied thickly. “I require no reward for this, but I am honored by your gift.”

“Take it then, and use it in good health,” Teagan said warmly, before turning back to the crowd. “Let us bow our heads and give honor to those who gave their lives in defense of Redcliffe.”

There was a moment of silence as everyone bowed their heads, and Alistair elbowed Daylen in the ribs as a quiet snore escaped. “Now they walk with He who is their Maker. Long may they know the peace of His love,” the Revered Mother intoned.

“With the Maker’s favor, the blow we delivered last night to their numbers is enough for me to enter the castle and seek out the arl,” Teagan continued. “Be wary and watch for signs of renewed attack. We shall return with news as soon as we are able.” He turned to Daylen, speaking quietly. “Now we’ve no time to waste. Meet me at the mill. We can talk further there.”

—ROTG—

“You saved us,” Kaitlyn said quietly. “I can’t believe we’re alive and it’s finally over.”

“For you, it’s over,” Daylen replied, yawning widely now that the official ceremonies were over. “I still have a Blight to deal with. What are you and Bevin going to do now?”

“I’m not sure,” Kaitlyn admitted. “We don’t have much money.”

Daylen perked up. “Oh. That’s right. I promised Bevin I would pay you for the sword.”

Kaitlyn shuffled nervously. “I…I have no idea what it’s worth, to be honest. And you found Bevin, I couldn’t ask you for money…”

“Take five sovereigns.” Daylen fished the coins out of his pouch, pressing them into the woman's hand. “Get yourselves set up in a new life.”

“Bless you, Warden,” Kaitlyn said tearfully. “Bless you.”

“And you,” Daylen said, unbuckling the sword. “If you really plan to use this sword, you had best stay safe and grow up strong.” He knelt in front of Bevin, the sheathed blade across his hands. “Then you can use this blade. Protect the innocent and defeat evil, all that. All right?”

“I will,” Bevin stammered.

“Oh, you can do better than that,” Daylen chided, holding the weapon out. “Will you make something of yourself, boy?”

The boy clutched the sword to his chest. “I will, Warden! I'll be the best knight that ever was!”

Daylen chuckled. “Good. I hope to hear tales of Ser Bevin one of these days.”

Kaitlyn smiled tearfully at them. “With all the money you gave us, I’ll have someone take us to Denerim. With any luck we’ll be safe there.”

The smithy’s door was open, and Daylen ducked inside, idly wondering how the place hadn’t caught fire after all the alcohol fumes he could smell had come in contact with open flame.

“Good to see you in one piece,” Owen said, looking up from his work. “Do you have news of Valena, yet?”

“That’s why I’m here. We’re going to move on the castle. Can you give us a description of your daughter, just so we know if we find her?”

“She’s young, blonde, blue eyes,” Owen rattled off. “Takes after her mother, luckily.”

“We’ll find her.”

The group tramped up the hill, and Daylen paused at the top of the slope, swaying slightly. “All right, not good,” he slurred, staggering forward before Alistair grabbed his arm.

“Easy, there.” Alistair steered him away from the edge. “Let’s get you something to eat before we meet Bann Teagan up at the mill.” Letting Daylen lean on him, Alistair turned the mage around and headed for the tavern.

“Taking charge, I see,” Daylen mumbled. “Impressive. Gets me all hot and bothered.”

“Not funny,” Alistair grumbled, hauling his friend up the steps to the tavern. “What idiot thought it would be a good idea to put a tavern at the top of a set of stairs?”

“What’s with him?” Lloyd asked as they entered the building. “He all right?”

“Tell you later,” Alistair said, hefting Daylen onto a stool at the bar. “You got something for him to eat?”

Daylen slumped over the bar as the others followed the Wardens inside. Lloyd nodded. “Yeah, I think I got something that’ll fix him up.”

“Alistair, there’s something I need to tell you,” Daylen went on, his head lolling to one side.

“Shush, just get some food in you,” Alistair said as Lloyd emerged with a loaf of bread and some cheese on a platter.

“No, wait,” Daylen pressed. “On the bar. Someone scratched a message into the wood. It says…” he shook his head, refocusing his eyes on Alistair. “It says don’t eat the cheese.”

Alistair paused halfway through a bite of cheese. “Did it say why?”

“No, but I’ll just be having bread.”

Alistair swallowed hard, scraping his tongue against his teeth. “Well, I’m young yet. Maybe one piece won’t kill me.”

Daylen nodded, before growing pensive, staring at the wall as one would regard a beautiful sunset. “Alistair, about your dream in the Fade…”

“What, at the Circle?”

“You want a family as badly as I do, don’t you,” Daylen said quietly.

“More than anything,” Alistair admitted. “I thought I had one in the Wardens, and then most of them died. I’m hoping to do better in family number two.”

“Well, we’ve got each other,” Daylen offered.

“Boy, am I in trouble.”

Daylen snorted, before slugging his friend in the shoulder. “You better not come down with anything I can cure.”

—ROTG—

Daylen stumbled again as the group left the tavern, glaring at his feet in disgust. “All that food and rest and rejuvenation magic and I’m still like this,” he grumbled, shivering.

Leliana looked to Wynne. “Is this common?”

“Sometimes. When an apprentice draws too heavily on their magic, or expends too much mana in a short time, even with lyrium to support them, a state such as this can result.” She gave Daylen a disapproving look. “It rarely happens to Harrowed mages, who by that point typically know better.”

“Most mages weren’t in that situation,” Daylen shot back as the group started up the hill towards the mill. “I just hope whatever Bann Teagan needs isn’t too dangerous. I can’t draw on my magic like that again. Not so soon.”

They found Bann Teagan at the edge of the cliff near the mill, looking at Redcliffe Castle with a grim look on his face. “Odd how quiet the castle looks from here,” he remarked. “You would think there was nobody inside at all.”

“There might not be,” Daylen offered. Teagan shot him a quizzical look. “Well, could there be another way out of the castle? The Arlessa and the others might have fled.”

Teagan shook his head. “They would not abandon the Arl in his condition, nor could they transport him in that state. Besides, there are only two exits to the castle, and someone has been always on watch. Had they left, we would know.”

“The knights and the militia can defend the village. What do you plan to do?”

“I had a plan,” Teagan explained, “to enter the castle after the village was secure. There is a secret passage here, in the mill, accessible only to my family.”

“So that’s how you plan to get in,” Daylen realized. “I thought besieging the castle seemed a bit impractical.”

“To say the least,” Teagan agreed. “I would have entered the castle by now, but I had no idea what awaited me, and I couldn’t abandon the people of the village.” He opened his mouth to go on, before his jaw dropped fully open and he stared over Daylen’s shoulder. “Maker’s breath!”

“Teagan!” A woman called, an Orlesian accent thick in her words as she approached. “Thank the Maker you yet live!”

Daylen winced at the woman's shrill voice, scratching at his ear much the same way Cupcake had when she had started speaking. “She could etch glass with that...”

“Isolde!” Teagan said in amazement. “You’re alive! How did you…” He shook himself. “What has happened?”

“I do not have much time to explain,” Isolde said. “I slipped away from the castle as soon as I saw the battle was over, and I must return quickly.”

Daylen glanced at the direction she had come from, then back at Isolde. “You slipped away…through the front gate?”

“And I need you to return with me, Teagan,” Isolde went on, either not hearing or not caring what Daylen said. “Alone.”

“Well sod that,” Daylen snorted. “We need more of an explanation than that!”

“What?” Isolde looked at Daylen distastefully, and the Warden’s jaw hardened in response. “Who is this man, Teagan?”

Alistair sighed. “You remember me, Lady Isolde, don’t you?”

The arlessa looked at him, her face flashing through recognition, shock, disdain, and carefully controlled surprise in quick succession. “Alistair? Of all the…why are you here?”

“For the waters,” Daylen muttered. “Why do you think?”

“They are Grey Wardens, Isolde,” Teagan interrupted before Daylen could further prove just how poor a diplomat he could be. “I owe them my life.”

“So does everyone else in the village,” Daylen broke in.

“Pardon me,” Isolde said. “I would exchange pleasantries, but considering the circumstances…” She turned back to Teagan, dismissing them without a second thought.

“Please, Lady Isolde,” Alistair asked, shooting Daylen a warning look. “We had no idea anyone was even alive within the castle. We must have some answers!”

“I know you need more of an explanation,” Isolde spoke to Teagan. “But I…I don’t know what is safe to tell.”

Daylen rolled his eyes. “Let’s start with what is going on in there!”

“Teagan, there is a terrible evil within the castle. The dead waken and hunt the living. The mage responsible was caught, but still it continues. And I think Connor is going mad. We have survived but he won’t flee the castle. He has seen so much death! You must help him, Teagan! You are his uncle. You could reason with him. I do not know what else to do!”

“Hold on,” Daylen said. “You’re not telling us everything.”

Isolde looked as if Daylen had just waved his bum in her face. “I…I beg your pardon! That’s a rather impertinent accusation!”

“Not if it’s true, it isn’t!” Daylen riposted. “We just spent an awful night hacking creatures who used to be your subjects into little bitty pieces and setting the remains on fire.” Alistair winced, but Daylen went on before he could intervene. “Then you show up, coming from where we know something is raising the dead. Which means either a necromancer – and I doubt you have a mortalitasi in there – or a demon. And you start off the conversation by demanding that the only real authority figure left in the village just up and leave to go back to the place where there may or may not be demons without answering any questions?” Daylen paused for effect, holding Isolde’s gaze. “Can you not see how this looks just a little suspicious?”

“An evil I cannot fathom holds my son and husband hostage! I came for help! What more do you want from me?”

Daylen shrugged. “The truth?”

“Isolde, please,” Teagan broke in soothingly. “I do not understand what you mean by this ‘evil.’ Did it create the walking corpses? What is it?”

“Something the mage unleashed,” Isolde declared. “So far it allows Eamon, Connor, and myself to live. The others…were not so fortunate. It’s killed so many, and turned their bodies into walking nightmares! Once it was done with the castle, it struck the village!” She paused briefly, wringing her hands. “It wants us to live, but I do not know why. It allowed me to come for you, Teagan, because I begged, because I said Connor needed help.”

“That means a demon,” Daylen groused. “No demon would allow anyone to leave unless it meant luring someone powerful enough to possess and impersonate – or possess due to magical ability – within striking distance.” He began pacing, silently grateful he didn’t stumble in front of the arlessa. “Tell me about this mage.” Alistair shot him a glare, and Daylen winced. “If you would.”

“He is an…infiltrator, I think,” Isolde said haltingly. “One of the castle staff. We discovered he was poisoning my husband. That is why Eamon fell ill.”

“Eamon was poisoned?” Teagan burst out. “Why?”

“He claims an agent of Teyrn Loghain’s hired him,” Isolde explained. “He may be lying, however. I cannot say.”

“Makes sense,” Alistair said. “It removes another threat to his takeover. Rather suspicious, however.”

“If we saw one thing proved at Ostagar, it’s that Loghain doesn’t do subtle,” Daylen replied. “Why do you need just the Bann to go with you?”

“For Connor’s sake, I promised I would return quickly and only with Teagan,” Isolde said. “Teagan, I know you could order your men to follow me when I return to the castle. I beg you not to, for Connor’s sake!”

“The king is dead, and we need my brother now more than ever,” Teagan replied. “I will return to the castle with you, Isolde.”

Daylen stared at the man with his mouth slightly open for a moment. “So after all that fuss last night, you’re going to go get yourself killed?”

“I cannot let Isolde return alone,” Teagan replied. “Perhaps I can help Connor or Eamon. Perhaps this is really a trap, but this is my family. I must try. I have no illusions of dealing with this evil alone. You, on the other hand, have proven quite formidable.” Teagan looked to the arlessa. “Isolde, can you excuse us for a moment? We must confer in private before I return to the castle with you.”

Isolde nodded, wringing her hands. “Please do not take too long! I will be by the bridge.”

As soon as the arlessa stepped out of earshot, Teagan turned to the Warden. “Here’s what I propose. I go in with Isolde and you enter the castle using the secret passage. My signet ring unlocks the door. It is a simple passage, so there is no risk of getting lost.” He paused, squaring his shoulders. “Perhaps I will distract whatever evil is inside and increase your chances of getting in unnoticed. What do you say?”

“Counter-proposal,” Daylen replied. “You hang back, open the entrance for us, we tell the arlessa to go sit down and have a cup of tea at the Chantry, and my companions and I go in through the secret passage and deal with the demon that’s in the castle.”

Teagan’s face hardened. “I wasn’t asking for your permission to do this. Why are you so sure it’s a demon?”

“I’m a mage,” Daylen replied. “We know what the behavior of demons looks like. We’re trained to recognize and resist them. She mentioned ‘something the mage unleashed,’ and that the mage was caught, but the problem persists, so there’s something independently causing it.” He paused. “And it seems to be a pattern.”

“What?”

“The last two major problems we dealt with – with the Dalish elves and the Circle – were both caused by spirits, demons, and blood magic.” He held up his hands. “Look, there are so many things wrong with this situation that I would like to mention all of them.”

“There isn’t time for that. I intend to go back with Isolde. Ser Perth and his men can watch for danger at the castle entrance, but if you can open the gates from within, they can move in and help you.” He slid his ring from his hand, pressing it into Daylen’s palm. “This will open the lock on the door in the mill. Whatever you do, Eamon is the priority here. If you must, just get him out of there. Isolde me, and anyone else…we’re expendable.”

Daylen shook his head. “We didn’t get everyone in the village through last night alive just to leave you lot swinging in the wind. We all go in, we all come out. Nobody is expendable.”

Teagan extended a hand. “You are a good man.” Daylen clasped hands with the man. “The Maker smiled on me indeed, when He sent you to Redcliffe.” He glanced over Daylen’s shoulder, seeing the arlessa pacing by the bridge. “But I can delay no longer. Farewell. And good luck.”

As the Bann departed, Daylen sighed. “Well, let’s get to work then. Alistair, tell Ser Perth to wait at the entrance to the castle. We’ll have to do this before nightfall – the village can’t withstand another attack. If it comes to that, they may have to destroy the entrance to the castle. Seal it up until reinforcements from elsewhere arrive.”

“You think that will be necessary?” Leliana asked as Alistair left to speak with Ser Perth.

“We don’t know how many demons are going to be in there. Even with the three mages we have – Wynne, do you think you have the hang of Mana Clash now?” The enchanter nodded. “We’ll still be fighting in close quarters. Alistair, Zevran, and you will be vital in there.”

“I take it you don’t intend to bring the Templars along,” Leliana surmised.

Daylen snorted. “Why, so Hadley can try to take charge and kill everyone inside? No. We’ll handle them after we find out what’s going on.”

“Are you fit to fight?” Zevran asked, checking the edge on one of his blades.

“Fit enough,” Daylen replied, idly fiddling with Bann Teagan’s signet ring. “I’ll be using magic only. I’m still too shaky for swords, but I’ve got some mana. The rest of you will have to take the lead. If I push this too hard, I’ll pass out.”

Alistair returned and the group entered the mill, crowding into the narrow space. “Poke around, see if you can find the door,” Alistair suggested.

“Don’t suppose you know where it is.” Alistair shook his head. “Well, check around. It’ll probably be on the floor. Can’t be on the walls, after all.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Wynne began as the others spread out. “Why does your magic strain you so much? You use lyrium far more than usual.”

“Because I don’t do it the way mages are supposed to,” Daylen said. “Magical ice, fire, it can be dispelled or cleansed by a Templar. The way I do it, I’m throwing actual ice, not conjured.”

“That…sounds horribly inefficient.”

“It is, but it also means my spells hit harder and the ice or flame last longer than whatever mana I put into it. It’s a hard habit to break. I’d never been tested like this before.”

“That would…” Wynne squinted, doing some mental arithmetic. “Daylen, how deep are your reserves?”

Daylen gave her a nervous smile. “If I did it the fast and easy way, I’d probably never run out of mana.” Wynne’s eyes widened. “Part of it was maintaining spells for days at a time when I was younger, just to see if I could. I only passed out once.” He thought. “Maybe twice.” He counted on his fingers. “Maybe a bunch of times. It’s hard to remember.”

Wynne sighed. “How you’re not dead yet…”

Zevran whistled, sweeping some straw off the floor to reveal a door handle. “Over here.” Daylen tossed the rogue the ring, and Zevran pressed the ring into a slot below the handle and twisted. There was an audible click as the door unlocked, and Zevran hauled the door open, passing the ring back to Daylen and drawing his blades. “Wait a moment.” He dropped into a low tunnel, squinting in the dark. “It seems clear, but stay alert.”

Morrigan twitched her fingers, and a ball of magelight blossomed in her hand, casting warm light down the tunnel. “Do not trip.”

Zevran’s swords led the way as he moved smoothly down the tunnel. “I should be insulted by that.”

The tunnel sloped downwards, and Daylen glanced upwards at the ceiling. “Do you think we’re under Lake Calenhad?”

“Unlikely,” Zevran murmured, his boots crunching quietly on damp sand. “It would be impractical. It probably goes around the lake.”

The group emerged from the tunnel into a damp, narrow hallway, coming up through a metal grate on the floor.

“A dungeon of some sort,” Daylen mused. “Charming. Even nicer than the one at the Circle. Only one door, so at least we know where we’re going.” They opened the door to find a handful of walking dead battering on the gate of a cell at the opposite end of the hallway.

“Alistair, Zevran, Cupcake, you’re up,” Daylen murmured. “Sten, Leliana, hang back.”

The three fighters charged, and Daylen froze one of the undead in place moments before Cupcake’s weight collided with it, the creature shattering under the impact. The others were quickly dispatched, and Zevran was wiping his blades clean when a new voice sounded.

“Who's there?”

Daylen's head snapped around, his jaw dropping. “No. It couldn't be.”

Alistair looked over. “What?”

“I think we just found who summoned the demon,” Daylen said quietly, his eyes narrowing at a cell at the end of the row. “I’d know that nasal whine anywhere.” The group approached the cell, and Daylen spotted a filthy, bloodstained man in ragged mage robes with his face pressed against the bars.

“By all that’s holy, it's you,” Jowan said quietly.

Daylen’s eloquent response consisted of a fist to the face. Blood spurted, and Daylen grabbed the cell door near the lock, freezing it solid and kicking the weakened metal until it broke. Ripping open the door, Daylen entered the cell, looming over Jowan. “Give me one reason not to end you right now, Jowan!”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Acquainted, are you?”

“This rat bastard betrayed me!” Daylen grabbed the bleeding mage by the collar, hauling him to his feet and sinking his knee into Jowan's gut. “I nearly got executed because of you! Lily went to Aeonar because of you! And for what?” Over the mage’s apologetic wails, Daylen looked his friend in the eye and paused, his fist still raised. “Forearms.”

Jowan raised his hands, his sleeves falling back and revealing unmarked skin. “I haven’t used it since that night, Daylen.” Daylen grabbed him by the nose, healing the injury with a thought. Jowan grunted as the bone and cartilage shifted. “You’ve gotten better at that.”

“You have no idea,” Daylen said, crouching in front of Jowan. “Now I need information. Don’t lie to me, I’ve killed way too many people in the past few months to faff about. Did you summon the demon?”

“No, of course not!”

“Do you know who did?”

“No. Yes. Well, maybe.”

“Those are the options, yes,” Daylen replied.

Jowan smiled in spite of himself. “I’m sorry. Look, Connor – the arlessa’s son – he had started to show…signs.”

Daylen’s eyes widened. “Connor’s a mage?” Jowan nodded, and Daylen shot to his feet, pacing angrily. “I knew that bitch was lying to me! It’s a demon, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Jowan admitted. “Lady Isolde was terrified the Circle of Magi would take him away. So she sought an apostate to teach her son in secret so he could learn to hide his talent. Her husband had no idea.”

“Arl Eamon doesn’t know?” Daylen asked incredulously. “Magic’s fairly obvious.”

“Far as I know, he has no knowledge of Connor’s abilities. She was adamant that he never find out. She said that he’d do the right thing, even if it meant losing their son. And that infuriated her.”

“Why? Isolde wouldn’t need to be frightened. Sure, Connor wouldn’t be able to inherit the title, but as the son of an Arl he’d be treated far better at the Circle than any of us ever were.”

“He would be taken away from her, forever,” Jowan said quietly. “She is also a pious woman. Her son having magic was…humiliating.”

“Pious enough to hate magic, but not so pious as to follow the dictates of her own religion,” Daylen snorted. “Funny how the rules suddenly stop mattering when they become inconvenient. How much magic did you teach Connor?” Daylen’s eyes widened as he made a mental connection, and he glared at Jowan. “And what kind?”

“Just basic magic,” Jowan protested. “He’s still very young. He can barely regulate his mana enough to cast a minor spell, never mind something like summoning a demon, not intentionally. I mostly taught him how to control any accidental outbursts.”

“Accidental outbursts?” Alistair echoed.

“The first release of magic for many young mages is typically accidental,” Wynne explained. “One of the first things apprentices learn is how to prevent them.”

“But he can’t even cast a proper spell yet!”

“So what’s your theory, then?” Daylen asked.

Jowan nodded. “It is possible that Connor could have inadvertently done something to tear open the Veil. That would let spirits and demons infiltrate the castle. Powerful ones could kill and create those walking corpses. Clearly it wasn’t a major tear, since I’m still alive, but Connor is the most likely cause of this. Find him, you find the source.”

Daylen idly kicked one of the bodies on the ground in the head. “I see. So, you poisoned Arl Eamon?”

Jowan winced. “Yes.”

“Who ordered you to?”

“Teyrn Loghain.”

“Directly? Or through an agent?”

“Through an agent. I never met Loghain himself. But I was promised that if I dealt with Arl Eamon, Loghain would settle matters with the Circle. They told me he was a threat to Ferelden.”

“I…why would you believe that?” Daylen sputtered. “What power would Loghain have over the Circle – who doesn’t answer to the Crown? You’d be executed on sight!”

“All I wanted was to be able to return!”

“Again, why?” Daylen asked. “You hated it there even more than I did! You committed crimes worthy of immediate execution in order to escape, and you’d go back?”

“Turns out I don’t have much in the way of useful skills,” Jowan replied. “There’s little call in the world for a mage hunted by the Chantry, and less for one who barely knows which end of an axe you use to chop wood.”

“Noticed that, did you?” Daylen said dryly. “I’ve noticed how many useful spells Wynne and Morrigan know that our generation was never taught. Almost like they’re trying to keep up the image that all we’re good for is combat, healing, or enchanting.”

“That’s not true,” Wynne insisted.

“Oh, come off it,” Jowan spat. “Most mages in our generation couldn’t so much as boil a pot of water without having to use a fireball.”

“Getting off topic,” Daylen interjected. “You wanted to get back to the Circle, where you at least knew how to do things. The Templars would arrange an accident for you within a week of getting back at best, but you made the deal with Loghain, or at least someone claiming to work for him.”

“I did. But he abandoned me here, didn’t he? Everything’s fallen apart! I never thought it would end like this!” Jowan pressed his palms into his eyes. “Maker, I’ve made so many mistakes. I disappointed so many people…I wish I could go back and fix it. I just want to make everything right again.”

“It’s good to hear you say that, but I think that this is one time you really weren’t responsible for the mess.”

“But I had a hand in it! I poisoned the arl, and that’s when this all started. So many people died here, because I made a bad choice. The arl’s a decent man. A good father, a good husband, a good ruler, from what I’ve seen. He loves Lady Isolde dearly. I wondered how he could possibly be the threat Loghain said he was, but I did it anyway.”

“There’s nothing more dangerous than a man who thinks he’s doing the right thing,” Daylen said quietly.

Jowan rolled his eyes. “Oh, do you ever get tired of saying that?”

“I get more tired of having reason to say it,” Daylen snorted. “What happened after the Arl fell ill?”

“At first, Lady Isolde came here with her men demanding that I reverse what I’d done. I thought she meant my poisoning of the arl, but she was talking about the walking dead. That was the first I heard of them. She thought I’d summoned a demon to torment her family and destroy Redcliffe. She…had me tortured. I’ve managed to heal some of the damage she did, but there was nothing I could say or do that would appease here, so they left me to rot.” Jowan huffed out a humorless laugh. “It’s a good thing she did leave me down here, I suppose. That door held the creatures at bay.”

“Your logic is sound,” Daylen mused. “Connor could have accidentally sundered the Veil – or worse, made a deal – to try to save his father.”

“That’s all the information I have,” Jowan admitted. “I don’t know if it’s a demon he contacted directly, or what kind. I wish I could do something to help from down here, something to set things right, but I just don’t know what to do!”

There was a long pause as Daylen stared at the imprisoned mage and Jowan studiously avoided eye contact.

“Jowan,” he finally said softly. “Why?”

“Why’d I turn to it in the first place?” Jowan shook his head bitterly. “You’ll laugh at me. It's because…because of you, really.” Daylen glared at him, and Jowan held up his hands pleadingly before continuing. “I was always envious of your ability. Everything was easy for you! I knew I’d never be as great a mage as you are.”

“We’ll get to that in a minute. Go on. How’d you get into it?”

“In a moment of weakness, I thought blood magic would give me more power, more control. Isn’t that stupid?”

“Uldred taught you the basics?” Jowan nodded. “I thought so. Tosser threw you to the wolves to hide the rest of the blood mages he had been training.” Jowan grimaced. “It doesn’t matter. He’s dead now. Because you were jealous?”

“Envious, not jealous.” He sighed. “I knew it was wrong the minute I started,” Jowan admitted. “I swore never to use it again. And then Lily came along…she loved me for who I am, flaws and all. For a short time, I was happy with who I was. And blood magic was behind me. And then…then we heard about the Rite of Tranquility. The rest, you know.”

“Jowan, you’ve been more family to me than my own family ever was, but you’re really an idiot sometimes.”

Jowan snorted. “I know. Why this time?”

There was a moment’s pause before the dam broke. “Everything was easy for me?” Daylen asked incredulously. “I worked my skinny ass off to get where I am, you know that! Don’t you dare put the responsibility on me for your feelings! I made you feel inadequate? I had to be as good as I am! You know the stakes for a mage. It’s perfection or death.”

“Or Tranquility,” Jowan said quietly.

Daylen's face twisted. “I spoke with Irving. They were never going to give you the Rite until Uldred turned over the evidence of your practicing blood magic. But that's not the point. You’re a good mage, Jowan. You always were. And...” Daylen exhaled, angrily scrubbing his face with his hands. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made you feel inadequate. I’m sorry I drove you to this.”

“No one forced me to do it,” Jowan said. “I’m grateful you stuck with me through everything at the Circle. And I’m sorry I’ve let you down.”

Daylen snorted. “Jowan, had you come to me first…had you leveled with me? We could have, would have, avoided all this. I wouldn’t have cared about your using it.” Wynne glared at Daylen, but he ignored it. “I would have been afraid for you, all but trying to get yourself killed.” Jowan winced, and Daylen went on. “I was impressed you stood up for yourself to Greagoir, to Irving, that you took action that wasn’t just the mage’s exit. But you lying to me? Hiding blood magic from me? That…I don’t know if you’re the same person who was my best friend in the tower. Can’t help but pity you, though.”

“Why?”

“You had everything to lose in your escape, and lost it all. When I left the tower, I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. The one thing I didn’t have to work for was getting recruited.” Daylen gave Jowan an impish smile. “It would have been less trouble had you asked Duncan to recruit you.” The two shared a laugh at that. “You got in deep, Jowan.”

Jowan nodded, leaning back against the wall of the cell. “Learning blood magic is like…like drinking sea water,” he explained. “The more you drink, the thirstier you get. It’s never enough. There’s always another secret to uncover, more mysteries to unlock. I was lucky enough to realize that early on.” He grimaced. “Ah, Daylen, I knew it was stupid. I knew it was a bad idea. I knew they were going to kill me at some point.”

“They tell you when to eat, when to sleep, where you can walk or talk,” Daylen said. “The only choice they give you is when to die.”

Jowan nodded. “Templar steel or mage fire. You let them kill you, or you do it yourself. I knew…if they were going to kill me, I’d at least make them work for it. It would be on my terms.”

“We all think about it at some point.”

“I knew it was wrong.” Jowan leant back against the wall of his cell. “I knew it was wrong, and I still did it. So, now what.”

“The real question is what do I do with you,” Daylen sighed. “Jowan, you were my best friend for more than ten years.” He looked mournfully at the mage for a long pause, raising a hand, mana crackling across his fingers. Jowan’s eyes widened, and a wave of magic hit him. “I won’t kill you.”

Jowan patted himself down, finding his wounds healed. “You’re making that look easier than you usually do.”

Pressing a pair of sovereigns into the mage’s hand, Daylen spoke quickly. “Backtrack down the tunnel we came through, and go to our camp, just to the south of the village. Be very careful, there’s Templars and Circle mages in the area, so keep your head down. Tell Bodahn – that’s the dwarf who doesn’t look like he’s been brained with a rock – that I sent you and that I owe you a few parting gifts. Take what he gives you and start running. Find some place far away from all this nonsense.” Cuffing Jowan upside the head, Daylen pointed back down the tunnel. “Go now. Don’t enter the village, and for your sake don’t come back towards the castle.”

“You’re letting him go?” Wynne asked incredulously. “After all he’s done?”

“You want me to just gut him right here?” Daylen asked brightly. “Or would you prefer to strangle the life out of him yourself? Because killing someone for their mistakes is the best solution, right?”

Jowan gave him a crooked smile. “You grew up. Well, matured, you’d already grown up plenty.”

“Jackass.” Daylen shook his head. “Look, Jowan, what I said stands. You’re getting out of here. But then, you have to make a decision. To take control of your life, instead of entrusting it to someone else.”

Jowan tilted his head. “You remember who you’re talking to, right? I’ve always chosen wrong. Everything I’ve done only broke things.”

“We got out of the Circle because we were lucky, but we survived because we were strong. I want you to choose for yourself. If you want to walk away, keep running, that’s up to you. If you want to take a stand, choose to do something with the gifts we have…” Daylen spread his hands. “You won’t be alone, Jowan.”

“You want me to be a Grey Warden?”

“I want you to decide. I’m giving you what nobody else has – I’m giving you a choice. You can walk away, leave all this behind, and go live out whatever life you choose to build for yourself. I wouldn’t blame you. Or you can stand, stop running from who you are, and be the mage I know you can be. You’ve learned, same as I have, that the world will beat you to death if you let it. And we’re not going to let it. We’re going to fix it.”

“You expect me to make the world better?”

“Look me in the eye, and tell me you can’t do that.” Jowan smiled weakly. “Will you help?”

“And if I do? What happens if I join up?”

“Then maybe we’re enough to save the world. Do you know what you want to be?”

“I want to be free,” Jowan said. “I want to make a difference. I…I want to do right.”

“So make the choice, Jowan.” Daylen stood, extending a hand. “Someone needs to save the world. You’re someone. You want to be the someone who saves the world?”

“Maker, no,” Jowan said, taking his hand. “But I’ll certainly help out.”

Daylen pulled him to his feet. “Good enough.”

“You’re recruiting him?” Wynne asked.

“Hardly,” Daylen said. “I’m invoking the Right of Conscription.” He leaned over to Alistair. “We can do that, right?”

Alistair stared at him for a moment. “Sure, I suppose. But him?”

Daylen cleared his throat. “Right then. Jowan, as of now, you’re a Grey Warden recruit. But you’re also out of reach of the Chantry. Provided the Templars listen to the ‘I’m a Grey Warden’ before taking your head off. So congratulations, I’ve just given you a new reason to be hunted down.”

Jowan’s tone was so dry it was collecting dust. “Oh my, another one for the list.”

Daylen laughed, shaking his head. “Get out of here, and go to ground. We can’t exactly put you through the Joining yet, so you’ll have to work on your own for a bit. However, once this is over…come find me.” Jowan swallowed hard, before he pulled Daylen into a hug.

“Thank you, my friend,” Jowan whispered.

“Jowan?”

“Yes?”

“You’re getting blood on me.”

The two broke apart hurriedly, and Jowan smoothed his robes down. “Thank you again. We’ll see each other again, I promise you. In happier times, I should hope.”

Daylen jerked his head at the direction they had come from. “Go on, get out of here.” He met the disbelieving stares Wynne and Alistair were giving him as Jowan left. “All right, all right, be mad at me later. Let’s just go fix this mess.”

—ROTG—

It has been asked, "What are maleficarum? How shall we know them?" I have been as troubled by this question as you. You have come to me for the wisdom of the Maker, but none have seen the Maker's heart save Beloved Andraste. And so I have done as all mortals must, and looked to the words of His prophet for answers. And there, I found respite from a troubled mind.

For she has said to us, "Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him." Therefore, I say to you, they who work magic which dominates the minds and hearts of others, they have transgressed the Makers law.

Also, Our Lady said to us, "Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker." And so it is made clear to me, as it should be to us all: That magic which fuels itself by harming others, by the letting of blood, is hated by the Maker.

Those mages who honor the Maker and keep His laws we welcome as our brothers and sisters. Those who reject the laws of the Maker and the words of His prophet are apostate. They shall be cast out, and given no place among us.

--"Maleficarum," From The Sermons of Justinia I

Chapter Text

The group fought their way through the dungeon and cellars of the castle, finding only a handful of undead left. Clearing the cellars room by room was slow, but simple enough – they would open the door, any undead inside would charge, and a mage would freeze them in place before the warriors and rogues went to work.

“Alistair, do you know where we are?” Daylen asked quietly as they came to another stairwell. “Just how big are these cellars anyway?”

“Remember, this is a fortress. They built in storage spaces for supplies to outlast a siege,” Alistair replied. “And to shelter people.” There was a clatter at the top of the stairs, and Alistair drew his sword just in time for an undead to come tumbling down the stairs. Offhandedly beheading the creature, he went on. “This leads up to the main floor, where there’ll be several larger rooms. We’ll be able to spread out more. The barracks and the main halls will be on that level. The upper floor has the personal quarters. Tight confines, like this.”

Alistair led the way up the stairs, his shield held in front of him in case any more undead took a header down the stairs. The room ahead was clear, and the group spread out along the hall. Zevran hissed, his ear against a door, and Daylen leveled his staff at the door, Alistair close behind him. Zevran wrenched the door open, and Daylen was halfway through casting another frost spell when he realized the figure on the other side of the door was human. And screaming.

“Please don’t hurt me!”

“Be silent!” Daylen hissed. “You’re safe. We’re not going to hurt you!”

“I’m sorry,” the woman whimpered. “I’m so frightened! These monsters are everywhere!”

Daylen gave her a pointed look. “Then be quiet, so you don’t let them know we’re here! Now, who are you?”

“My…my name’s Valena, I’m the arlessa’s maid. Is she…all right? What happened to everyone?”

“Not sure, but last I saw the arlessa was alive. You said your name was Valena? Owen’s daughter?”

“You know my father?”

Daylen nodded. “Promised him I’d find you, actually.”

“I want to go back to the village! Is there a way out of here?”

“Go down that hallway, through the cellars and dungeons, and out the tunnel. You’ll find yourself at the mill. It should be clear from there.” The woman all but sprinted off, babbling thanks.

As Daylen nudged open a door, he jerked back. “Shades!” Twin crashes echoed off the walls as both Wynne and Morrigan cast, and the shades dissolved, the strongest of the bunch staggering on a bit farther before collapsing. “Demons in the castle Chantry. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“We’ll have to double back,” Alistair said, looking around. “We’re at the…southwest corner, I think.” The group cut through a quiet sitting area, a fire still lit in the fireplace, and killed another handful of the undead in the next room. “The mabari kennels are on the left,” he murmured. “Up ahead we’ve got the kitchen areas and the dining hall.”

Cupcake was nervously pawing at the door to the kennels, and Daylen winced as he heard growling from inside. “Oh, dear.”

A few frantic moments later, Daylen looked mournfully at the corpses of the recently deceased mabari. “The demons possessed mabari? Isn’t there some sort of a line?”

“Apparently not,” Alistair said quietly. “We can cut down the hall here out to the courtyard and let the knights in.”

Clearing out the next several rooms was more tedious than dangerous between the mages’ ability to turn any enemies into ugly ice sculptures and the blades of the warriors and rogues. It was only when they emerged into the courtyard that things got messy. Daylen, lagging behind and still weakened from the strain of defending the village, suddenly found himself flying through the air, yanked by a revenant’s spell, his staff falling from his hands mid-flight. He tumbled to a halt in front of the revenant and rolled aside as the creature’s greatsword came down.

Daylen reached out, slapping the greatsword and freezing it to the ground, buying himself a few moments as he pushed himself to his feet and the revenant freed its blade. Ducking another swing from the revenant, Daylen stumbled back as the creature followed up with a strike to his chest with its shield. The greatsword came down, and Daylen reflexively blocked with his arm. His flesh held, strengthened by magic, but the bone splintered under the impact. Howling in pain, Daylen grabbed the revenant by the wrist with his good arm and winced at the bitter cold emanating from the possessed corpse. Channeling lightning into the revenant’s body, he grinned for a moment in grim satisfaction as the creature thrashed, before coughing out a pained breath as it slammed the shield into his face, sending him tumbling across the courtyard again.

Daylen came to a stop against the stone outer wall of the keep, his nose bleeding freely and his vision blurring. More blood trickled from a cut over his eye, and Daylen pushed himself to his feet with his working arm, spotting a release for the gate’s counterweight nearby. Wrenching the lever, Daylen watched as the gate opened, Ser Perth leading several knights into the courtyard. “Could use some help!”

“Follow me, men!” Ser Perth ordered, bellowing out a battle cry as he charged the revenant.

Daylen spotted his companions wiping out the last of the walking corpses as the knights went to work on the revenant, Ser Perth himself easily parrying the creature’s attacks as the revenant found itself on the defensive. It stabbed its blade into the ground to cast a spell, and one of the knights managed to hook an axe’s head around the revenant’s shield, ripping it away and sending it skidding across the paving stones.

The revenant backhanded the knight, sending him stumbling away, and was trying to retrieve its sword when Ser Perth’s blade neatly removed its head. The body dropped, and Daylen staggered over to Wynne, feeling blood running into his beard.

“Can’t you stay out of trouble?” Wynne asked, healing a nasty slash Alistair had taken across the cheek. The warrior probed at the new flesh, giving Wynne a grateful nod and moving off to help Leliana with the post-fight looting.

“Would love to,” Daylen replied, gingerly extending his arm. “D’you think the Blight would just fuck off by itself?”

Wynne tutted at his language, but cleared up his wounds in a matter of minutes as Ser Perth’s knights checked over the undead, making sure there were no surprises lying in wait.

“My men and I are eager to see our arl again,” Ser Perth said as everyone regrouped. “Shall we enter the main hall together? It must be held if we are to regain control of the castle.”

Daylen shook his head. “I need you and your knights to hold this entrance. My companions and I will continue into the castle. We’ve cleared the cellars and the dungeon already, as well as a portion of the main floor, but if we fail, if the flow of undead resumes…” Daylen shook his head. “You’ll need to destroy the entrance and seal everything and everyone inside until reinforcements enough to clear the castle out can be found.”

“That would mean sacrificing all of you,” Perth protested.

“If it comes to that, we’ll all be dead anyway. Ser Perth, I’m only bringing this up as an absolute last resort. But I want your word. If it comes to it, the safety of Redcliffe comes first.”

He sighed. “Very well. We will hold the courtyard. And if we must, we will seal the castle away.”

“Good. Hopefully, we’ll be back soon.” Then they entered the main hall, and things got weird.

It started with the group finding Bann Teagan, who had seemed a reasonably well-balanced man, dancing like a fool and rolling about on the ground. Guards stood about the room, their eyes glazed over. Then they noticed Isolde standing and watching with a miserable look on her face, and standing next to her, a young boy, clapping.

Then the boy spoke, and a chill went down Daylen’s spine. All three mages stood straighter at the voice – far too deep for a human, let alone a boy so young. “So these are our visitors? The ones you told me about, Mother?”

“Yes, Connor,” Isolde stammered.

“And this,” he said, pointing at Daylen, “is the one who defeated my soldiers? The ones I sent to reclaim my village?”

“Yes.” Daylen raised an eyebrow, but remained silent, noting how Connor’s face seemed bruised and mottled in places.

“And now it’s staring at me! What is it, Mother? I can’t see it well enough!”

“This…this is just a man, Connor,” Isolde said quietly. “Like your father…”

“Oh, I’m tired of hearing about him!” Connor snapped. “Besides, he’s nothing at all like father! Look at him! Breathing and not dying in the slightest!” The boy’s eyes widened. “I could change that, mind you…”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Daylen replied tightly.

“Connor, I beg you, don’t hurt anyone!”

Suddenly, the boy clutched at his head, stumbling back a step. “Mother?” His voice had returned to a level normal for a human boy, and he looked at Isolde, his hands trembling. “What’s happening? Where am I?”

“Oh, thank the Maker!” Isolde cried, clearly believing a miracle had occurred. “Connor! Connor, can you hear me?”

Connor’s face slid back into a glare. “Get away from me, fool woman!” His voice had returned to the abnormal register. “You are beginning to bore me.”

“I get the feeling that’s not a euphemism for anything good,” Daylen growled, crossing his arms.

“Grey Warden,” Isolde pleaded, looking to him. “Please don’t hurt my son! He’s not responsible for what he does!”

Daylen glared at her. “You lied to me. A lot. So he’s the evil force you spoke of. And you’ve been protecting him this entire time?”

“Connor didn’t mean to do this! It was that mage, the one who poisoned Eamon – he started all this! He summoned this demon! Connor was just trying to help his father!”

“No, that mage didn’t do this, or the demon would have possessed him,” Daylen said. It was a half-truth, but Isolde didn’t need to know that. “This was all Connor. He brought the demon.”

“It was a fair deal!” Connor insisted, his face twisted in a derisive sneer. “Father is alive, just as I wanted. Now it’s my turn to sit on the throne and send out armies to conquer the world! Nobody tells me what to do anymore!”

“Nobody tells him what to do!” Teagan echoed from the floor. “Nobody!” He fell into peals of laughter.

“Quiet, uncle,” Connor snarled. “I warned you what would happen if you kept shouting, didn’t I?” He looked to Daylen. “But let’s keep things civil. This man will have the audience he seeks. Tell us, what have you come here for?”

“I’d suggest you let the child go and scamper off back to whatever Fade-born pisshole you crawled out of, before I make you braid your own intestines.”

“I’m not finished playing!” Connor shouted. “You can’t make me stop! I think it’s trying to spoil my fun, Mother!”

Isolde blanched. “I don’t think…”

“Don’t kill him,” Daylen said softly to his companions as Connor ranted at his mother.

“This man spoiled my sport by saving that stupid village,” Connor went on, “and now he’ll repay me!” He sprinted off down a hallway, Isolde scurrying out of the way as Teagan and several entranced guards charged at the group.

Wynne’s staff twirled, and the charging enemies froze in place, paralyzed by a handful of glyphs. “They will not last long, Warden, act quickly!”

“This isn’t blood magic, the Litany of Adralla won’t do us any good,” Daylen thought aloud. “Would knocking them out work?”

A conjured lump of stone answered his question as one of the guards fell backwards, blood streaming from his face. The others quickly followed suit at the ends of blunt strikes and mailed fists.

“Heal them and wake them up one at a time,” Daylen said quietly. “Start with one of the guards.”

Morrigan cast a quick spell on the guard nearest her. “He will sleep until we awaken him.”

“Good,” Daylen replied. “Do the rest. Wynne, pick one as a test. We need to make sure they’re free of that demon’s control.”

Unfortunately, Isolde was already shaking Teagan awake. “Teagan! Teagan, are you all right?”

Daylen grimaced. “He could still be enthralled for all you know!”

Teagan rose slowly, shaking his head. “I am…better now, I think. My mind is my own again.”

“Blessed Andraste,” Isolde said. “I would never have forgiven myself had you died, not after I brought you here. What a fool I am!” She turned around to see Daylen biting down on one of his gauntlets, clearly infuriated. “Please! Connor’s not responsible for this! There must be some way we can save him!”

Daylen took his hand away from his mouth, exhaling slowly and resisting the urge to simply immolate her. “You knew about this all along.”

“I…yes. I didn’t tell you because I believed we could help him,” Isolde admitted. “I still do.”

“Are you an expert on demons and possession?” Daylen asked. The arlessa shook her head. “Then how is what you believe relevant?” Glancing over at Wynne, he jerked his head at the unconscious guards. “Heal them and wake them up.”

“Clearly, the boy is an abomination,” Morrigan chimed in as Wynne set to work.

Wynne nodded grimly. “There is only one way to stop it. It is all we can do for him now.”

“He is not always the demon you saw,” Isolde pleaded. “Connor is still inside him, and sometimes he breaks through. Please, I just want to protect him!”

“It’s a bit late for that now,” Daylen sighed.

“The mage betrayed me,” Isolde declared, holding her head high. “It is his fault! I brought him here to help my son, and instead he poisoned my husband and summoned a demon!”

Daylen glared at her. “Jowan didn’t summon anything.”

“He should be executed! If not for him, none of this would have happened!”

“Enough!” Daylen barked, power pulsing through the air as he spoke. Isolde took a half-step back, cowed. “Jowan is no more to blame for this than you are. He poisoned your husband, yes. But it was Connor who made the deal with the demon. And you brought Jowan here in the first place. You’re the root of the problem.”

“I only wanted to protect him. If they found out he had magic they'd take him away – I thought if he learned a little, enough to hide it…”

“Isn’t that what started this?” Teagan asked pointedly. “You hired the mage to teach Connor in secret, to protect him.”

Daylen sighed. “I understand that. You tried to protect your child, any decent parent would. But after the dead began to rise? You had to know this had gone beyond hiding.”

Teagan’s eyes were dark with anger. “Do you not realize what you’ve done, Isolde?” he seethed. “Eamon lies at death’s door – he may already be dead! Connor may be beyond help! All because of you!”

“Eamon would only demand we do the right thing!” Isolde shouted. “I was not going to lose my son! Not to…to magic!”

Daylen gave her an ugly look. “Magic is the only reason anyone here is still alive. Put away your prejudice.”

“Magic…runs in my family,” Isolde admitted. “The ones who had it were all terrible, sinful men. I didn’t know what to do when I found out!”

“And so you brought doom upon us all,” Teagan spat. “And death to your own son!”

Isolde burst into tears. “No, no please! There must be another way! There must be something we can do!”

Daylen pressed two fingers to his temple, rubbing at a developing headache. “You knew Connor had the gift, but you kept him here. Not out of love for him, but because you were ashamed of what it said about you for having produced a mage child.” Isolde opened her mouth, and Daylen cut her off with a slash of his hand. “No! If it had been someone else’s child, if it were somebody in the village had kept their son and he made the deal? How much sympathy would you have? You’re so happy to follow the Chantry teachings when they don’t hurt you. But now you’re a murderer. The people of Redcliffe will be burning the bodies of their friends and loved ones for the next week, because of you. They’re the victims here, and they’ve suffered enough. All we can give Connor now is a merciful death.” He rubbed the back of his gauntlet over his eyes, ignoring Isolde’s wailing and collecting his thoughts. “I have some questions, and this time, I want complete and honest answers! Where is Connor now? Why did he run?”

“I think he ran upstairs, to the family quarters,” Teagan offered.

“Violence…scares him,” Isolde added. “I know that sounds strange. He may have run up to his room, or…”

“Or he might be waiting for us to come looking, because he’s possessed?” Daylen asked acidly.

“I don’t know. The fighting may have scared Connor into…coming out again, and so he ran.”

“So you’re saying he may be vulnerable?” Teagan asked.

Daylen winced at Teagan’s choice of words. Isolde hung her head. “I…perhaps. Is there…is there no other way?”

Daylen ducked that question. “Where is Arl Eamon?”

“Upstairs, in his room,” Isolde supplied. “I think the demon has been keeping him alive.”

“So if we destroy the demon,” Teagan asked slowly, “then…”

“Then my husband may perish, yes.”

Daylen pointed at her. “You don’t get to make those conclusions. You haven’t gotten one right yet.”

“I wouldn’t normally suggest slaying a child,” Alistair said, “but…he’s an abomination. We don’t really have any choice.”

“We can’t kill a young boy, demon or no demon,” Leliana protested. “Please don’t say we’re considering that!”

“Leliana, many of the abominations we killed at the Circle were once young children,” Daylen ground out. “I recognized their faces. I don’t want to kill a child, but Connor’s age has nothing to do with this.”

Teagan sighed. “Connor is my nephew, but he is also possessed by a demon. Death would be…merciful.”

“No!” Isolde cried. “What…what about the mage? He could know something of this demon! If he still lives, we could speak to him!”

“Jowan doesn’t know a thing about demons that I don’t,” Daylen snapped. “We were classmates at the Circle.” He clenched his staff tighter in both hands, the wood creaking under his grip. “We don’t have a choice. There’s always a way, but there isn’t…”

“This isn’t his fault!” Isolde pleaded. “Please, don’t hurt him!”

Daylen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, it actually is his fault. Well, I mean, it’s your fault for bringing in an apostate blood mage to teach your son to hide his magic from your husband, but that’s not the point. It really is Connor’s fault – he did sunder the Veil here, and he does seem to have made a deal to save his father – but fault isn’t important.” He shook his head. “There’s always another way…you just have to find it. But…I don’t know of any way to get rid of the demon without killing him.”

Isolde flew into fresh hysterics, and Morrigan cleared her throat. “It isn’t our only option.”

Daylen’s head snapped around so quickly his neck audibly popped. “What?”

“Killing the child is the quickest course, but I suppose it is possible to save him. Since the boy surrendered himself to the demon willingly, he can still be saved,” Morrigan explained. “The demon can be confronted and destroyed in the Fade, thereby saving Connor.” Daylen’s eyes widened, and Morrigan went on. “So no, there was no way to save those mages at the Circle. The unwillingly possessed are lost. This would be a demon of desire, which only helps our cause – a more powerful demon would be better able to possess him without mutilating him.”

“Fighting the demon in the Fade would be possible,” Wynne agreed. “But to do that, we’d need lyrium and several mages.”

“Both of which are a quick boat ride across the lake away,” Daylen breathed. “We could send one of us into the Fade and take out the demon from the source.” He looked to Teagan. “We may be able to save your nephew. The Circle owes me a favor.”

“What do you mean?” Teagan asked, baffled at the quick shift in conversation. “The demon is within Connor, is it not?”

“No, it lies in the Fade and controls the boy from there,” Morrigan replied. “We can follow that connection, however, and do battle with its true form.”

Isolde finally seemed to understand. “So you can enter the Fade? And kill the demon without hurting my boy?”

“Is it safe to do this?” Teagan asked. “What if the demon comes forth again?”

“Of course it’s not safe. Nothing’s safe when it comes to demons.” Daylen began to pace. “But what options do we have?”

“We’re still contemplating the murder of a child here?” Leliana asked.

“Is this what it means to be a Grey Warden?” Daylen muttered. “You have to weigh each life to see if it’s worth saving, or if there’s more to gain from that person’s death?” His eyes fell upon Wynne, and a hopeful look spread across his face. “Wynne, that barrier spell you used at the Circle. How long can you keep it in place?”

Wynne looked up, immediately understanding. “You intend to seal the demon away from the rest of the castle?”

Daylen nodded. “It’s the best option we have. Do you think you have the strength to keep it up long enough for us to get back?”

“Provided you are not overly delayed, yes,” Wynne replied. “If it means saving this boy’s life…” She stood straighter. “Leave me some lyrium potions and a comfortable chair and I will keep that barrier in place as long as you need.”

“All right, we have a plan. Alistair, Zevran, Morrigan, stay with Wynne. Sten, Leliana, Cupcake, come with me. We need a boat.”

—ROTG—

“All right, that is it!” Leliana shouted. “Don’t you have some sort of spell to settle your stomach?”

Daylen shakily wiped his mouth, feeling his stomach flipping again. “What’s the problem? I didn’t throw up on you this time.”

“No, but hearing it is making me feel ill!”

“Relax,” the boatman said from the rear of the vessel. “We’re almost there, Warden.”

“Thank goodness,” Daylen muttered. Cupcake whined and pawed at his shoulder, licking his cheek. “Thanks, pup.”

The boat bumped against the dock and Leliana leapt from the boat, landing easily and striding down the dock. Daylen clambered out, whistling for Cupcake to follow him. Sten stomped onto the dock, his plate armor glinting in the noonday sun.

They bypassed the guard at the door easily, the Templar recognizing the group and wisely getting out of the way.

The Circle was still a mess, with a temporary command center that was looking increasingly permanent set up in the entry hall.

“Warden,” Greagoir said stiffly as Daylen approached. “What brings you back here?”

“Business,” Daylen replied bluntly. “I need to speak with Irving. You haven’t got him locked up someplace, have you?”

Greagoir gave him a dirty look and jerked a thumb over his shoulder, where Irving was speaking with a group of enchanters. “Daylen,” Irving greeted the man warmly. “Wynne returned with your request for aid at Redcliffe. What brings you back to the Circle?”

Daylen spoke without preamble. “I need those mages a bit longer, and potentially you as well. Can the Circle spare you and some lyrium to go to Redcliffe and save a possessed child?”

“Save a possessed – do you intend to fight the demon in the Fade?” Daylen nodded. “The child has willingly made a deal?” Daylen nodded again. “The Circle will be there. We will need a fair amount of lyrium. How long do we have?”

“Not long. Wynne is holding a barrier. How long do you need?”

“I shall gather what I can and we shall leave promptly,” Irving declared. “A life is at stake.”

As soon as Irving and the triple-locked chest of lyrium were loaded on the boat, they pushed off, and Irving cast, the boat picking up speed so quickly Daylen had to grab hold of the railing, water splashing up over the bow.

“Well, the bridge is still standing,” Daylen noted as they approached the castle. “Either we’re just in time, or way too late.”

Zevran met them at the gate. “That was quick,” he remarked, passing over a bag.

“Tell that to my queasy stomach,” Daylen groused, stuffing the bag into his satchel. “Any developments?”

“The boy is upstairs. He retreated to the Arl’s room when spotted. Wynne is holding the barrier there.”

“Well, we’ve got what we need,” Daylen declared as they entered the castle. “We can chase that demon down and destroy it.”

“Ah, Warden,” Zevran said, hesitating. “Not that I do not support this venture, not that I do not intend to fulfill my oath, but I feel I have spent far too much time in the Fade as it is.”

Daylen snorted. “Relax. It has to be a mage. So unfortunately, we can’t use your devastating sex appeal to charm the demon into leaving.”

Zevran grinned. “Your loss.”

They entered the main hall and found Hadley standing there, nearly apoplectic. “A demon! You are truly a piece of work, Amell. You assist a blood mage’s escape, and then hide the existence of an abomination from me!”

“What were you going to do, run from it?” Daylen asked. “Get out of my way, Hadley, I don’t have time for you.”

His gauntleted hand closed on Daylen’s arm as Daylen shouldered past him. “Don’t you talk to me…” His sentence turned into a pained gurgle as Daylen whirled around and punched him square in the mouth, a cloud of blood and spittle bursting from his face as he dropped to the floor.

The other Templars had their weapons half-drawn before Daylen whistled. “Look around,” he said. “Do some counting.” Every knight, militiaman, and member of Daylen’s party had their weapons drawn and were staring down the Templars. “Once again, I’m handling the situation. Stand down, get your boss some smelling salts. I think he’s out cold.”

“M’not,” Hadley gurgled from the floor. “You’ll pay for this.”

“The Templars still need to make good for their assassination attempt on me,” Daylen replied. “So put it on my bill. Meantime, I’ve got work to do. So tell your men to stand down before the Order has to commit more of its men to the pyre.”

Hadley’s voice was tired. “Fuck you, Amell.” He slowly lifted a hand. “Stand down, men. I’ll deal with him later.”

“I hear that a lot,” Daylen admitted, reaching down and patting him on the shoulder, subtly healing Hadley’s mouth and his own broken hand. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.”

Hadley worked his mouth, glaring at him. “Being a Grey Warden will only protect you so far, if you go around assaulting Templars so casually.”

“As will being a Templar, if you go around assaulting Grey Wardens,” Daylen warned. “So how about we just stay out of each other’s way?”

“Let us hope our paths do not cross again, then.”

“I’m already hoping that.”

Morrigan waiting for them in the next chamber. “Daylen,” she said quietly. “I would ask something of you.”

Zevran took one look at her face and glanced at Daylen. “I will alert Wynne that you have returned.”

Daylen glanced at the mages that were preparing around them, noting that they were pointedly avoiding his gaze. “Better make it quick. What’s on your mind, Morrigan?”

“I…” She hesitated. “You realize the risk you run by confronting the demon directly.”

“Possession,” Daylen replied simply. “Why do you bring this up? This venture was your suggestion.”

“I did not anticipate it would be you making the journey,” Morrigan snapped, looking away.

Daylen didn’t bother hiding his smile. “So you do care.”

“I care about completing this task,” she insisted, crossing her arms in front of her. “You being possessed would hinder that. So do not be stupid. Having to follow Alistair would be irritating.”

“Morrigan,” Daylen said softly. “What is it you’re asking?”

Morrigan paused, shifting her weight from one leg to the other for a few moments before looking him in the eyes. “I…please. Come back safe.”

“You have my word.” He took a deep breath, realizing there was something to take care of while he still had time. “Before I go, there’s something I’ve been meaning to do.”

“That being?”

In response, Daylen leaned in, and Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “What’s this? ‘Tis a rather odd discussion you seem to desire, leaning in so closely.”

Daylen paused, and spotted the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Do you object?”

“Not unless you stop,” she replied playfully, moments before his lips met hers.

It was electric. Any noises around them were quickly smothered by the pounding in his ears as Daylen’s blood raced, Morrigan’s hand sliding into his hair and pulling him closer. Daylen wasn’t sure how long they had been standing there, his arms around her waist, when someone cleared their throat off to his right. Holding out a hand, Daylen signaled for them to wait, and it felt like another day passed before he finally broke the kiss, noting with no small measure of satisfaction that Morrigan’s lips were puffy and she seemed slightly dazed. He looked up, spotting Irving standing there looking deeply amused. “Yes?” Daylen rasped, Morrigan still in his arms.

“We are ready.”

Daylen fought amusement as they regrouped in the main hall of the castle, Morrigan still seemingly distracted.

“We can start anytime and send the mage of your choosing into the Fade.”

Daylen frowned. “Only one person can go?”

“We lack the lyrium and the mages to send more than one mage into the Fade. If our numbers were greater we could handle the more complex ritual, and we only have enough lyrium for one attempt as it is.” Irving glanced at the stairs to the upper floor, where Wynne still maintained the barrier. “I hope this gambit succeeds. Such a young lad deserves better than execution.”

“Let’s get this done, then. I’ll go.”

Irving hesitated. “A more experienced mage, such as Wynne, or myself…”

“I’m going.” Daylen rolled his neck. “This latest insanity is my decision. I’ll take the risk.”

Irving nodded. “Very well. Let us begin, then.”

“I’m glad we decided to take this route,” Alistair replied. “It really is the best option.”

Daylen took a seat in the center of the ritual circle. “It’s the only option. I’m not putting that boy to death.” He rolled his neck, taking a steadying breath. “I’m the best pick for this.”

“You trying to convince me, or yourself?” Alistair asked.

“Both. Irving has to handle the ritual, Wynne’s holding the barrier, Morrigan…” He looked over, seeing her staring at a painting. “Yeah, she’s…distracted.”

“What happened to her?”

Daylen searched for a moment for a tactful way to put it. “Me.” Alistair scrunched up his face in disgust, and Daylen laughed. “Believe it or not,” he said, “this isn’t the first time I’ve done this.”

“What?” Alistair asked incredulously, standing clear as the Circle mages took places around Daylen. “Just what did you get up to at the Circle?”

Daylen gave him a nervous smile, trying not to look at the amount of lyrium being brought into the room. “Besides the Harrowing, I fought several demons on my own while we were stuck in the Fade back at the Circle. I’ve never had to slap a demon so hard it un-possessed someone, but I’ve fought demons on their own turf.”

“Glad we’re sending an expert,” Alistair muttered.

“You and me both.” Daylen nodded to Irving. “Let’s do it.”

“Good luck, child.”

Daylen winked at him, forcing a grin. “Keep my seat warm. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes…just wait longer.”

The mages began casting, the lyrium in the buckets glowing brighter as they began to draw on it. Daylen closed his eyes, trying to relax. Then his eyes snapped open as the feeling like he had just been dropped into a barrel of icy water washed over him. The world dissolved into blinding white light, Daylen heard a ringing in his ears that was nearly deafening, and it felt like the world had dropped out from under him, sending him hurtling downwards.

Then the light faded, and Daylen sat up, his head spinning. Trying not to contemplate the possible consequences of losing his lunch in the Fade, he brought up his defensive spells, feeling his skin hardening and his companion wisp orbiting around him. An arcane shield bloomed into place and mana flooded the space around him, and he sagged unexpectedly at the sudden pull on his magic before dropping some of the spells. Gritting his teeth, he drew his staff. “All right, still not back to full strength.”

With how time could pass differently in the Fade, he wasn’t sure how long he wandered before he found another being. Surprisingly, it wasn’t Connor, but another man, older and stockier with a beard and hair thoroughly shot through with grey. He stood unnaturally still in the fog, shouting.

“Connor? Son, are you there? Somebody, please, help me!”

Daylen approached slowly, warily. “Who are you?”

The man turned, seemingly seeing him for the first time. “Hold, stranger. I do not know you, nor where we are.”

Daylen pulled up short and felt for magic coming from the man, but sensed nothing. The Fade seemed to hardly respond to the man. “My name is Daylen Amell. I’m a Grey Warden, and this is the Fade. Who are you?”

The man’s eyes widened. “This is the Fade? The land of dreams and demons? I am Eamon Guerrin, Arl of Redcliffe.”

Daylen narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing here? You’re no mage.”

“I don’t know! I didn’t even know this was the Fade.”

Realizing he couldn’t be sure this was Eamon, Daylen changed tacks. “Have you seen your son?”

“My son?” Eamon said, his eyes glazing over. “Connor? My son…it’s been so long since I’ve seen him…”

Daylen cleared his throat. “You need to focus. Connor. Where is Connor?”

“I don’t know! This blasted fog, I tried to find him and I always wind up here! I can’t find him!”

Daylen put weight into his voice. “Eamon, Connor is in danger!”

Immediately the Arl’s eyes cleared and he snapped alert. “Where is my son?”

“I’m asking you that! Have you seen him? Heard him?”

“Sometimes, I can hear his voice,” Eamon said. “But I cannot find him. This blasted fog has me turning in circles! He can’t be far, can he?”

“The Fade is odd about things like that. He’s here, though. Your son is a mage.”

The Arl’s eyes widened. “Connor, a mage?” he asked. “How do you know?”

“Because he made a deal with a demon to save your life after you were poisoned.” Daylen winced. “Er, you were poisoned, by the way. I’m here to kill the demon and save your son.” Daylen shifted his weight uneasily. “Eamon…if I kill the demon, there’s a chance that you may die.”

“Connor comes first,” Eamon replied firmly. “You hear me? Connor comes first! If his freedom means my death, then that’s a price I’m willing to pay. I will not lose my son to some blasted demon!” He stepped forward, grabbing Daylen by the shoulders. “You give me your word, Warden. If the choice comes between my son and me, you pick my son.”

Daylen’s face softened. “You have my word.”

The arl nodded. “Find my son, Warden. Bring him home. Please.”

Daylen’s path was clear. Literally – there was only one way to go, the Fade being the mess of floating islands and narrow pathways between high ridges that it often was. Daylen groaned when he saw a purple field floating in an arch. “Not this nonsense again. I had enough of this at the Circle!” Sighing, he reached out and touched the field, feeling the magic of the portal pulling him across the Fade.

Daylen staggered forward a step as he emerged from the other side, the portal turning black behind him. Pushing on through the next path, the mage headed up a hill and around a giant stone tower that looked to have bone growing out of it.

Ahead, he spotted a chair and a bed sitting at the edge of the island. And next to them, a young boy.

“I don’t suppose you’re Connor,” Daylen said as he approached.

“Who are you?” The boy challenged. Daylen’s eyes narrowed as he heard the deep voice of the demon again. “Are you the one that made Father ill? Tell me now!”

“Look, we both know you’re a demon, so just get out of my way.”

“You could be a demon too!” Connor shot back. “You could be a demon that just looks like a person!”

Daylen opened his mouth to retort, before considering the point. “All right, that’s true. And you could be a guardian of this realm, meant to confuse me. Let’s reason this out calmly.”

“Fool!” the boy snapped, his eyes turning black. “You won’t get near her! I won’t let you!” The boy fell to his knees, his form snapping back and forth between a human boy and the well-endowed and horned form of a Desire demon. It didn’t finish the transformation before Daylen froze it solid and shattered it with a lump of conjured stone. Rolling his eyes, Daylen turned and headed back down the path, finding the portal reactivated.

“Maybe Eamon has some idea of where to go,” Daylen muttered, touching the portal and finding himself in a completely new location. “All right, it’s official. I hate the Fade.” Making his way down another path, he curled around a narrow turn. “Suppose it’s lucky this demon has so little control over Connor – if it was more powerful I could spend days in here.”

“Why do you keep hurting me?” A voice demanded. Daylen jumped, spotting another Connor standing off to his left. “Why are you trying to stop me?”

“Mostly because you’re killing people,” Daylen snapped. “Let the boy go, and you won’t get hurt.”

“You will not find what you seek!” The boy insisted. “Turn back now!”

“You wouldn’t urge me to turn back if you didn’t fear I’d find you,” Daylen pointed out. “Stay right where you are. I’m coming for you.”

“Trespasser!” The boy howled. “I will drive you out!” The demon didn’t make it any farther than the last one did, even with a minor demon of hunger that clawed its way through the ground backing it up.

Hooking back around through the same portal, Daylen glared at the Fade-sky as he found himself in another new location. “This is getting really old.” Spotting another Connor standing next to a bookshelf and a bed, Daylen approached, glaring. “You know, the more you try to delay me, the more likely I am to just kill you when I find you.”

“Father wanders, seeking me, trapped within my web,” the demon replied in Connor’s voice. “All is as it should be. Why must you interfere?”

“Because I need Arl Eamon awake and well,” Daylen replied. “Because you interfere where you should not. Because I am sick of demons!”

“No,” Connor replied, clearly not listening. “It is time for you to go now. Do not persist, or things will go very badly for you.”

Daylen only groaned in reply, casting and turning the demon’s mana against it as the demon transformed, wiping out both it and a pair of rage demons it brought to the fight.

A final trip through the portal let Daylen out on another path that fed into an open clearing, several twisted trees scattered around the edges. He spotted a Desire demon’s true form in the clearing and drew his staff, steeling his will.

The demon turned as he approached. Daylen kept his eyes on the demon’s face and not on the free-hanging breasts. “Very well,” the demon purred. “No more illusions. Now we meet face to face. You see my true form and stand in my domain.”

“Bit of a shithole, innit?” Daylen asked lightly, glancing around.

—ROTG—

“In all my studies, I must say that the most intriguing was my interview with the desire demon. That the creature was willing to speak with me was a sign that this was no mere monster, mindlessly driven by its nature, but rather a rational being as interested in me as I was in it. It took a form that I would call female, though I had no doubt that it could appear otherwise. I wondered if it appeared as it did because I wanted it to or because I expected it to. She... and, indeed, I could only think of her as such now... smiled warmly at me and laughed a musical sound that seemed to thrill my old heart.

So frightened was I of this creature's legendary abilities to twist the hearts of men, and so relieved was I when I looked across the table into her dark eyes. This was a fearsome creature of the Fade, but as I spoke with her I slowly came to realize that this demon was merely as misunderstood as we mages are, ourselves.”

--From the journal of former Senior Enchanter Maleus, once of the Circle of Rivain, declared apostate in 9:20 Dragon.

Of all the threats from beyond the Veil, few are more insidious and deceptively deadly than the desire demon. In folklore, such demons are characterized as peddlers of lust, luring their prey into a sexual encounter only to be slain at the culmination. While a desire demon can indeed deal in pleasure, in truth they deal with any manner of desire that humans can possess: wealth, power, and beauty, to name a few.

Far more intelligent than the bestial hunger and rage demons, and more ambitious than the demons of sloth, these dark spirits are among the most skilled at tempting mages into possession. Many who serve the whims of a desire demon never realize it. They are manipulated by illusions and deceit if not outright mind control, although these demons are reluctant to resort to such crude measures. Instead, they seem to take great pleasure in corruption. The greater the deceit, the greater their victory.

Only demons of pride prove more fearsome opponents when roused. Their abilities to affect the mind allow them to assume disguises and even alter the environment to their purposes, not to mention the great strength and speed they possess if they should have to resort to more physical means. Most often a desire demon will attempt to bargain its way to freedom if overpowered—many stories exist that depict mages defeating desire demons to the point where a wish can be wrested from them. It should be noted that in such stories the demon almost always gets the upper hand even when the mage thinks his wish has been granted.

Chapter Text

The demon tilted its head. “You are insolent, even for a mortal.”

Daylen shrugged. “Heard that before. How about you give back Connor, then fuck right off?”

“It is here I am most powerful, and yet I have no wish to engage your power. Nor should you be so eager to engage mine. Perhaps we should converse instead?”

“What, exactly, could I possibly have to talk to you about?” Daylen asked lightly. “Besides what to do with your remains if you don’t let Connor go. Now where is he?” A flash of light, and the boy was revealed, curled into a ball on the ground. Connor looked up, and Daylen whistled, never taking his eyes off the demon. “Connor, I’m here to help you. Get away from the demon.”

“You don’t want that,” the demon purred. “Your father’s life depends on me.”

“That’s a lie,” Daylen snapped as Connor came to his feet. A band of light formed around Connor’s neck, and Daylen grimaced. “Connor, demons will say whatever will make you agree. I’m asking you, step away from it. I can save your father!”

“He lies. He has no power to save life in your world, only to take it.”

“Connor, your mother asked me to come here and save you,” Daylen replied, trying to remain calm. “If we don’t throw this demon out, if I don't get you back safe, they will kill you.” Connor blanched, backing away from the demon.

“If you go, your father dies!” The demon warned.

Daylen crouched and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Connor, you should never fear a demon. Distrust them, ignore them, destroy them if you must, but never fear them or what they say.” He glared at the demon. “And you! Be silent! You cannot harm me, and you will not harm him!”

There was a long pause. Then Connor turned to Daylen and took his hand. “I want to go home,” he said.

“Good,” Daylen replied gently, before glaring at the demon.

“I possess the boy’s soul,” the demon explained. “We could battle for it, or we could negotiate like civilized beings. If you are smart, you could even come out ahead.” She smiled faintly. “Perhaps there are things you wish for. Rather than resort to violence, let speak of them. I prefer reasonable negotiation, whenever possible. Your goal is for me to release the boy’s soul, is that right?” Daylen nodded. “What if you could persuade me to leave voluntarily? No fuss and no bloodshed.”

“Why would you do that?”

“So you will at least, consider it? Let me make a proposition, then.”

“I don’t screw demons,” Daylen replied immediately. “I’ve been propositioned by many people, but I’ve got standards.”

The demon blinked in confusion for a few moments before pressing on. “My proposition is this. I abandon the boy…for now. But I retain the contract he and I made, and many years from now I may return and claim what is mine. This will be long after whatever you want is done. In exchange, I will provide something of value to you. Something you desire. We both benefit. What say you?”

“I have a counter-offer.”

“I’m all ears,” the demon said gleefully.

Daylen drew himself up to his full height, raw mana boiling off his body. He could feel the Fade itself warp under the sudden pressure, and the demon’s smirk faltered a moment. Frost crawled across the ground around him, and Daylen fixed the demon with an icy glare as the land around them twisted and bent under his focused will. “You release your claim on the boy’s soul immediately. You leave. You never return. In exchange, I do not obliterate you.”

The demon paused as Daylen bent the Fade around them, leaving no place to run. “I…I see. You are alone in my domain, but I have no doubt of your power. I am not one for taking risks.” It shrugged. “Have it your way. I relinquish my hold on the boy if you allow me to leave unhindered? I can offer nothing better.” The band vanished, and Daylen pressed Connor behind him.

“Good.” Daylen raised a hand. “Leave, and put the word out. If a demon – any demon – ever so much as speaks to this boy ever again, I’ll return and destroy the lot of you, no matter how long it takes. I will wipe the Fade clean. Do you understand?”

The demon bristled at Daylen’s words. “You labor under the impression that you could match us.”

The ice approached the demon. “Maybe I couldn’t. Maybe, eventually, a group of you would beat me, wear me down. But I guarantee you wouldn’t live to see it.”

“Foolish mortal. No matter what you do, none of what you do has any meaning! It is transient! However long you live, all of your thoughts, emotions, and memories, and everything that you call life – all of it! It will die! Nothing will remain! All that you build will crumble to dust and vanish in the wind!”

“I know. And I’m fine with that. Last warning. Leave or be destroyed!”

The demon gave him one final glare and vanished in a brief flash of light.

Daylen waited a few moments to make sure the demon was gone, before relaxing. He let the Fade return to its previous state, dropping most of his defensive spells and looking to Connor. “You’re going to wake up, now. When you do, I’ll be there. We’ll talk.” The Fade around them began to glow brighter, and Daylen gave the boy a quick smile as it began to dissolve. “It’ll be all right.”

Daylen’s eyes snapped open, and he jerked forward in the chair and squeezed his eyes shut as his head throbbed, his mind readjusting to the mortal world. Irving was at his side in a moment. “Warden, are you well?”

Daylen squinted up at the First Enchanter, giving him a crooked grin. “I thought demons were supposed to be scary. Thank goodness it didn’t know I was bluffing.”

—ROTG—

As large as each pyre was, the number of dead still required multiple pyres to lay them all to rest. Most of what remained of the village was gathered, the Revered Mother was leading a group prayer, and Bann Teagan was standing off to one side of Isolde and Connor, all three looking tremendously uncomfortable.

Most of the Warden’s companions were standing with him at the edge of the docks, maintaining a respectful distance from the proceedings. Leliana and Wynne were still tending to the wounded, and Alistair and Zevran had returned to the party’s campsite outside of Redcliffe to make sure they had sufficient supplies to move on. The Templars and mages had returned to the Circle, Irving promising to return personally to help escort Connor when the time came.

“So it is over,” Teagan murmured, stepping up next to Daylen as he looked out over the lake. “Connor is his old self.”

Daylen shook his head. “He’s not his old self, and he won’t be. Nobody comes away from that sort of thing unchanged.”

“He doesn’t seem to remember anything, which is a blessing.”

“He’s an uncommon case,” Daylen replied. “Very few people ever, ah, recover, from possession. The Templars insist that the only way to get rid of a demon is to kill the host. If…” Daylen paused, grimaced, and looked at Teagan. “When he is sent to the Circle, it would be best if that information did not follow him. He’d face prejudice from the Templars and the other mages as a result. It may anyway, several mages know already.”

“I suppose we will need to send him to the Circle of Magi’s tower for training, once the war is over. It’s so odd to think of the boy as a mage, of all things.”

Daylen glanced over at the man’s words, before shaking his head. “We’re not all bad, you know.”

Teagan winced. “I…I know. I am sorry, Warden. It’s…unusual, to us.”

Daylen let it go. “It’d be safer to keep him here at Redcliffe, for the time being. He’ll have to go to the Circle eventually, but this way he’ll have some time to come to terms with it. Hopefully we can cure Eamon. Having a powerful relative goes a long way to your surviving at the Circle.”

“Eamon,” Teagan echoed. “My brother is…” He sighed. “Eamon has much to mourn and rebuild, should he recover. But at least he can be thankful that both his son and wife are safe.”

“On that subject,” Daylen said, glancing back at Isolde and Connor. “What can be done for Eamon?”

“Not here,” Teagan replied quietly. “Back at the castle.”

—ROTG—

“I owe you my deepest thanks,” Isolde said as soon as they were all ensconced in Eamon’s study. “I can scarcely believe that Connor is the boy he once was.”

“He isn’t,” Daylen replied. “I told Teagan already – he will never be the same. Nobody is after contact with a demon.”

Isolde’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“Connor has been through a serious ordeal, and nothing can undo that,” Daylen explained. “He was possessed. That sort of trauma lingers with you. Only time will tell how well he recovers.” He drummed his fingers on his leg. “You said he and his father were close. I met Eamon in the Fade. His first concern was Connor’s safety. I imagine if we can help Eamon, Connor might be better off.”

Teagan spoke up. “Whatever the demon did, it seems to have spared Eamon’s life…but he remains comatose. We cannot wake him.”

“He’s only mostly dead, then?” Daylen asked. Alistair nodded.

Teagan squinted at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“There’s a big difference between mostly dead and all dead,” Daylen asked. “Mostly dead is slightly alive. With all dead, well, with all dead there’s usually only one thing you can do.”

“What’s that?” Teagan asked.

“Go through his clothes and look for loose change.”

“The Urn!” Isolde burst out suddenly as Teagan gave Alistair a look of deep concern. “The Urn of Sacred Ashes will save Eamon!”

Daylen pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering why Isolde was being included. “The Urn is a legend. A myth, even. If it even exists, it might never be found. Isn’t there some other way to heal him? We have two excellent healers on hand. Maybe Wynne and I could help him.”

Wynne shook her head. “I’ve examined Eamon. Whatever poison Jowan gave him, it attacked both his kidneys and liver. He’s stable for now – whatever the demon did, it appears to have put his bodily functions in a sort of stasis. He breathes, his heart beats, but with no food or drink. If we try to fix the damage, and in doing so disturb him from this coma, we risk him dying.”

Daylen took a moment to review the knowledge he had been gifted. “I see.”

“Perhaps the demon’s absence will make a difference,” Teagan said. “However, the relic is another option.”

Isolde nodded. “My husband funded the research of a scholar in Denerim. A Brother Genitivi. He has been studying the inscriptions on Andraste’s Birth – why are you laughing?” the arlessa asked as Daylen doubled over.

Daylen looked up, tears in his eyes. “Your husband funds Genitivi? He’s a legend at the Circle! He wrote half the texts that we study that aren’t focused on magic!” He paused. “Half of his works are nonsense.”

The two stared at him for a moment, before Isolde went on. “When Eamon fell ill, I sent the knights to speak to Genitivi. I hoped that he had finally discovered the location of the Urn of Sacred Ashes itself. They were unable to locate Genitivi. In desperation, I sent more knights in search of the brother or some clue of the Urn’s location.”

“And next to none returned,” Daylen finished. “I’ve met a few on the way here.” He considered the situation a moment longer before realizing that there were no other immediate options. “Very well, we’ll see if we can find the Urn. What will you do in the meantime?”

“I must organize Eamon’s knights as they return, draft new soldiers, and prepare the army to fight,” Teagan replied. “I shall hand Redcliffe back to Eamon when he awakens, and in a state where it can be of some use in the coming war. What other choice do I have?”

“Well, we could all skip town to Antiva and…” Daylen flinched as Alistair smacked him in the shoulder. “All right, all right, it’s just an idea!”

“No one else can find the relic,” Teagan went on, choosing to ignore Daylen’s suggestion. “Perhaps you could seek out the brother’s home in Denerim and see if any clues remain on his whereabouts. It is the only place to begin the search, I think.”

“I’d like to speak with Connor, before we go,” Daylen said as Teagan left. Isolde looked uncomfortable. “To reassure him and give him information he’ll need to know as a mage.” She didn’t look reassured, and Daylen sighed. “Lady Isolde, there is no connection between magical ability and the quality of one’s character. If the mages in your family were evil, that speaks more to your family than magic.” She scowled at him. “Connor is his own person. If he knows you love him, he won’t falter.”

“Very well, Warden.”

A few minutes later, Connor was looking up at Daylen. “You…” the boy’s eyes widened. “You’re the one who saved me?”

Daylen nodded. “I did, yes. I said I’d be here.”

“Then…thank you,” Connor said uneasily. “Father always said to remember to thank people who do nice things for you.”

Daylen knelt in front of him. “Connor, I’ve known a lot of young mages who lost their lives to demons. I couldn’t let that happen again. Your story isn’t finished. Once my companions and I end this Blight, you’ll have to go to the Circle, but you’ll be taken care of there.” Daylen looked at the boy, and realized just what he saw in him. Daylen reached out and gently grabbed his shoulder. “Connor, you need to know this. It was not your fault.”

“But I summoned the demon! I can't even remember what I did!”

“All right, first off?” Daylen ticked off his points on his fingers. “I’ve seen demons summoned before. That didn’t happen here. You sundered the Veil accidentally, and the demon came to you. On that note, Jowan should have taught you better. I knew him at the Circle, he’s smarter than that, he should have led with how to protect yourself from demons. You took what you saw as the only option available, and that’s how demons get you. They offer exactly what you need right when you need it most so that it seems like the logical choice. The demon did those things, not you.” Connor didn’t look convinced, and Daylen went on. “And you survived. You learned. You’re already doing better than many have done. And I have faith in you. You can do better. Get stronger. Get smarter. And the next time a demon tries to offer you something, you’ll know to kick its ass.”

Connor stood straighter. “I will, Warden.”

“Daylen, to you.” Daylen ruffled the boy’s hair. “I’ll make sure to check in on you, all right? You’re not alone.”

—ROTG—

“So we’re off on another impossible quest, to find an ancient religious artifact to heal a dying man,” Daylen groused as the group unpacked. Teagan had invited them to stay the night at the castle so the militia could celebrate with them. “Did everyone forget that we’re trying to stop a Blight here?”

“Well, we did find an ancient forest spirit and end a centuries-old curse,” Alistair pointed out.

“One, Isolde didn’t know that. Two, I highly doubt that the Urn of Sacred Ashes has a personal grudge against Eamon and wants to be found so it can confront him.”

“How do you know that?” Alistair challenged. “For all you know, Arl Eamon might have stolen the Urn’s woman years ago! They might be mortal enemies!”

“Boys,” Wynne sighed.

“I know, I know, we were just having a bit of a joke,” Daylen grumbled. “I know why we’re doing this.”

“Because Lady Isolde asked so nicely?”

“Because nobody had any better ideas. I remember a line in this old pretentious book I read. Any who set out on the word of prophets and witches are already lost, and any who voyage with them are fools.”

“Cheery," Alistair deadpanned. "And you say this as we set out to find an artifact that may or may not actually exist, which may or may not have been found by a man who may or may not be insane, or dead.”

“Amazing how great desperate ideas look when there's nothing else left, isn't it?”

“We’re hunting down something that’s been lost for centuries and may not actually exist in the first place.”

“I know. We’re out of choices.” Daylen looked around to make sure the group was alone. “All right, everyone, let’s take stock of what we’ve got. Zevran looted a fair amount of money, and that should cover us for a time, provided we spend wisely. Our equipment should hold us, and Alistair,” he looked over at the warrior and got a nod in return, “asked the blacksmith to see if he could scrounge together anything he could spare.”

“And he came through.”

Daylen nodded. “And then some. Wynne, your boots aren’t fit for the weather we’ll be facing when we head into the Frostbacks to Orzammar, and Morrigan’s are practically worn through.” He set two fresh pairs of boots on the table. “These should fit you. They’ll need breaking in, but if they’re uncomfortable we’ll get you a different set. Leliana, we found you some higher-quality arrows,” he dropped a capped quiver on the table that rattled as Leliana drew it over to her. “They’re enchanted. Hope you like setting things on fire. Zevran, I found some poison reagents and trap materials, I believe I gave them to you earlier.”

“Correct.”

“Sten, I couldn’t find any equipment that would be superior to what you already have, so I asked a favor and found you these,” Daylen went on, passing over a tin. The giant’s eyes widened. “They’re fresh.” There was a moment’s pause, before Sten ripped into the cookies. “Now that we’ve taken care of that, we need to discuss our next move.”

“I take it you have a plan?” Wynne asked.

“Indeed we do!” Daylen paused, realized he was lying, and then looked to Alistair in a panic. “Um…my colleague.”

Alistair rolled his eyes at his friend, before clearing his throat. “All right. Well. We need to find the Urn of Sacred Ashes to heal Arl Eamon. To do that, we need to find Brother Genitivi. And to do that, we need to go to Denerim. He has a house there. If he’s not there, odds are there will be some lead we can use to find him, and he’ll know how to find the Urn.”

“We don’t have another option,” Daylen admitted, leaning back in his chair and bracing his boot on the table, rocking his chair onto its back legs. “Wynne and I have both examined Arl Eamon and determined that there’s really nothing that can be done for him that wouldn’t jeopardize his health further. We might heal him, or we might kill him. There’s no antidote, and it’s a bit late to be administering one anyway. Eamon is a powerful political figure – we’ll need his assistance to remove Loghain from power without having to fight the whole blasted army.”

Alistair sighed, before going on. “So step one is to check out Genitivi’s house in Denerim. If we catch a boat across the lake, we can cut a week off the trip.”

“More than that, counting all the time we spend killing everyone who thinks this band of misfits is worth taking on,” Daylen replied. “Anyone have any questions?” A brief pause. “Good! Then I guess we’re done here. If anyone needs me, I’ll be at the tavern with the militia tonight.” The others slowly filed out, leaving Alistair alone in the room.

“Well, that went well,” Alistair remarked, stretching out in a chair. “It’ll be nice to sleep in a real bed tonight.”

Daylen looked over at his fellow Warden. “What, did you think we were done? I got everyone else something, you get a present too.”

Alistair’s head popped up. “I do?”

Daylen snorted, before fishing around in his satchel. “When we were in Eamon’s study, I found something in the desk.” Gently setting an amulet on the table, Daylen leaned back in his chair again. “I think it might mean something to you.”

Alistair looked hard at the amulet, before gently picking it up. “This…was my mothers. I threw it against the wall…it shattered.”

“Well, someone glued it back together.”

Alistair turned the amulet over his hands. “Then he must have…found the amulet, after I threw it at the wall. And he repaired it and kept it? I don’t understand. Why would he do that?”

Daylen shifted uncomfortably, rocking forward. “I guess you mean more to him than you think.”

Alistair sat back, looking down at the amulet in his hands. “I…guess you could be right. We never really talked that much, and then the way I left…”

“You told me he raised you.”

Alistair’s shoulders sagged. “I know. I just…”

“You didn’t want to believe that he cared, with how he shipped you off to the Chantry,” Daylen finished, swallowing hard.

“I…” Alistair’s face fell. “I guess.” He tucked the amulet away. “Thank you. I mean it. I…I thought I’d lost this to my own stupidity. I’ll need to talk to him about this. If he recovers from…” he paused, growing resolute. “When he recovers. I wish I’d had this a long time ago.” He looked over at his friend. “Did you remember me mentioning it? Wow. I’m more used to people not really listening when I go on about things.”

Daylen looked hurt. “You’re my friend. Of course I remembered.”

Alistair flushed. “I don’t know what to say. I’m honored. Thanks again.”

Daylen waved him off. “My pleasure. I only wonder if Isolde knew he kept it. I get the feeling she still thinks you were Eamon’s child as well, with how she acted when we met. ‘Oh, Eamon’s sick and Alistair’s here, he must be trying to take over the arl’s seat!’ Some such nonsense.”

“I’d rather not think about that, but as far as I know, she only knows I’m some noble’s issue.” He paused, clearly considering something. “You know, maybe this isn’t the best time to be thinking about this, but I’ve something to ask you. I mean, we’ll be heading to Denerim anyway, and when we’re there, I wonder if we might be able to…look someone up.”

“Well, Loghain will get what’s coming to him, I can promise you that,” Daylen replied. “Or do you mean you have a friend outside the Grey Wardens?”

“I’m not talking about a friend, exactly,” Alistair said uneasily. “I mean, the thing is…I have a sister. A half-sister, rather.”

“I remember your dream in the Fade, but…”

Alistair nodded. “I told you about my mother, right? She was a servant at the castle here, and she had a daughter. I never knew about her as a child, and I don’t think she knew about me, since they kept my birth a secret. But after I became a Grey Warden, I did some checking, and…well, I found out she’s still alive. In Denerim.”

“Have you contacted her?”

“No. I thought about writing her, but what do you say? Hello, I’m your brother, you didn’t know I existed, but let’s be family?”

Daylen huffed a laugh. “Alistair, you are asking the wrong person about that.”

“And then we were called down to Ostagar and I never got the chance to even try. She’s the only real family I have left, the only family not mixed up in the whole royal thing. I’ve just been thinking that…maybe it’s time I went to see her. With the Blight, and everything, I don’t know if I’ll ever get another chance to see her.” He made to go on, but Daylen held up a hand.

“Relax, we’ll go see her when we’re in Denerim.”

“Good! Great. Erm, her name is Goldanna, and I think she remarried, but still lives in the Market District. If we’re in the area, then…well, it’s worth a look.”

“Consider it done, mate,” Daylen said, standing up and clapping his friend on the shoulder. “For now, let’s go have a round with the victorious defenders of Redcliffe, shall we?”

—ROTG—

“Lloyd,” Daylen greeted the bartender. “How many kegs have you got? Because there are a lot of thirsty blokes here, and I’m buying the first round.”

“Warden, I don’t know how I survived that mess out there, but I did, and I owe you thanks. The men respect me now. I would never have gone out there if you hadn’t pushed me. It…feels good to help out. Don’t get me wrong,” he went on. “I don’t want to be in battle again anytime soon, know what I mean? But I appreciate what you did.”

“I understand, and I’m glad you feel that way,” Daylen replied. “But right now, there’s work to be done. These men are parched! Let’s remedy that!” Thumbing out a few sovereigns, Daylen turned to the crowded tavern and raised his voice, banging an empty glass on the bar. “Defenders of Redcliffe! I made you a promise! We survived the night, we won the day, and the trouble is passed!” A roaring cheer went up, and Daylen grabbed a filled tankard as Lloyd set it on the bar and handed it to the nearest man. “Before we celebrate the living,” he said, passing out more tankards, “let’s take a moment, and remember those who fell in the defense of this village. They gave their lives for their fellows.” Finding himself a glass of beer, Daylen raised it. “To our fallen. May they never be forgotten, and may they put in a good word for us with the Maker!” Everyone drank, and Daylen let out a hearty belch after he drained half the glass, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “And now, to Redcliffe! Long may it stand with such heroes to defend it!” A hearty cheer answered him, and Daylen finished his glass, downing two more amongst the militia and the knights before quietly leaving, pausing on his way out the door to accept slaps on the back and well-wishes from those who had fought and bled to defend Redcliffe.

He managed to make it down the path to the castle before he felt the alcohol taking effect, and stopped short as he passed the main hall, heading for the living quarters. Narrowing his eyes, he spotted someone leaning against the wall, arms crossed and waiting for him.

A ball of magelight flared in his hand, and golden eyes flashed back at him. “Do not be alarmed, ‘tis only I.”

“Oh, Morrigan. Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Morrigan replied huskily, approaching him.

Daylen caught a whiff of something overly sweet on her breath and wrinkled his nose. “Morrigan?” She replied by kissing him harshly, and Daylen backed off after a moment. “Are you drunk? I thought you didn’t drink.”

“My bed, ‘tis cold all alone,” she said playfully, tugging at his belt, trying to pull him towards the stairs. “You should join me. It would be warmer.”

Daylen dug in his heels. “Nope. Not happening. Not with you in this condition.”

“My condition has nothing to do with it,” she snapped, reaching for the buckle on his belt. “I wish for you to take me to bed, Daylen.”

Daylen grabbed her by the wrists. “Not while you’re drunk. Period, stop. And if you keep going, I’ll set your foot on fire.”

She stopped pulling, but scowled. “Do you realize how infuriating you are?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Morrigan sighed, yanking her arms free. “You insist on coddling those weaker than you, yet your efforts yield results. You act rashly, without considering the situation. You make light of serious situations, you extend a hand when you could simply take what you need. You insist on acting in a way that goes against everything I have ever been taught and yet you are consistently right. Why?”

Daylen opened his mouth, before shrugging. “Just lucky, I guess. Sorry about this.” Clicking his fingers, he cast a spell he had learned from Morrigan herself earlier in the week. She collapsed into his arms, her eyes fluttering closed as the sleep spell took effect. He swept her into an easy carry with a grunt, making for the stairs. “Glad I learned that spell after all.”

—ROTG—

They were less than a day out of Redcliffe when they faced another bandit attack. A half-dozen disorganized fighters with rough leathers and poorly made weapons barely managed to charge the caravan before fireballs, lightning bolts, and arrows violently informed them of how bad an idea it was to attack.

It was only when Wynne keeled over that Daylen began to worry. She sat up as Daylen ran to her, groaning. “I…fell?”

“Are you all right?” Daylen asked, offering her a hand and pulling her to her feet.

Wynne blinked at him owlishly. “For a moment there, I thought I was…I thought it was all over.”

“The fight is over, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, I thought I was.” At Daylen’s baffled look, Wynne shook her head. “I will explain everything when we are back at camp. Now is not the time.”

Daylen gave her a hard look. “Very well.”

—ROTG—

As the group set up camp that night, Daylen was still staring at Wynne, glancing over when Alistair approached him. “I’ve been meaning to thank you. You went out of your way to save the arl’s family, and you did it, even though it would have been easier not to, maybe even smarter not to.”

Daylen snorted as he laid out the wood for the campfire. “Easier, sure. Smarter? No. But I bet you can tell me why I did it.”

“Well, we need Arl Eamon’s support to end the Blight, but if we killed his child I doubt he’d be very inclined to help us.”

“Rather cynical,” Daylen mused, pushing some tinder under the stacked logs. “Think simpler.”

“You weren’t going to kill Connor if you had another option.”

“Now you’re getting it. I saw enough death at the Circle. I wasn’t going to end Connor’s life if it was at all possible to save him. I wasn’t going to kill an innocent. It was a risk, I took it, and I’d do it again.”

“You looked ready to kill Isolde, back there.”

Daylen’s scowled. “How many dead, Alistair?” he asked. “Do you know how many people died in Redcliffe?”

“I don’t.”

“Me neither. Because they couldn’t get an accurate number. They’re still counting bodies. Do you think they don’t deserve to know why they’re burning the bodies of their loved ones? They do. And yet, we covered it up. We hid it. Connor was possessed. It’ll leak out, eventually, and Isolde better pray that the people of Redcliffe don’t decide to string her up for it.”

“You saved Connor's life.”

“Because he was innocent. And so were all the dead people.”

“There’s been so much death and destruction, it…well, it makes me feel good that we at least were able to save something, no matter how small. I owed the arl that much.”

“It would have been easier, and safer, like you said, to just kill Connor,” Daylen said, igniting the fire with a click of his fingers. The flames caught, and Daylen leaned back, watching the fire grow. “I’m just glad it didn’t come to that.”

“So am I,” Alistair remarked. “Now that the warm, fuzzy part of the day is over with, we can get back to the ritual dismemberments.” He paused. “Oh, wait, it’s not Tuesday, is it?”

“Monday,” Daylen said, standing up and dusting his hands off on his robes. “Talk to me tomorrow when some other idiot decides it’s a good idea to attack the caravan.”

Wynne twitched as Daylen approached. The change in her body language was subtle, but noticeable. “Hello there,” she said warmly, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Are you feeling better now?”

“Oh, yes, and thank you for asking,” Wynne replied. “I’m feeling much better.”

Daylen gave her a forced smile. “Yes, I like making sure all my companions are well. Now, if you’re quite done with that nonsense, how about you tell me what happened back there?”

“I…yes, I think I owe you an explanation for what happened earlier.” Daylen merely gestured for her to continue. “You should know that something happened to me at the tower, before you came along,” Wynne said slowly.

Daylen stiffened. “Why do I have a bad feeling about this?”

“My apprentice, Petra, encountered a demon in the tower. It would have killed her had I not intervened. I saved her life that day, but I did not survive that encounter with the demon.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Daylen said brightly. “This case of death is just taking a while to kick in, then, I suppose.”

“Let me explain fully,” Wynne replied with a sigh.

“That would be novel, thank you.”

Wynne glared at him before continuing. “I engaged a very powerful demon to rescue Petra. It sapped me of all my energy and will, and left me drained. It took everything I had to defeat it, and when I was done I no longer had the strength to keep my heart beating. I remember my life ebbing away; everything receded from me, sound, light, I remember being enveloped in complete, impenetrable darkness. And then I sensed a presence, enfolding me and cradling me, whispering quietly to me. The sensation is impossible to describe. I was being…held back, firmly, but gently, as a mother would a child eager to slip from her grasp. I felt life and warmth flowing through my veins again. I began to be aware of small sounds, and the discomfort of my hip pressing into the cold stone of the tower floor.”

“Wynne, I asked for an explanation, not a story,” Daylen pressed. “It sounds like you simply had a near-death experience. I’ve heard of mages using so much magic they passed out, but nobody’s killed themselves that way. You’re awfully sprightly for a corpse.”

“The Fade contains spirits both benevolent and malicious,” Wynne went on.

“Oh, for – would you just get to the point?”

“I was saved by a benevolent spirit. Without it, I would be dead. And it has not left me. It is with me, even now, bonded to me.” Daylen flinched. “You see, I am supposed to be dead. It is the spirit that is keeping me in this world, and this is not the way of things. Perhaps the spirit did not expect this, but it is weakening, gradually. I am living on borrowed time.”

Daylen rocked back on his heels, fighting the urge to run screaming. “I can’t believe you kept this from me.”

“I didn’t know if you were ready to hear it,” Wynne said defensively. “But now you know.”

“Yes, because the spirit that is bonded to you slipped up and you almost died! How much longer were you going to keep this from me?” Wynne didn’t answer, and Daylen grimaced. “I think that hesitation is an answer in itself. Why’d the spirit choose to help you? Benevolent spirits don’t typically help us.”

“I have always had an affinity for the spirits of the Fade, even if I never saw them. And as I nurtured my talent in the Circle, I became more sensitive. I think it is a Spirit of Faith. They have never been seen before, and perhaps I am wrong, but something tells me I’m not.”

“Never been seen by anyone who would admit it,” Daylen corrected. “I’ve met spirits of Compassion and Valor. No reason to think that Faith wouldn’t be out there as well.”

“It always felt like the same entity. This one spirit was curious about me and was…guarding me, for want of a better word.”

“Well, aren’t you lucky that it was around,” Daylen mused.

“I think it gave me strength in my most terrible battles, Ostagar being one of them. I remember being there and fighting with strength I could not possibly have had. The fight with Petra’s demon being another. I don’t know why I was chosen,” Wynne admitted. “Perhaps it knew that there was something more that lay in store for me. I like to think that I was given a rare chance, and I’m going to make the best of the time so generously given to me.”

“Is there something we can do to cure you?” Daylen asked.

“Cure me? What, am I sick now?”

“Well, you’re…a little dead.”

“You know as well as I do that you cannot cure the dead.”

“Yes, but you’re not really dead, just…dying in a very roundabout manner, I suppose.”

“I’m not the only one dying. You are too. I’m just more efficient about it.” Daylen snorted. “Ah, child, your concern is heartwarming, but death comes to everyone, and it is not something to fear.”

“I don’t fear death,” Daylen replied. “I just have far too many things to do before I go. Would rather be alive, really, but I’m a busy man. Would rather go without regrets.” She shrugged, and Daylen looked closer at her. “You have any?”

“I try not to dwell too much on the mistakes of my past. There are many, and I would go quite mad if I did that. But I do have one regret – the greatest misstep of my life. Years ago, I was assigned as mentor to a lad, Aneirin. He was my first apprentice. He was an elf, raised in one of the elven Alienages, and he was very mistrustful of humans, especially humans in authority.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” Daylen replied. “Taken from his people and locked up in the Circle? And the ‘was’ doesn’t make it sound like this ends well.”

“It doesn’t. What Aneirin needed was time. Time to get used to his new home, time to emerge from his shell so we could build a rapport. I was young, and arrogant, and I gave him no such time. ‘He is a mage’, I thought. ‘He needs to grow up and act like one.’ I didn’t take into account that he was an elf torn away from everything he had ever known. I could have been better, should have been better, for him. But I didn’t, and I expected too much from him, too quickly. I gave no consideration to his origin, or his feelings. And he retreated further from me. All I could think of was how stubborn he was, how he was throwing away all his talent and potential, just to be difficult.”

“He must have been a big fan of yours,” Daylen snarked. “Was he talented?”

“Oh, very much so. Sometimes I would catch him practicing on his own, but if I asked him to show me what he could do, he would freeze up, or fumble terribly.”

Daylen smiled faintly. “Sounds like Jowan. He would fumble a spell goodness knows how many times. I eventually had to trick him into doing it without knowing the teacher was there just so he could prove he could do it. But go on.”

“Patience is what I needed, and I learned that too late to help him.”

“What happened to him?”

“Aneirin ran away from the Circle, one night. I had berated him over some trivial, ridiculous matter that I no longer remember. I drove him away because of something utterly unimportant. He was a child, fourteen at the time of his leaving. They had his phylactery, and they hunted him down…”

“He’s dead, then,” Daylen finished. “If they’ve got the phylactery, they don’t leave the mage alive. It doesn’t matter to them if the mage has used magic they’ve forbidden or not. There’s a risk, they kill the mage.”

“They called him a maleficar,” Wynne said bitterly. “He was a child, misunderstood and lost. I begged the Templars to tell me if he suffered, if they gave him a quick death. I got no answers from them. I was his mentor and they wouldn’t even tell me what became of him.”

“Cruel, even for Templars,” Daylen remarked, refraining from pointing out that no decent mentor would have driven their student away. “I hope you learned from that, though.”

“I should have known better. I had the best mentors. They were kind, compassionate…why didn’t I learn from them?” Again, Daylen bit his tongue. “I failed Aneirin. All I had to do was listen to him. He would try to talk to me, and I would tell him to concentrate on his spells. He talked about the Alienage sometimes, and the Dalish. He always talked about looking for the Dalish elves.”

“It’s unlikely he’s alive, but if he somehow survived the Templars, maybe he did find a clan,” Daylen said. “We encountered one before we visited the Circle. We could certainly ask, we have to head back that way anyway.”

“Oh no,” Wynne replied. “The Templars are well-trained and thorough. That he still lives…it would be a vain hope.”

Daylen shrugged. “I’ve seen plenty of evidence to the contrary. They sent a kill-team after me, after all, and I’m still here. All we can do is ask.” As Wynne cast a handful of monitoring glyphs around the camp, he spotted Morrigan pacing nervously by her tent and approached.

“Warden – Daylen,” Morrigan corrected herself, wrapping herself tighter in her cloak. “I…must apologize for my behavior.”

“I’m a little surprised, Morrigan. Not that you tied one on – I’d be lying if I said I’d never done that. If you’d made me that offer sober, I’d have had you in bed so fast it’d make your head spin. But that’s a rule for me. No drunken affairs.”

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “Well, I am sober now.”

Daylen paused. “You are, at that.”

—ROTG—

Mana is that which defines a mage. It is potential that dwells within a person but does not always manifest itself. All men are connected to the Fade; we go there to dream. But only those with this potential may draw upon its power. Mana is, then, a measurement of one's ability to draw power from the Fade, and it is this power that is expended in magic.

As in all other things, it has limits. Just as a man has the strength to lift only so much weight and no more, a mage cannot work more magic at one time than his mana allows. If he wishes to work magic that would be beyond his strength, a mage must bolster his mana with lyrium. Without lyrium, it is possible for the reckless to expend their own life-force in the working of magic, and occasionally, ambitious apprentices injure or even kill themselves by over-exertion.

--"Mana and the Use of Magic," From The Lectures of First Enchanter Wenselus

Chapter Text

Morrigan made a quiet noise of protest as he withdrew, and Daylen shivered momentarily as the cold reasserted itself. Grabbing his clothes, he quickly began dressing as Morrigan curled up on the rumpled bedroll, looking immensely satisfied with herself.

Daylen stumbled out of the tent, half-dressed and a smug grin on his face that even a charging ogre couldn't have removed. Tugging his clothes on properly, he ran his fingers through his shaggy hair and looked back through the opening in the tent. “You going to be all right in there?”

“Of course,” Morrigan drawled, tugging a blanket over her nude form. “Go do your manly strut.”

Daylen stretched, walking towards the main camp. Giving Sten a polite nod, he warmed his hands over the fire, trying not to grin too widely at Alistair. “Nice night, isn't it?”

Alistair slowly turned his head towards him, something between amusement and anger clear on his face. “You do realize that everyone in camp heard that, right? I mean, it went for hours.”

Daylen coughed guiltily, but his grin stayed right where it was. “Warden stamina and rejuvenation spells. I would say I was sorry…”

“And I would say I wasn't both disgusted and impressed, but then we'd both be liars,” Alistair said. “It's really none of my business what you and her get up to, so long as the rest of us can get some sleep.”

“She’s…fascinating,” Daylen said. “I mean, you heard…”

“We’re not talking about that.”

“All right, but on a personal level, she intrigues me.”

“That’s your taste, not mine.”

“Go easy on her,” Daylen said. “Think about the life she’s led. No time or room for compassion, or tact, only survival. Flemeth raised her this way. And I doubt it was by accident.”

“Yes, but she’s continuing to be that way.”

Daylen shrugged, nodding to Zevran, who gave him a cheerful smirk in return. Cupcake padded over, sniffing him and gently pawing at his leg. “Hey, pup,” Daylen said, scratching him behind the ears. “Something on your mind?” The dog snuffled and shook himself, before whuffing quietly and trotting off. “Oh well.”

Wynne gave him the look of quiet disapproval that Daylen was utterly convinced was taught to all senior enchanters at the Circle. “That is not the way you were taught to use magic, young man!”

“No, but then I wasn't taught to use magic to kill darkspawn or save Ferelden either. You learn to improvise.”

—ROTG—

“You're quite taken with each other, aren't you?” Wynne asked the next morning as they broke camp.

Daylen blinked at the sudden change. “Beg pardon?”

“Well, she's hardly discreet,” Wynne said disapprovingly. “The way she looks at you, it's as though she's completely forgotten there's anything of you above the waist.”

“Well, to be fair, there is a lot more of me below the waist.”

“Oh, sweet Maker! Is a little decorum too much to ask?”

Daylen shrugged. “Well, it’s true.” And a suitable alternative to bloodying her nose.

“Moving along now,” Wynne sighed. “I've noticed your blossoming relationship, and I wanted to ask you where you thought it was going. She is a cunning woman, a maleficar. She will use you for her own ends.”

Daylen’s eyes narrowed. “Watch yourself. She’s used precisely nothing in the way of magic forbidden by the Chantry, not that most of us care about that anyway. Don’t go jumping to conclusions just because a mage was raised outside the Circle. Secondly, you don’t know her, it’s not your right to judge. You took such offense to Aneirin being called a maleficar, and you turn around and label Morrigan one?”

“I am telling you what I see, and what my instincts tell me.”

“I don’t care what your instincts-”

“And even if the feelings you share are genuine,” Wynne continued.

Daylen’s eye twitched. “If?”

“This affair may not be the best thing for either of you,” she finished, raising her voice. “You are a Grey Warden. You have duties which supersede your personal desires.”

“And what do you know of my duties?” Daylen snapped. “Did you join the Wardens when I wasn’t looking? For someone who has only heard the legends of the Grey Wardens, you sure seem to know a lot about what my job is!”

“Love is inherently selfish,” Wynne argued. “It demands that one be devoted to a single person, who may fully occupy one’s mind and heart, to the exclusion of all else. A Grey Warden cannot afford to be selfish.”

“That’s not love, that’s obsession. And there have been Wardens who have married – Alistair told me as much.”

“There may come a time that you would be forced to choose between your duty to Ferelden and her. And what then would you do?”

“There may,” Daylen said. “And if that time comes, I’ll deal with it. I haven’t come across anything I couldn't handle yet. What am I supposed to do, tell Morrigan to go away?”

“You may have to, to save one or both of you unnecessary anguish later on.”

“So I should inflict pain now to avoid it later?” Daylen asked sarcastically. “Great logic. I heard about this man who was afraid of his house catching fire, so he burned the place down. Worked like a charm!”

“I have given my advice. Do with it what you will.”

“I will, but listen up,” Daylen replied. “I didn’t ask for your advice, I didn’t want it, and before you go accusing someone of being a maleficar, put yourself a step above the Templars and get proof first.” He lowered his voice. “Especially considering where you stand.”

—ROTG—

Daylen wiped his sword clean, grimacing as the darkspawn’s blood soaked into the soil. “I didn’t realize the horde was this far north already.”

“There may be an entrance to the Deep Roads around here,” Alistair replied. “No survivors from the caravan.”

Daylen sighed. “And that conscript company we found butchered by wolves. Didn’t we usually win these things?” Sheathing the blade, he glanced around the battlefield. “Have you seen my staff?”

Alistair pointed. “Over there, under one of the bigger ones. How’s the sword treating you?”

“Surprisingly well, considering we pulled it off one of the dead conscripts,” Daylen said, yanking his staff out from under the body. “We should cut past the Dalish encampment within a day or two, and from there it’s just a few days to Denerim. It should be quiet from here.”

—ROTG—

“Quiet from here, eh?” Alistair asked, wincing as Daylen healed the concussion he had picked up. “Why do I listen to you?”

“Because I’m cute,” Daylen said. “Now hold still, I don’t want to mess this up. You’ve got a fractured skull, I’d rather not do it wrong.”

“Was that all of them?” Leliana asked, her bow still strung.

“Seems to have been,” Wynne replied. “Sten, were those mercenaries Qunari?”

“No.”

She looked at him a moment longer. “So there are just giant horned men normally running around Ferelden?”

“They are Tal-Vashoth,” Sten ground out. “They have left the Qun.”

“Are all Qunari as quiet as you?” Wynne asked.

“Are all mages as chatty as you?” Sten replied. Daylen snorted, biting his lip as he continued his healing.

Wynne paused. “That’s fair.”

“He’s got a point,” Daylen admitted, finishing his work and patting Alistair on the shoulder as he stood up. “Morrigan and I do go out of our way to bug him.”

Sten groaned. “Let us move on.”

—ROTG—

“All right, we’re here,” Daylen said as they entered the Market District of Denerim once again. “Whose business should we take care of first? Leliana, Alistair, or Genitivi?”

“I think we should attend to that bardmaster, first,” Alistair admitted. “She seems like a larger problem.”

“As eager as I am for Alistair to meet his sister, I must agree,” Leliana said. “Marjolaine is a greater threat than I can properly convey.”

It wasn’t far to the location. “Are you ready for this?”

“Marjolaine may not even be here,” Leliana said as they approached the door. “It may just be a contact of hers. This may not even lead anywhere.”

“Leliana,” Daylen replied soothingly. “It’s all right.”

Leliana nodded, taking a calming breath and checking her weapons, loosening her daggers in their sheathes. “I am ready.”

Daylen gave her a reassuring smile, readying his staff. “Alistair, take the lead, would you? Leliana, follow him in, I’m right behind you. Zevran, find a side door or a window.” Cupcake snuffled, and Daylen nodded. “You just do you, pup.”

The door opened, and by the time Daylen entered the building the others were already engaged with a pair of armor-plated guards. Alistair deflected a blow from a maul, turning the strike aside with the flat of his blade and moving past the guard, shoving him off-balance with his shield. The guard tripped over his companion as Leliana darted past him, her dagger finding a gap in the man’s armor behind his knee and dropping him to the ground. Daylen froze them both in place, and the fight was over a moment later as arterial blood stained the floor.

Leliana didn’t stop moving, yanking the door open to reveal a well-dressed brunette woman waiting beyond, looking spectacularly unperturbed by the corpses. “Leliana!” she said warmly, an Orlesian accent tinging her voice. “So lovely to see you again, my dear.”

“Spare me the pleasantries, Marjolaine,” Leliana snapped. “I know you’re-”

“Oh, you must excuse the shabby accommodations,” Marjolaine went on. “I try to be a good host, but you see what I have to work with?” Daylen blinked in confusion, but Leliana remained ready, her blades drawn. “This country smells like wet dog. Everywhere. I cannot get the smell out. Even now it is in my hair, my clothes.”

Daylen shook himself. “Why did you send assassins after Leliana?”

Marjolaine merely smiled. “So business-like, your companion.”

“You framed me,” Leliana spat, her voice cracking. “You had me captured, tortured. You would have had me killed. I thought in Ferelden, I would be free of you. Why do you want me dead so badly?”

Marjolaine raised an eyebrow. “Dead? Nonsense. I know you, my Leliana.” Leliana’s face twisted at her words. “I know what you are capable of. A handful of men like that? You can dispatch them easily. They were sent to give you cause to come to me. And see? Here you are.”

Daylen kept an eye on the doors branching off the room they were standing in, hearing a muffled grunt. “Most people would just send a letter.”

“Ignore what she says,” Leliana warned. “She is lying. I know how she works.” She glared at her former companion. “What are you up to, Marjolaine? Why are you in Ferelden?”

Marjolaine shrugged. “You have knowledge that you can use against me. For my own safety, I cannot let you be. Did you think I did not know where you were? Did you think I would not watch my Leliana? ‘What is she up to?’ I thought. ‘The quiet life, the peasant clothes, hair ragged and messy like a boy…this is not her.’ You were planning something, I told myself. So I watched…but no letters were sent, no messages. You barely spoke to anyone. Clever, Leliana, very clever. You almost had me fooled. But then you left the Chantry, so suddenly. What conclusion should I draw? You tell me.”

Leliana sputtered. “You think I left Lothering because of you? You think I still have some plan for…for revenge? You are insane. I didn’t even know where you were.”

“She’s helping me, you nonce,” Daylen pointed out, crossing his arms. “She’s helping the Wardens fight the Blight. Not everything is about you, Marjolaine.”

“Oh, is that what you think?” Marjolaine challenged. “If I were you, I would believe nothing she says. She will use you. You look at her, and you see a simple girl – a friend, trusting and warm. It is an act.”

“I look at Leliana and see a deeply complex friend, someone who has been hurt and wronged by someone she trusted,” Daylen shot back.

Leliana set her shoulders, locking eyes with Marjolaine. “I am not you, Marjolaine. I left because I didn’t want to become you.”

“Oh, but you are me,” Marjolaine said airily. “You cannot escape it. No one will understand you the way I do, because we are one and the same.”

“If she’s so wily to manipulate me, then you’re definitely not the same,” Daylen replied. “She’d have to be a lot better at it than you’ve been so far. I trust Leliana, no matter what you say.”

“Thank you,” Leliana said quietly.

“You are a fool,” Marjolaine snapped dismissively, still watching Leliana. “Do you know why you were a master manipulator, Leliana? Because you enjoyed the Game. You reveled in the power it gave you, and you cannot change or deny that. You would have betrayed me, in time. That is why I turned on you first.”

“So let me get this straight,” Daylen interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose and talking to nobody in particular, covering another muffled grunt. “Marjolaine spied on Leliana during her years in the Chantry, and then comes after her the moment she left because she – Marjolaine – figures the only thing that she – Leliana – could possibly be doing all that time is plotting for and then setting out to seek revenge on her, because it's what she – Marjolaine – would have done. The whole reason Marjolaine betrayed her in the first place was because she was convinced Leliana would betray her first, because that’s just what she would have done, so Marjolaine did it first. Now we’re here, and Marjolaine just cannot comprehend that Leliana was honest with her in the past, sincere in her devotion to the Chantry, and earnest in stopping the Blight, because she – Marjolaine – wouldn’t be, in her shoes. Am I getting this right?”

“Sounds about right, yes,” Alistair said.

Daylen sighed. “Suddenly I understand Loghain’s grudge against the Orlesians.”

“You will not threaten me or my friends again, Marjolaine,” Leliana spat. “You’ve caused too much pain for far too many. It ends here.”

Marjolaine scoffed. “And you think you can kill me, like that? I made you, Leliana. I can destroy you just as easily.”

“I’ve seen Leliana’s abilities, but it happens to be eight against one,” Daylen commented.

“You think I would be so foolish as to only have those two guards?”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Zevran spoke up, leaning against a wardrobe behind Marjolaine and picking at his nails with a bloodstained dagger. “But you would be so foolish as to think that I wouldn’t have killed them already.” He smiled coyly. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Leave her to me,” Leliana said, drawing her daggers. “But if I fall, she does not leave here alive.”

“Not a chance,” Daylen began, only for a blinding flash to go off and disorient most of the party as Marjolaine set off a trap.

“I shall not die like this!” Marjolaine cried, drawing her own daggers and lunging at Leliana. The redhead parried, ducking around her first two strikes and spinning her offhanded dagger around in her palm into a reverse grip, coming around behind Marjolaine to stab at her kidneys. The elder bard came around in a hard overhand strike that Leliana easily parried, only to strike low and leave a deep slash across the leg of Leliana’s leathers. Leliana snarled, kicking Marjolaine in the shin and striking with both blades, the elder bard taking a calm step back and letting Leliana’s strikes pass by harmlessly. The two locked blades, and Marjolaine sneered at her. “Remember who taught you, Leliana.”

In response, Leliana spat in Marjolaine’s eye, before slamming her forehead into the bard’s nose, blood spurting as Marjolaine’s nose broke. “I’ve picked up some new tricks!” Marjolaine staggered back, and Leliana turned on her heel, ramming her boot into Marjolaine’s unguarded midsection and ducking back, waiting momentarily as Marjolaine swayed drunkenly, before pressing the attack.

By this time, the others had recovered, and Zevran moved to engage. “I said leave her to me!” Leliana shouted, the two bards still exchanging strikes and parries, blades clanging as metal met metal. Marjolaine twisted her wrist mid-strike and Leliana fumbled, one of her daggers clattering to the floor as the rogue backed away, suddenly on the defensive. Marjolaine snarled, pressing her advantage, and Leliana circled around, the briefest hint of a smile flitting across her face as Marjolaine turned and struck again.

“Daylen,” Alistair asked quietly, “are you sure about this?”

“Not even slightly. But this is her choice.”

Leliana hissed in pain as she picked up a deep gash across her palm from trying to parry Marjolaine’s dagger with the thick leather on her gauntlets. She countered without flinching, and Marjolaine cried out as one of her daggers – and two of her fingers – fell to the floor, Leliana kicking the dropped weapon away as the two continued fighting. A few grappling twists later, the two bards had pinned the blades between them and Marjolaine was spitting blood in Leliana’s face.

Leliana only grinned. “Think I haven’t had blood in my eyes lately? You are nothing compared to darkspawn!” Bringing her knee up into Marjolaine’s gut, she wrenched her weapon hand free of the other bard’s grip, bloody hands slipping as the two separated. Marjolaine fished a glass bulb out of her pocket with her injured hand and tried to set off another disorienting trap, only for Leliana to slap the bulb out of her hand, the item rolling away and under a table. Doing so dropped her guard, and Marjolaine’s dagger carved a neat slash into Leliana’s cheek a moment later. Marjolaine tossed her dagger up and caught it in a reverse grip, stabbing at Leliana and carving a deep gash along her other arm. Leliana stumbled, and another smile flashed across her face before her other hand dropped low, leaving her upper body unguarded. Marjolaine took the bait, her dagger coming up in a forward grip to strike a killing blow, and Leliana’s hands blurred, the edge of her dagger carving along the inside of Marjolaine’s forearm, severing muscles and arteries. Leliana’s other hand caught Marjolaine’s dominant wrist, twisting it around as she threw herself against the older bard, slamming Marjolaine’s own dagger into her chest.

“I am nothing like you,” Leliana spat.

“Only a matter of time,” Marjolaine gurgled. She rasped out a laugh, pink foam collecting around the wound and at her lips. Leliana twisted the blade, and Marjolaine dropped to the floor, dead.

There was a long, pregnant pause. “It’s over,” Leliana said finally. “She’s dead. She’s dead because of me.”

“Was all that really necessary?” Daylen asked, gathering some mana and hitting Leliana with a burst of healing magic. She flinched as her injuries closed, wiping blood from her face. “We could have taken her down in seconds. One lightning bolt. Easy.”

“It was personal,” Leliana said, spitting out some blood that had made its way into her mouth. “I…I need some time to myself.”

“Take some time,” Daylen replied. “Take Cupcake with you, head back to the camp.”

She nodded, leaving without another word. “You think she’s all right?” Alistair asked a few moments later.

Daylen glanced at him. “Would you be? I’ll check in with her later. Meantime, let’s see if we can find anything useful around here.” He turned, stepping through another doorway and ducking as a trap went off, a metal spike missing his nose by inches.

“Trap right there,” Zevran commented lightly.

Daylen glared at him. “No kidding?”

A quick search of the house revealed a fair amount of high-end equipment. “Marjolaine was well-equipped for a bard,” Zevran remarked, looking at a set of leathers that had been concealed behind a false back in a wardrobe. “Many senior Crows do not have access to such finely-made armor.”

“Take it along for Leliana,” Daylen ordered. “Any weapons?”

“Besides the ones Marjolaine was using, not much,” Alistair reported. “Just a bow. Rather nicely made, too.”

The group took what they could, collecting documents, coin, and anything else they could get their pragmatic – well, kleptomaniacal – hands on.

Then they left the house, moving on to the next awkward family reunion, and things began to get…complicated.

The group stepped out into the noise and light of Denerim’s market, the Warden squinting against the light. “Alistair,” he said. “I know you’re anxious to go meet your sister, but I think we need to go find Brother Genitivi.”

“Agreed,” Alistair replied, scrubbing at a splatter of blood on his bracer. “You know where it is?”

Daylen nodded. “Oh, sure, I’ve never met the man before and have no idea what he looks like or how a brother of the Chantry lives but I know address – of course I don’t know where he lives.”

“All right, that’s a fair point. Do you have a plan for finding out, then?” He looked over, realizing Daylen had walked away. “Daylen?”

Daylen had approached a Chantry sister, carefully avoiding the Chanter standing by the board and the two slightly daffy sisters preaching by the gate. It took only a few moments to wheedle directions out of her, especially once Daylen mentioned that they were there on behalf of the Arlessa of Redcliffe.

“Remind me to drop her name more often,” Daylen remarked as they crossed the market. “Another resource ripe for abuse.”

Alistair groaned. “Please, don’t get us into any more trouble than we’re already in.”

Daylen eyed the house that Genitivi supposedly lived in. “Well, unless there’s another Pride demon on the other side of this door, that’s unlikely.”

Alistair glared at him. “Why do you have to go saying things like that? You know how your luck is!”

Daylen shrugged. “I figure it’s going to happen either way. At least this way we have someone to blame.”

Inside, they found a long table with neatly sorted piles of books, charts, and maps, with several other maps tacked up precisely on the walls. A man emerged from deeper in the house, and Daylen eyed the man, noting his skin tone – an odd bronze, unusual for Fereldans. “Yes? What are you doing here?”

“Sorry to intrude like this,” Daylen spoke. “I am looking for Brother Genitivi. Who are you?”

“My name is Weylon. I am the assistant of the scholar Brother Genitivi. This is his house.”

“And where is he?” Daylen asked. “It’s imperative that I find him.”

“That makes two of us who are looking for him,” Weylon said darkly. “I haven’t seen Brother Genitivi in weeks. He’s sent no word. I am afraid something has happened, it’s unlike him. Genitivi’s research into the Urn may have led him into danger.”

“Do you think he found something dangerous?”

“I don’t know,” Weylon admitted. “He was very excited when he left, and said he would be back with all the answers. Perhaps the Urn has been lost for a reason. I pray for Genitivi’s safety, but hope dwindles with each passing day. I…I tried to send help, but some knights came from Redcliffe looking for him not long ago. I sent them after Genitivi and they too have disappeared.”

“Yes, we’ve met a few of them. Where did you send them?”

“No, don’t ask me where they went,” Weylon protested. “You’ll go after them, and what if some misfortune should befall you, too?”

“Oh, no need to worry about that,” Daylen said brightly. “My luck is awful anyway.”

“This search is a curse, on all of us,” Weylon went on. “Some things are not meant to be found. I know that now.”

“Lives hang in the balance,” Daylen pressed. “I’m willing to take the risk. Tell me where he went.”

Weylon sighed. “So be it. All he said before he left was that he would be staying at an inn near Lake Calenhad, investigating something in that area. I tried looking through his notes to see what he was looking for, but he must have taken that information with him.”

Daylen shrugged. “We’ll head for the inn immediately. If he’s there, we’ll find him.”

“Good luck,” Weylon said quietly. “May you find the answers you seek.”

The group left the house quietly, and Daylen looked to his companions. “Thoughts?”

“He's lying,” Zevran said flatly.

“Zevran is right,” Alistair agreed. “Something I learned in the Wardens. If a man’s wearing his pants on his head or if he says his words backwards from time to time, you know it’s all laid out there for you. But if he’s friendly to strangers and keeps his home spick-and-span?” He shrugged. “More often than not, he’s done something even his own mum couldn’t forgive.”

“That place did seem awfully well-organized for the research base of an eccentric Chantry scholar.”

“You think this is a trap?”

Daylen worried his lip between his teeth. “I don’t think we have a choice but to investigate.”

“But what if Weylon just sent us on a false lead?” Zevran challenged.

“All right, let’s hedge our bets,” Daylen said. “Zevran, Sten, and Wynne will remain here in Denerim, make sure Weylon doesn’t leave or contact anyone to warn them about us. The rest of us will go to Lake Calenhad.”

“Seems like an odd place to hide an artifact like the Urn, anyway,” Alistair commented. “In an area like Lake Calenhad? It would have been discovered by now.”

“Look, there’s another reason to go,” Daylen argued. “If there’s someone there that’s involved with Genitivi’s disappearance, we can question them. Hopefully the good brother is still alive.”

“I…” Alistair paused and blinked for a moment, considering the point. “You’re right. That’s rather devious of you.”

Daylen shrugged. “I have my moments. Now, we have another point of business to take care of.”

“Eh?”

Daylen gave him a pointed look. “Your sister, mate.”

Alistair blanched. “Oh. Right. Yes. Well. Erm…I think that’s my sister’s house on the other side of the market, near Wade’s shop, that smithy.” The group approached the door, and Alistair nodded. “I’m almost sure of it. Yes, this is the right address.” He shifted nervously, and Daylen watched his friend knit his fingers together. “Will she even know who I am? Does she even know I exist?” Alistair started to ramble, and Daylen nudged him gently.

“Why don’t we go find out? I’ll be right behind you, Alistair.” He opened the door and entered the building, and Daylen glanced at his companions, speaking quietly. “Zevran, Morrigan, wait out here. Best not to pack the house.”

The mage entered the house with Sten and Wynne behind him, and found a redhead speaking to Alistair. “Eh? You have linens to wash? I charge three bits on the bundle, you won’t find better. And don’t trust what that Natalia woman tells you either, she’s foreign and she’ll rob you blind.”

“I’m…not here to have any wash done,” Alistair said, his voice cracking. “My name’s Alistair. I’m…” He took a deep breath. “Well, this may sound sort of strange, but are you Goldanna? If so, I suppose I’m your brother.”

The woman stared at him in confusion. “My what? I am Goldanna, yes, but how do you know my name? What kind of tomfoolery are you up to?”

“He’s telling the truth,” Daylen commented. “Listen to him.” He nudged Alistair. “Give her some details.”

“Look, our mother…she worked as a servant in Redcliffe Castle, a long time ago, before she died. Do you know about that? She-”

“You!” Goldanna exploded. “I knew it! I knew it!” Alistair flinched at the volume, and Daylen took a half-step back. “They told me you was dead! They told me the babe was dead along with Mother, but I knew they was lying!”

Alistair swallowed hard. “They told you I was dead? Who? Who told you that?”

“Them’s at the castle! I told them the babe was the king’s, and they said he was dead. Gave me a coin to shut my mouth and sent me on my way! I knew it!”

“I’m sorry,” Alistair breathed. “I didn’t know that. He didn’t die. I’m him. I’m your brother.”

Goldanna gave a derisive snort. “For all the good it does me! You killed Mother, you did, and I’ve had to scrape by all this time. That coin didn’t last long, and when I went back they ran me off!”

“And what, that’s his fault?” Daylen snapped. “He didn’t have anything to do with that!”

She glared at him. “And who in the Maker’s name are you? Some servant of his, to carry all his riches, I expect?”

Before Daylen could decide whether to set her on fire or hit her with a bolt of lightning, Alistair spoke up. “Hey! Don’t speak to him that way! He’s my friend, and a Grey Warden! Just like me!”

“Ooh, I see,” Goldanna spat. “A prince and a Grey Warden, too. Well, who am I to think poorly of someone so high and mighty compared to me? I don’t know you, boy. Your royal father forced himself on my mother and took her away from me. And what do I got to show for it? Nothing!” Alistair faltered as she scowled at him, before continuing with her tirade. “They tricked me good. I should have told everyone. I got five mouths to feed, and unless you can help with that, I got less than no use for you!”

“I…I’m sorry,” Alistair said quietly. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Well I do,” Daylen growled. “Alistair came here hoping to find his family. You lost your mother – he never had one. We’re out there risking our lives to keep you safe! And you’ve got a lot of bloody nerve talking to him like that!”

“Well, so he’s found his family,” Goldanna shrugged. “I’m his sister. But what are you to me, boy, except the one who took my mother away, hm?”

“You think I wished her dead?” Alistair asked incredulously. “I never wanted that! I didn’t have the life you think I did, Goldanna.” His expression held anger, sadness, and more than a hint of betrayal, like a hungry child who just watched his uncle eat the last cookie. “I…let’s go,” he finally said to Daylen. “I want to go. Goodbye…sister.” He was out the door in seconds, pushing past Sten and Wynne.

“Goldanna, in leaving, I’d just like to quote something I said to my dear old dad on a like occasion,” Daylen said calmly.

“Yes?”

“You give me a ruddy shooting pain-” Wynne clapped her hand over his mouth and she and Sten bodily dragged him from the building. “Bitch is lucky I didn’t set her on fire,” Daylen spat as he shook them off. “Where does she get off, acting like that? He’s her brother!” He glared at the others. “Well? Anyone else got any awkward family reunions to warn me about? I mean, between a murderous former bardmaster and an absolute witch of a sister, I think I’m about full on those! Where’s Alistair?”

“He wandered off that way, rather distressed about something inconsequential, I’m sure,” Morrigan drawled, pointing.

“Morrigan, you come from something of a different world than most of us, so I’m going to let that slide,” Daylen said quietly. “But I’ll thank you to lay off of him for the time being.” Shouldering his way past Sten, Daylen strode off after Alistair, finding his fellow Warden pacing in an alley. “Oi. You all right?”

“That was…not what I expected,” Alistair admitted. “To put it lightly. This is the family I’ve been wondering about all my life? I can’t believe it. I…I guess I was expecting her to accept me without question. Isn’t that what family is supposed to do? I…I feel like a complete idiot. The only one who cared about me was Duncan, and he’s gone.”

Daylen smiled faintly. “Maybe you are an idiot, a little bit. But not for the reasons you think.” At Alistair’s confused look, Daylen shrugged and went on. “Well, accepting you without question? I can think of a good half-dozen people who have stood alongside you with their feet in the fire and accepted you without blinking.” Daylen stepped closer, putting a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “You don’t need her, Alistair. You have others that care for you. Leliana, Wynne, even Zevran. I certainly do. I said something to Bodahn, a while back. Blood isn’t that important. Family is. The two aren’t the same. You’ve got friends, Alistair. I’m one of them.”

He shuffled, glancing up at him. “I…thank you. I’m glad you came with me.” He shook himself, standing up straighter. “Let’s just go. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

—ROTG—

That night, Daylen was sitting in front of the campfire, pulling off his boots and wincing as he worked out a sore spot in his calf. Cupcake padded up next to him, flopping down, rolling over, and shoving his head under Daylen’s arm and into his lap. Snorting in amusement, Daylen scratched the mabari behind the ear, the dog’s tongue lolling out in response.

“Got some time to talk?” Alistair asked, approaching with a crust of bread and a hunk of cheese in hand.

“For you? Absolutely,” Daylen replied, accepting some of the bread from the other Warden. “What’s on your mind?”

“What happened today, in the market,” Alistair admitted. “I…it didn’t go well, did it.”

“In terms of family not living up to what you’d hope they’d do, that easily ranks…” Daylen hesitated. “Well, to be honest, not all that high compared to some things I’ve seen, but then Goldanna didn’t throw you to the Templars for something you had no control over. You’re better off without her. I can understand her being practical, sure, but she didn’t give a fart in the Fade that you were her relative.”

“I guess…maybe people are always out for themselves,” Alistair said.

Daylen rolled his eyes. “Look, mate, sometimes, yes, people are bastards. Sometimes people are horrible. Sometimes they’re just utter shite.” Daylen paused a moment. “I had a point here. Oh! Right. But sometimes, they’re worth fighting for, and they’re worth believing in. We’re Wardens. What was it Duncan said? We stand in the shadows to safeguard the light against the dark. We have to believe that these people are worth saving. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“What’s your point?”

Daylen sighed. “I’m not sure. If I met someone from my family, I’m not sure what connection I’d feel to them, but I’d want that connection, you know?” Alistair nodded. “But if I acted like she did, where my only interest was what I could get out of them, I’d be a right bastard. You didn’t deserve that. I guess my point is that you shouldn’t let people push you around, but don’t just give up on people like that. You matter more than you think, Alistair. You’re the first person outside the Circle I’ve ever been able to trust.”

Alistair didn’t look convinced, but he shrugged anyway. “I’ll think about it. Thanks, Daylen.” He sighed. “Finding out that my…that Maric forced himself on my mother…it just. I never wanted to be king or anything like that, but…knowing what he became? I don’t want any of that. I won’t be that.”

“Hey.” Daylen’s voice was suddenly harsh, and Alistair met his eyes. “You don’t have to be him. We don’t have to be our parents. We can and will be better.” He swallowed hard, his voice coming out soft now. “We have to be.”

—ROTG—

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Alistair asked as the walls of Denerim faded into the distance behind them.

“If you’re objecting, say so.”

“I’m not objecting.” Alistair sighed. “It’s just…we’re pretty sure that this is a trap or at least a false lead. Why are we walking into it like this?”

“Because Weylon must have had a reason to send us there,” Daylen replied uncertainly. “I mean…don’t you think? He wouldn’t just send us on a wild goose chase, after all, he would know we’d come right back. Presumably, there’s going to be someone waiting there.”

Leliana spoke up. “He is right, but it is more than that. The best way to get information on who wants us to not find Brother Genitivi is to ask one of the people trying to stop us.”

“Huh. I must be smarter than I thought,” Daylen mused. “I didn’t even realize that.” Alistair snickered. “Oh, go on, then. Don’t laugh at me, you didn’t know either!”

Alistair kept chuckling. “Well, we’ve got a couple days to get back to Lake Calenhad. We’ll have to make camp on the road, most likely. I guess it’s going to be on me, Cupcake, and Leliana to scrounge up some food.”

Daylen sighed. “All right, all right, so I’m pants at hunting. At least I can cook.”

“Speaking of which,” Leliana chimed in. “What was that…soup you made for supper last night?”

Alistair perked up. “Ooh, that? That's a traditional Fereldan lamb and pea stew. Did you like it?”

She looked queasy. “Oh, so…it was lamb then? It had a certain…texture I don't normally associate with lamb.”

“They didn't make lamb and pea stew for you in Lothering?”

Leliana shook her head. “We ate simply there. Whole grains, made into biscuits or bread, and vegetables from the garden, cooked lightly. No heavy stews.”

Alistair nodded in understanding. “Ah, so the last lamb you had was probably cooked Orlesian style. Food shouldn’t be frilly and pretentious like that. Now here in Ferelden, we do things right. We take our ingredients, throw them into the largest pot we can find, and cook them for as long as possible until everything is a uniform grey color. As soon as it looks completely bland and unappetizing, that’s when I know it’s done.”

Leliana raised an eyebrow. “You’re having me on.”

Alistair laughed. “You need to eat in more Fereldan inns.”

—ROTG—

There was once a tiny fishing village on the Waking Sea that was set upon by the Tevinter Imperium, which enslaved the villagers to be sold in the markets of Minrathous, leaving behind only the old and the infirm. One of the captives was the child Andraste.

She was raised in slavery in a foreign land. She escaped, then made the long and treacherous journey back to her homeland alone. She rose from nothing to be the wife of an Alamarri warlord.

Each day she sang to the gods, asking them to help her people who remained slaves in Tevinter. The false gods of the mountains and the winds did not answer her, but the true god did.

The Maker spoke. He showed her all the works of His hands: the Fade, the world, and all the creatures therein. He showed her how men had forgotten Him, lavishing devotion upon mute idols and demons, and how He had left them to their fate. But her voice had reached Him, and so captivated Him that He offered her a place at His side, that she might rule all of creation.

But Andraste would not forsake her people.

She begged the Maker to return, to save His children from the cruelty of the Imperium. Reluctantly, the Maker agreed to give man another chance.

Andraste went back to her husband, Maferath, and told him all that the Maker had revealed to her. Together, they rallied the Alamarri and marched forth against the mage-lords of the Imperium, and the Maker was with them.

The Maker's sword was creation itself: fire and flood, famine and earthquake. Everywhere they went, Andraste sang to the people of the Maker, and they heard her. The ranks of Andraste's followers grew until they were a vast tide washing over the Imperium. And when Maferath saw that the people loved Andraste and not him, a worm grew within his heart, gnawing upon it.

At last, the armies of Andraste and Maferath stood before the very gates of Minrathous, but Andraste was not with them.

For Maferath had schemed in secret to hand Andraste over to the Tevinter. For this, the Archon would give Maferath all the lands to the south of the Waking Sea.

And so, before all the armies of the Alamarri and of Tevinter, Andraste was tied to a stake and burned while her earthly husband turned his armies aside and did nothing, for his heart had been devoured. But as he watched the pyre, the Archon softened. He took pity on Andraste, and drew his sword, and granted her the mercy of a quick death.

The Maker wept for His Beloved, cursed Maferath, cursed mankind for their betrayal, and turned once again from creation, taking only Andraste with him. And Our Lady sits still at his side, where she still urges Him to take pity on His children.

—From The Sermons of Justinia II

Chapter Text

That night, the group circled tighter around the campfire, their reduced numbers requiring less space. Daylen and Alistair sparred briefly, but with the encroaching Ferelden winter neither felt much like exercising in the cold.

“You’re improving,” Alistair acknowledged as the two sheathed their weapons. “You might not be able to keep up with a professional soldier yet, but against darkspawn you ought to be able to handle yourself.”

“Good to hear,” Daylen said, brushing his sweaty hair out of his face and casting a quick rejuvenation spell as Leliana strode out of the woods with a trio of rabbits. “My turn to cook?”

“It’s you or Alistair,” Leliana replied.

“Me. Please.” Leliana cleaned the rabbits quickly and deftly as Daylen rooted around in their supplies. “Roast rabbit with some cheese and bread all right with everyone?”

“Sounds good to me,” Leliana agreed.

“As long as it’s hot,” Alistair added. Morrigan nodded silently, her brow deeply furrowed.

Daylen’s eyes widened. “Ha! A bonus!” He pulled a tiny pot of honey out of the pack. “This’ll go well with the rabbit.” He spitted the meat and set it over the fire, before looking over at Leliana. “This ought to go quickly.”

“Is there something you wanted to talk about?” Leliana asked, crouching next to Daylen.

“No, but you looked like you wanted to talk,” Daylen replied, turning the spit to help the rabbits cook evenly. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

“Marjolaine,” Leliana said quietly, staring into the fire. “I can’t get what happened out of my head. I’d been in Lothering for years and she still thought I was plotting against her. She didn’t trust me. Maybe she never did. She loved me when she could use me and control me, and once she couldn’t, she wanted me dead. It…it hurts to realize I never really knew her.”

“Sometimes people surprise you,” Daylen replied, thinking of Jowan. “You’d be surprised what people can hide. It was unsettling, though, the way she looked at you, with that ‘my Leliana’ she kept saying. Like she owned you.” He cleared his throat. “It’s weird just saying that. Look, is there anything I can do?”

“You are already doing so much just by listening,” Leliana said. “I knew she was ruthless, but I didn’t know how far she’d go. She was self-serving, cruel…she used people, then discarded them, but that’s how she survived in the life she led.” She looked Daylen in the eyes, her eyes glistening with tears. “What if she’s right? What if we’re the same? I…I should have just stayed in the Chantry.”

“She would have attacked you there eventually,” Daylen pointed out.

“Maybe, but that’s not the point. I was a different person there. I forgot my life as a bard while I was in the cloister. I felt safe, I didn’t have to watch my back all the time. That’s what made Marjolaine the person she was, don’t you see? It ruined her, and it will ruin me too.” She swallowed hard. “It’s already happened.” At Daylen’s questioning look, she went on. “When I killed her, I…I enjoyed it. Seeing her dead gave me satisfaction.”

“Er…Leliana, after everything she put you through, I’d be more worried if you didn’t take some level of satisfaction from ending her. She had that coming.”

“But that is no reason to rejoice over her death. That is what she would do. I don’t want that!” The bard stood up, pacing around the fire. “What we’re doing, what we’ve done? Part of me loves it. It invigorates me and this scares me. I…I feel myself slipping.”

Daylen snorted. “Leliana, we’re in a dirty business, but you are a good person. You always will be.”

“How can you be so sure?” Leliana challenged.

“Evil doesn’t worry about not being good,” Daylen shot back. “Nobody sees themselves as the villain in their own story.” Leliana’s face clouded in thought. “The fact that you worry about this? It’ll keep you honest.”

“That…that is true,” Leliana allowed. “I can always trust you to show me things from a different perspective.” She dusted her hands off. “I would like to be alone, for now. I have many things to consider. Thank you, for listening to me.”

“If you need something to occupy your hands, Zevran usually sets traps around the camp,” Daylen said.

“I’ll do that,” Leliana replied, striding off as Morrigan approached. The witch’s face was stormy.

“We need to talk.”

“Have a seat.”

“I have been studying Mother’s grimoire,” Morrigan said without preamble. “And I have learned much.”

“Not much good, from the look on your face,” Daylen replied.

“You are correct. ‘Tis not what I expected. I had hoped for a collection of her spells, a map of the power that she commands. But this is not it.”

Daylen watched her face, concerned at the unusual display of emotion. “And you look unsettled.”

“Unsettled? Yes, perhaps that is the right word,” Morrigan mused. “One thing in particular within her writings disturbs me. In great detail, Flemeth explains the means by which she has survived for centuries.”

“Blood magic?” Daylen guessed. “Live sacrifice?”

“That is closer to the truth than you might think,” Morrigan said darkly. “Flemeth has raised many daughters over her long lifetime. There are stories of these many Witches of the Wild throughout Chasind legend, yet I have never seen a one and always wondered why not.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Daylen muttered.

“And now I know,” Morrigan sighed. “They are all Flemeth. When her body becomes old and wizened, she raises a daughter. And when the time is right, she takes her daughter’s body for her own.”

Daylen’s jaw dropped. “She takes her…I’m sorry, are you certain about this?”

“Indeed. That is primarily what this tome details. The various daughters that Flemeth has…acquired. Their preparation and training. I recognize all of it. I am to be her next host. That is my purpose.”

“So is Flemeth immortal or not?” Daylen asked. “If she needs to possess someone…”

“In a way, she is. Whatever spark of the demon that made her what she is remains within her and keeps her from dying of old age. But her body deteriorates, just like anyone else’s. Eventually she would be so wizened as to be senseless and immobile.” Morrigan’s face twisted in distaste. “So she must seek a new body, a fresh body, and start the cycle anew.”

Daylen glanced over at the rabbits and hurriedly turned the spit to prevent burning them. “Then why would she risk sending you with me? A darkspawn or a bandit could kill you and leave her in a spot.” Another thought occurred to him. “Unless she’s accounted for that. Can it be anyone? Or must it be a daughter?”

Morrigan fidgeted. “I am uncertain. According to her writings, certain hosts are better than others. The more a host is prepared, the quicker the…the transition, will be. I do not know why she would send me on your quest.” She began to pace, worrying a ring Daylen vaguely recognized as having looted personally between her hands. “Perhaps ‘tis as she said, that the darkspawn threaten her as much as they threaten anyone else. Or perhaps she believes this journey will make me more powerful. If the…host,” She said, looking as if she had just bitten into a sour apple, “is already powerful, and trained in magic, it takes far less time for Flemeth to…settle in. Or perhaps she simply wished me gone from the Korcari Wilds so she could prepare her ritual uninterrupted.” Morrigan grimaced. “I am sorry. This simply takes me by surprise. I would have thought that I would have had some inkling, some notion.”

“No one wants to think the worst of their own parent,” Daylen said quietly, a bitter taste flooding his mouth.

“There is only one possible response to this,” Morrigan continued grimly, looking him directly in the eyes. “Flemeth needs to die. I will not sit about like an empty sack waiting to be filled. Flemeth must be slain and I need your help to do it.”

“I’ll help you, if I can,” Daylen said immediately.

Morrigan blinked in surprise. “I…very well. Then what needs to be done is for you to go back to Flemeth’s hut in the Korcari Wilds. Without me. If I am present when she is slain, I cannot be certain that she will not be able to possess my body right then. So I must remain at the camp.”

“And then what?” Daylen asked. “Can we even kill her? If she can possess people…”

“She may not die of old age, but a dagger to the heart would end her as surely as you or me,” Morrigan replied. “Confront her, slay her quickly. I doubt that she will truly be dead even then, but it will take her years to find a new host and recover her power…if that is even possible. The thing I must have, however, is her true grimoire. With it I can defend myself against her power in the future.”

“I’ll see what can be done. We will be heading back that direction anyway at some point.” Morrigan looked uncertain, and Daylen smiled faintly at her. “Look, I promised that I would make sure you came to no harm. That includes keeping you safe from her, if necessary.”

“I…I must admit that I did not expect you to agree so readily.”

Daylen gave her a wry grin. “What’s the big deal? All we’re doing is trying to kill an abomination of legend.”

“Bravado aside, I am grateful,” Morrigan said quietly. “The sooner this can be done, the sooner it will set my mind at ease.”

“Well, I have a few ideas on how to put your mind at ease.”

Morrigan smiled in spite of how she felt. “Come now, you’ll make Alistair blush. Maybe after you finish cooking.”

—ROTG—

Two hours later, Daylen stretched out across the bedroll, sparks of healing magic flaring across his neck and back and closing the bite and nail marks. “I see the stories they tell of Grey Warden endurance are not exaggerated,” Morrigan said gleefully.

“There are stories?” Daylen asked.

Morrigan chuckled, pressing a thumb to the edge of her mouth. “Indeed there are. Legends about regarding such figures as Garahel, sordid though they may be. The unanswered question, of course, is whether the endurance exists because of the Taint within you, or because the Grey Wardens are by nature so very…healthy.” Daylen grinned, and Morrigan went on. “I enjoy the thought that ‘tis a little of both. Natural prowess driven by a darker side.”

Daylen pushed himself up on his elbows, looking at his lover. “So…what now? With us, I mean.”

“That is entirely up to you,” Morrigan drawled, tying her hair back after it had come loose. “Simply know that I have no designs on your independence. I wish only to do what I desire, and if that coincides with what you desire…then so be it. And should you decide not to continue our…misadventure, then so be it. Very simple, is it not?”

“And do emotions enter the picture? What about love?”

Morrigan sighed. “Ah, now you ruin the mood by speaking profanities.”

“All right, fine,” Daylen said with a shrug. “We’ll change the subject. Do you really want Flemeth dead?”

Morrigan sighed again. “Such enchanting subjects you choose for pillow talk.”

“That’s the Grey Wardens for you,” Daylen replied. “Fun, fun, fun.”

“Under normal circumstances, no, of course I would not turn against my mother so. For all that she is not the picture of maternal love, I mean her no ill will. But Flemeth herself taught me long ago: once you know your enemy, strike quickly, without mercy, and ensure that your enemy is dead. Were our positions reversed, she would no doubt do the same.”

“Just wanted to ask,” Daylen replied. “Let’s get back to it.”

A wicked smirk spread across Morrigan’s face. “You are insatiable.”

Daylen shrugged. “I was talking about getting back to work, but all right.” Scooting down the bedroll, he slipped between Morrigan’s thighs as her hand threaded into his hair.

—ROTG—

“Welcome back to the Spoiled Princess,” the innkeeper said. “Less of you this time.”

Daylen nodded. “We’ll be staying the night. Just need two rooms, and some information, actually. Has there been a Chantry brother staying here? Brother Genitivi?”

The man twitched. “Er…no. No, of course not. Never heard of Brother Genitivi.”

“What about knights from Redcliffe?” Alistair asked. “Have you seen any?”

“No, no, I haven’t seen any knights.”

Daylen leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You seem nervous.”

“Why would I be nervous? Listen, the person you’re looking for isn’t here. You should be on your way as soon as possible.”

“You in some kind of trouble?” Daylen asked quietly. “You can trust us.”

“No, of course not,” the man insisted, sweat beading at his forehead.

“Look, we wind up helping people, so-”

“They’re watching me,” the innkeeper said quietly, leaning forward. “I can’t speak openly.” Daylen glanced around to see if anyone was watching, and the man flinched. “Don’t! Don’t look around. And keep your voice down.” He grimaced, before continuing in a low voice, leaning forward as if he were chatting with Daylen. “They’re looking for anyone asking for this Brother Genitivi. They told me to act like nothing’s wrong, and just deny ever having seen the brother, or the knights.”

“Who are these people watching you?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You should be on your guard, and leave quickly. I don’t know what happened to the knights, but I doubt it was anything good.”

Daylen nodded. “Thank you. We’ll be careful. We’ll have to stay the night, but we’ll be out of here tomorrow.”

He winced again, before nodding. “All right. May the Maker turn his gaze on you.”

—ROTG—

The door creaked open, three shadows flitting inside, barely visible in the dark. Blades were drawn, darkened with soot, pitch, and unidentifiable poisons. The three assassins moved over the figures in the room, poised to strike.

On a silent signal, the blades came down, piercing the thin blankets, but finding no purchase in anything but feathers beneath.

“You really murdered those pillows,” Daylen commented, leaning against the wardrobe. The assassins turned to attack, only for the Warden to knock them off their feet with a blast of mental energy, following up with a wave of biting frost as Alistair dove from inside the wardrobe and Cupcake burst from under the bed. The warrior parried two strikes from one of the assassins easily and opened the artery in the man’s leg, the would-be murderer mewling pitifully and bleeding out quickly on the floor. Another met a messy end as Cupcake’s teeth perforated his throat.

“Leave this one alive,” Daylen ordered, pointing at the frozen assassin. “I want to ask him a few questions. Search him and tie him up.” Opening the door, Daylen spotted light flaring from under the opposite doorway and kicked the door open, lightning crackling around his hands.

Two more assassins lay on the floor, one with a slit throat and the other resembling a chicken left on the spit for too long. “I hope you kept one alive,” Leliana remarked calmly, wiping her dagger clean.

“We’ve got one left, yes,” Daylen said, letting the magic dissipate. “You two all right?”

Morrigan nodded. “These men were terribly obvious, and no match for us to begin with.”

“Good. Well, let’s go meet our new friend.” The trio trooped back into the other room, finding the man sitting in the room’s only chair, his hands bound in front of him. “Let’s make this simple,” Daylen said softly, crossing his arms and trying to look vaguely intimidating. “Who sent you, and why?” The man merely glared at him. “Look, I’m not normally nosy. But when someone tries to kill me, I tend to wonder why.”

“No written orders,” Alistair informed him. “No weapons besides the dagger he used. I haven’t seen leathers like these before, but then I haven’t been everywhere.”

Daylen gave their captive another once-over, noting the man shared the same unusual skin tone as Weylon. “Save us all some time and tell us why you wanted us dead.” A stony glare was all Daylen received. Shrugging, the Warden turned away, Alistair following him as the two men pulled Leliana and Morrigan aside.

“Real talker, this one,” Alistair said sarcastically.

“I’m not much for torture,” Daylen admitted. “And I’ve never done it before. Morrigan, you have any spells that would shake some answers loose?”

“That would depend on whether you wanted him to survive the experience,” Morrigan remarked. “Any spells that would loosen such a man’s tongue would easily kill him in doing so.”

Daylen grimaced. “Leliana, have you ever questioned anyone who didn’t want to be questioned?”

“No,” she said quietly. “But I have been on the receiving end. I know what works.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to do this, but-” There was a crash, and Daylen whirled around to see the man had smashed the clay water pitcher on the table. He had a shard of the hardened clay clutched in his hand, a wicked edge on the fragment. “You think that’s going to do you much good?” Daylen asked rhetorically.

“My life for Andraste!” The man cried, slashing his own throat open.

Daylen blinked as the blood spurted, freezing up. “Wait, what?”

Alistair gave him an exasperated look. “Daylen, he’s dying!” Daylen shook himself out of his shocked reverie and knelt next to the assassin, magic flaring around his hands as he tried to close the ragged wound – only for the assassin to ram both fists into Daylen’s throat, sending him rolling back and coughing for air. The man fell still as Daylen grasped at his throat, blood pooling on the floor.

Wincing as his windpipe ached, Daylen rolled the man over, checking for a pulse. “He’s dead. What kind of fanatics are we dealing with that would commit suicide rather than be questioned?”

Alistair shrugged. “No idea, but what do you say we get the corpses out of here before they start to stink?”

—ROTG—

Daylen stepped out of the Spoiled Princess with one of the bodies slung over his shoulder and flinched as an axe-head thumped into the heavy wood of the doorframe. “What the-” An arrow lodged itself in the corpse he was carrying, and Daylen ducked as a half-dozen armed and armored men charged, armor gleaming in the pale light of the setting moon. “Alistair, help!” Daylen tossed the corpse at one of the closest fanatics and clapped his hands, sending out a burst of mental energy that staggered the attackers and bought a few precious seconds. Daylen silently cursed his assumption that the assassins would have only tried to attack them in their rooms. It was an excellent ambush. There were no witnesses at this time of night – the only other living being around was the Templar ferryman Carroll dozing by the ferry to the Circle tower.

Alistair ducked out of the inn, his sword and shield up and ready. His armor was back in the room, but as Daylen unleashed a torrent of frost on the attackers, Alistair moved into action, finding chinks and gaps in armor and cutting through cheap leathers. Leliana ducked another arrow and charged the pair of archers that were standing farther away as the Templar ferryman finally woke up and decided to intervene.

By the time the Templar and Leliana had killed the two archers, Daylen and Alistair had killed all but one of the fanatics, backing the last one – a rogue bearing a pair of wickedly curved daggers – into the corner. “Easy, now,” Daylen said. “You can make it out of this alive.”

The man spun his daggers around, his eyes alight with a fanatical gleam. “For Andraste!” Blood spurted, and the man fell in a heap, his throat slashed open.

By the time Daylen got close enough to try to heal the man, he was dead. “What is wrong with these people?”

“Who are you people?” Carroll asked incredulously. Daylen turned, and the Templar took a step back as he recognized the Warden. “Oh, Maker, it’s you. Never mind. Have a nice night.”

—ROTG—

Daylen hammered on the door, rubbing his eyes. “Come on, open up,” he called. “Zevran, it’s Daylen. We’re back.”

The door opened, and a bleary-eyed Wynne looked out, tightening a robe around herself. “Zevran is currently watching the Brother’s house. Sten is with him.”

“Sorry, Wynne,” Daylen said. “We were ambushed at Lake Calenhad. I wanted to make sure you three were all right.”

“My goodness,” Wynne gasped. “We’re all fine here. Are you all right?”

“No injuries, but we’re going to confront Weylon. Are you up to coming along?”

“I need just a few moments.”

—ROTG—

“Ah, you’re back,” Zevran said. “What did you find?”

“We received a rather…pointy reception at Lake Calenhad,” Daylen replied. “We’re going to go ask Weylon a few questions. I’ll decide how violently we ask when we get there.”

“Easy, Daylen,” Alistair cautioned. “He may be our only lead at this point.”

“Can’t make an omelet without breaking a few legs!”

“It’s eggs,” Alistair replied. “Can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”

Daylen smiled sweetly at him. “You do it your way, I’ll do it mine.” Rearing back, he kicked the door off its hinges, the group entering the house with weapons drawn. “Wakey wakey, Weylon!”

Weylon ran out of the back room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “You’re back?”

“Surprised?” Daylen asked acidly. “Expected me to be dead?”

“I am glad you are alive, of course,” Weylon said guardedly. “What did you find?”

“I have to say, sending me into a trap like that was very rude,” Daylen said brightly. “Not the trying to murder me part, I get that all the time. The part where I wasted all that time going to Lake Calenhad, murdering your colleagues there, and then coming back here to get the right information before I go find Genitivi.”

“My fellows have failed,” Weylon growled. “I can see their deaths in your eyes. I knew them well…my brothers died in the service of Andraste. May She draw their souls to Her, and cast yours into oblivion!” Lightning crackled around his hands, and Daylen drew on his own mana as the man glared at him. “For Andraste!”

“Oh no you don’t,” Daylen snarled, casting a quick spell and draining the man’s mana. Weylon’s spell fizzled out, and Wynne cast a spell of her own, freezing him in place. “Thank you, Wynne. Too many of these ponces have killed themselves instead of telling us what is going on.”

“It will not last long,” Wynne replied. “We must work quickly.”

It was at that moment that Weylon exploded. Fire blasted out from the man, knocking the party off their feet as the flames consumed him, blood spurting from his mouth.

“What the fuck was that?” Alistair asked, sitting up.

“Blood magic,” Daylen coughed, noticing his sleeve was on fire and quickly slapping the fire out as Wynne extinguished the other fires. “He must have chewed through his tongue and used the sacrifice to cast some sort of suicide spell. Who are these people?”

“I do not know,” Leliana said, examining what was left of the corpse. “I have never seen such fanaticism.”

“Search the place,” Daylen ordered. “There may be information on where Genitivi got off to.” The group spread out, and Daylen perked up suddenly. “But be careful! There may be traps.”

It didn’t take long until they found something out of the ordinary. “Daylen,” Zevran called from the back room of the house. “You had better take a look at this.”

Daylen recoiled as he entered the back room. “Maker’s breath, what is that?”

“A body,” Zevran said, indicating a sheet-covered corpse. “I can only guess this was the real Weylon. He has been dead for at least two weeks.”

Daylen had his wrist pressed over his mouth and nose to muffle the stench. “And the imposter was keeping him here for what, company?”

“I am not sure,” Zevran replied. “But clearly these men are ruthless, as well as stupid.”

“Search the room,” Daylen interrupted. “Then let’s get someplace less…fragrant.”

—ROTG—

“All right, everyone,” Daylen said as the group gathered around the research table in Genitivi’s house. “What do we know about these people?”

“Well, the obvious – they’re fanatics,” Alistair supplied. “On a level I’ve never seen or even heard of.”

Leliana nodded. “Agreed. Many groups have members willing to fight to the death, but dedicated enough to commit suicide rather than be interrogated? That is a force to be reckoned with. They also are relatively well-supplied – the men who attacked us at the inn had well-maintained armor and weapons, and didn’t want for numbers, either.”

“Their mages are not numerous, but they are capable of using blood magic,” Morrigan added, glancing at the scorch mark the imposter Weylon had left on the floor. “They are also rather powerful.”

“They aren’t very smart, though,” Zevran spoke up. The others looked over at him. “Their assassins were attempting to be inconspicuous in a well-populated area, had an innkeeper under duress, and attempted to attack you at the inn rather than waylaying you on the road. Bothering with this entire deception in the first place was a further mistake. It would have been simpler to replace the innkeeper as well with one of their own, someone who could simply misdirect people searching for Genitivi rather than send them into an ambush – also in a populated area – that would only draw attention. For that matter, they could have simply stripped this house clean of all references to the Urn of Sacred Ashes and left anyone looking for the brother with no information, even set a fire to fake his death here in Denerim. His disappearance could be deemed due to a bandit attack or accident if he had simply disappeared with no leads.”

Daylen sat down, scratching at his beard. “Anything else?”

“Yes, actually,” Leliana said, setting a leather-bound journal down on the table. “I found a book detailing some of Genitivi’s research. Amidst numerous ramblings about local legends and ancient trade routes, one passage stands out.” She opened the book, flipping to an entry late in the journal and reading aloud. “The village of Haven in the Frostbacks seems a good place to start. Pity it’s not on any maps.” She closed the book around her finger, saving her place. “That entry is from just a few weeks ago. It may be where Genitivi went.”

“So we have a name. The name of a village that isn’t on a map.”

“Not much help,” Alistair said. “The Frostbacks are immense. We could spend years searching for a single village.”

“He’s thought of that,” Leliana interjected. “Brother Genitivi also spent a great deal of time looking for information about the possible location of Haven. The amount of work is fascinating, correlating stories of trade routes to quiet villages with landmarks to determine locations. He has narrowed it down to a few possible locations. Even if this village is ancient and isolated, it must have some sort of a trail or road leading to it.”

“I see,” Daylen mused. “Do we have the supplies or the equipment to go into the Frostbacks with winter approaching?”

“Supplies, yes, equipment…” Alistair shook his head. “We need thicker clothing. Thicker socks, perhaps new or thicker boots. Gloves, sleeping furs, maybe even new tents.” He winced, doing some mental arithmetic. “This is going to be expensive.”

“We do have a hole card,” Daylen replied. “The lyrium potions we have are very potent. They’re worth an arm and a leg to the right buyers. We have other options, though – I’d rather not part with too many of them. Zevran, you mentioned earlier that there have been some jobs available?”

“Yes, of various kinds,” Zevran said. “Some are less legal than others. I have done what I can, but there are a handful of things that would require travel outside Denerim. I have the notices here.”

Daylen thought for a moment longer, before nodding decisively. “All right. We’ll get our equipment and supplies and finances in order, and then leave immediately. No sense in staying longer than we need to, the weather will only get worse. We’ll skirt around the south road, pass the Brecelian Forest – we’ll check in with the Dalish, and resupply as well as see if they need anything we can provide – and stop in at Redcliffe, where we can check on the Arl’s state and resupply for the journey up into the mountains. Alistair, Sten, Wynne, you’ll be getting our supplies. Wynne, I need you to use that grandmotherly disapproval and haggle for every copper you can on the supplies. Anything you think we can use, get it, but remember we’ll most likely be carrying it. I’m not going to gamble on Bodahn following us up into the mountains. Zevran, Morrigan, we’ll be looking into those jobs and getting our supplies in order.”

“And me?” Leliana asked.

Daylen glanced at the back room. “I need you to speak to the leader of the city guard. There’s a bloke out in the market – Zevran, what was his name?”

“Sergeant Kylon. I’ve done a few jobs for him while you were gone. A good man, if somewhat too…honest, for my tastes.”

“Right. Leliana, I need you to tell him about what’s happened here. Have them retrieve Weylon’s body and deliver it to the Chantry for the proper services. Just…don’t mention the blood magic, that’s trouble we don’t need.”

—ROTG—

“So where are we going?” Alistair asked as the party regrouped at Genitivi’s house.

“If I’m reading Genitivi’s notes properly, and that’s a big if,” Daylen replied, tilting the journal so Alistair could see the untidy scrawl inside the book, “There are three possible locations for Haven. Leliana found the lead, and she, Wynne, and I sorted through his notes. Genitivi figured that the village may have been destroyed or renamed over the centuries. He had four possible locations, but one we confirmed was destroyed during the Orlesian occupation and as best we can tell, it was never known as Haven anyway. It’s entirely possible that the village is so isolated that they didn’t even notice the Orlesian occupation. Or, maybe they were wiped out four hundred years ago. History’s a bit of a woolly subject when you don’t have enough reliable sources.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to check out all of them, then.”

“My thinking, too,” Daylen agreed. “There’s some old trails marked out – I’m hoping we can work our way north. And there’s another problem.”

“Always is,” Alistair sighed.

“Someone doesn’t want us to find Genitivi. And there’s no way of knowing whether they altered this map. Or if Genitivi was even on the right track when he made these notes. The Urn could be in Nevarra, for all we know. It could be in Weisshaupt, or in the Deep Roads, or it could have been destroyed centuries ago during a Blight or some war or a natural disaster. But this is the lead we have, so this is the lead we’ll work with.” He frowned at the map. “I’d like to wait until the spring thaw before we head into the mountains, but we just don’t have the time. Arl Eamon doesn’t have the time.”

“We’ll make it, Daylen,” Alistair said quietly.

Daylen stared at the map a moment longer, before nodding firmly and folding it up. “Right. Let’s go.”

—ROTG—

“Andaran atish’an, Grey Warden,” Lanaya said warmly as the group entered the camp. “Welcome back.” She eyed the new members of the party. “You have some new companions.”

“Many stand against the Blight, some more directly than others,” Daylen replied. “I assure you, they will behave themselves.” He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Well, Wynne will. Zevran may flirt outrageously with everyone in camp, but I trust the Dalish have some amusingly gruesome way of dealing with unwanted advances.”

“We typically stake the offender out for the bears, yes,” Lanaya said sweetly. “Would you like a demonstration?”

“I shall pass on that, thank you,” Zevran replied. “But I like your sense of style.”

“Anyway, we’re here to check in, see if your clan has any needs, and to let you know of a safe place for those that won’t be joining us on the battlefield to gather.”

“That has been on my mind,” Lanaya admitted. “We could push deeper into the forest if need be, but if there is a safe place for our elders and young to shelter…”

“Redcliffe is our staging point,” Daylen said. “The clan could wait there – it is a very well-defended village.”

Lanaya regarded him warily. “We do not typically stray close to human villages.”

“The Dalish will not be harmed. Anyone who misbehaves will have to answer to me.”

“You ask much, Warden. I will consider it, but the forest may provide better protection than the fickle kindness of humans.”

“I won’t ask you to risk your clan if you feel it isn’t worth it. Is there anything you need?”

“Our craftsmen are working day and night to outfit our hunters, and we are set for equipment and food,” Lanaya replied. “However, our numbers are still stretched thin. There have been groups of bandits sighted in the forest nearby. They have not approached our camp, but they have waylaid a few caravans bound for the human village of Gwaren.” Her face darkened. “There is also another matter. The Dalish do not share the human prejudices against blood magic, but there is a cabal of such mages in the forest. They pose a danger to our people.”

Daylen nodded grimly. “That, we can handle. If you have their location, we’ll see they aren’t a problem to you much longer.”

“That is all we need, Warden,” Lanaya said gratefully. “Is there anything your party needs?”

“Well, we have some items for trade. We would be grateful to camp near your clan for the night, perhaps swap some stories.”

The Keeper nodded. “You are welcome among us.”

“Excellent. Wynne, Zevran, Sten, get word to Bodahn.” He thought for a moment. “There is one other thing. This seems terribly unlikely, but would you happen to have known an elven mage by the name of Aneirin? He would have been fleeing from a human Circle.”

Lanaya thought for a moment. “The name does sound familiar, but you should speak to Sarel, our hahren.”

“Hahren?” Daylen asked. “That’s…an elder, right?”

“Of a sort. They are storytellers, caretakers of our young, and work closely with a Keeper. Sarel would know if such an elf met our clan. An elven mage would have been prized by a Dalish clan. We treasure our mages. We would not turn away any elf, but we regard magic as a gift from the Creators.”

“I only wish humans shared your views,” Daylen sighed. “Thank you, Keeper.”

It only took a few minutes to find Sarel. “Welcome back, Warden,” the storyteller said as Wynne, Zevran, and Sten rejoined them. “Join us at the fire if you like, but haven’t you got a war to get to?”

“Have you ever heard of an elf named Aneirin?” Daylen asked.

Wynne glanced over. “I…I appreciate you trying to find him, but what are the chances?”

“Aneirin the healer?” Sarel asked.

“You…know Aneirin?” another Dalish asked.

Daylen’s jaw dropped in surprise. Wynne chimed in. “He lives? No, it can’t be him. Perhaps it is a common elven name?”

“No, I know of only one Aneirin,” the elf replied. “You know him?”

“He…was my student,” Wynne said faintly. Daylen was still staring.

“Ah, it makes sense!” Sarel replied. “Aneirin said that he was from the human cities. You are old friends then?”

Wynne hesitated. “If it is the same Aneirin, then yes, we know each other.” She looked over at the Warden. “Daylen, you’re going to catch flies.”

Daylen shook himself, closing his mouth. “Sorry. Where could we find him? Is he in the camp?”

“If you seek Aneirin, you must venture into the forest,” the second Dalish said. “He prefers to be amidst the trees and the animals.”

“Thank you all so much,” Wynne whispered, her eyes glistening.

—ROTG—

Daylen looked at the blood soaking his robes and grimaced. “Zevran, after we get back to camp, I’m going to need to learn to fight.”

“I thought Alistair was teaching you that,” the elf pointed out.

“Fighting with a blade, yes,” Daylen acknowledged. “But I’ve lost or broken every weapon I’ve ever owned, so I think I need to learn to fight with my hands.” He pulled the stolen axe out of the dead bandit’s forehead, ignoring the wet slurping sound as the man’s skull came apart.

Zevran nodded and looked around. “So this is the Brecelian Forest? It’s actually not that bad.” He looked around as those who had been there before stared at him in disbelief. “Oh, I’m not saying I’d like to build a summer home here, but the trees are actually quite lovely.”

“Maybe it just made a bad impression on me,” Daylen said with a shrug, looking over as Leliana approached. “Anything useful?”

“Not particularly,” Leliana replied. “A paltry amount of coin, poorly made weapons.”

“Well, not every group of dead bandits can be rich,” Daylen sighed. “How do we find Aneirin? The Dalish said he lived out in the forest, but if he’s on his own, who knows how long it’ll take to find him.”

“Perhaps you could wait for him to find you,” a male voice called. Daylen glanced up and saw a redheaded elf in leathers sitting halfway up a tree, a staff strapped to his back. “Friends, turn back, please. These woods are a danger to those who do not know the paths.”

“Aneirin?” Wynne asked, her face caught between delight and disbelief.

The elf cocked his head. “Wait, I remember your face…but younger, more impulsive, stern…Wynne?”

“I thought they had killed you,” Wynne whispered.

“They very nearly did,” Aneirin admitted, dropping from the tree. “The Templars found me while I was searching for the Dalish. They ran me through and left me for dead.”

“Impressive that you survived,” Daylen commented. “Takes a hard sort of person to walk away from that.”

“I brought this on you,” Wynne said. “I was a dreadful mentor, harsh and impatient…I am sorry for the way I treated you.”

Aneirin snorted. “I have put that behind me and you should too. I didn’t fit in with the Templars and your Chantry. My path lay elsewhere.”

“Irving is a reasonable man,” Wynne went on. “He will find some way for you to return. The Circle needs new blood. It needs to change.”

Daylen looked at Wynne incredulously at her suggestion. “I have fond memories of Irving,” Aneirin said. “He was always kind to me. I will consider your proposal, and perhaps I will speak with Irving. However, I promise nothing.” He gestured at Daylen. “Perhaps the mage you seek is right in front of you. The Grey Warden is a mage, no? The Blight will not last forever. Why not look to him to shape the new Circle? It is something both of you should think about.”

“He has a point,” Wynne acknowledged. “You could shape the future of the Circle.”

Daylen burst out laughing. After a few long moments, he realized they were serious. “Oh, please. I’d sooner get Orlesian with a genlock. Besides, the Blight might not last forever, but the darkspawn will. There are plenty of mages, but few Grey Wardens around.” Pausing for a moment, he sought a way to change the subject before either one could try to wave off his objection. “We could stay longer, if you wish it, Wynne.”

“No, we’ve spent enough time on my personal affairs,” Wynne said. “It is time for us to move on.”

“Before you go,” Aneirin broke in, patting at the neck of his leathers, “look at this. It is the hardened sap of a tree native to this forest. It’s been something of a lucky charm for me, and now I want you to have it.” Unhooking the leather cord from around his neck, he held out the pendant, the light catching a thick teardrop-shaped lump.

“Very well,” Wynne said, taking the pendant. “I am grateful. May your gods smile on you, Aneirin.”

“And on you.”

—ROTG—

Kordillus Drakon, king of the city-state of Orlais, was a man of uncommon ambition. In the year -15 Ancient, the young king began construction of a great temple dedicated to the Maker, and declared that by its completion he would not only have united the warring city-states of the south, he would have brought Andrastian belief to the world.

In -3 Ancient, the temple was completed. There, in its heart, Drakon knelt before the eternal flame of Andraste and was crowned ruler of the Empire of Orlais. His first act as Emperor: To declare the Chantry as the established Andrastian religion of the Empire.

It took three years and several hundred votes before Olessa of Montsimmard was elected to lead the new Chantry. Upon her coronation as Divine, she took the name Justinia, in honor of the disciple who recorded Andraste's songs. In that moment, the ancient era ended and the Divine Age began.

-- “The Founding of the Chantry,” From Ferelden: Folklore and History by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

Chapter Text

“I have to admit, that group of blood mages was less trouble than I expected,” Alistair admitted that evening as the group gathered around a campfire. “The Templar trainers always spoke of how much of a threat they would be, but you took the lot of them out with a single spell!”

“A single spell designed to kill mages that Templars and Circle mages don’t know exists,” Daylen replied. “And you could bet that if the Templars knew it existed, they would have some group of leashed mages taught it so they could hunt down apostates.”

Alistair looked uneasy. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

Daylen looked over at his friend. “You do remember how we just today met a runaway apprentice who was accused of using forbidden magic with no proof, run through, and left for dead? You really think that that is out of the realm of possibility?”

“No, I just try to think positive.”

Daylen opened his mouth to snap off a reply, before hesitating. “I…you’re right. I’m not helping anything by grousing about it. Sorry, Alistair.”

Alistair waved him off. “You have the right to be upset about all this.”

“I know that, but it’s even starting to get on my nerves,” Daylen replied. “It’s one thing to annoy everyone else, but I’m irritating myself!” He shook his head. “Maybe it’s the lack of sleep.”

“Still having the nightmares?”

Daylen nodded somberly. “I expected to be able to deal with them by now. Mages are taught to control our dreams – it’s how we avoid possession. Demons come to us in our sleep sometimes, and try to tempt us. Generally they’re just annoying, but you get experienced at controlling what you dream about. But with this, it’s like I’m a young apprentice all over again.” He stood up and stretched. “I’m going to go try to get some sleep. We’ll leave early tomorrow.”

—ROTG—

Days passed as the party pushed into the mountains, the winter frost taking hold as the seasons turned. The freak blizzard Alistair and Daylen had nearly frozen in proved to be eerily prophetic of the cold the winter would bring. Time and again the group was forced to take shelter early, building ramshackle lean-to shelters to keep the falling snow off their tents and cookfires. More than once the mages had to freeze makeshift barricades of snow and salvaged rock and wood into place to protect the camp from the icy wind, the tents huddled together against the biting cold.

“Never thought I would miss the Circle,” Daylen remarked one evening as Morrigan melted a gap in the snow to place a cookfire. “At least it was warm.” He glanced over as Morrigan drew her cloak closer around herself, giving him a surly look.

“I should hope you know what you are doing,” she commented as Alistair and Zevran unloaded their firewood. “We are wasting a great deal of time in this venture.”

“Morrigan, you know as well as I do that without Arl Eamon, we have no chance of getting the army of Ferelden behind us,” Daylen sighed. “Even with the mages, the elves, and the dwarves, we would lack the numbers to face the darkspawn.”

“It’s more than that,” Alistair added, not looking up as he arranged the firewood. “If two men accused of murdering the king suddenly show up at the head of an army of elves, mages, and dwarves, they would be seen as trying to take over the country. We would have two armies to fight.”

Daylen blinked as he contemplated what Alistair had said, before groaning. “I hadn’t even considered that. Just another reason we have to find that blasted Urn.”

“Well, if the maps are right,” Alistair replied, “we should be at the first village tomorrow. It goes by Honnleath, but the way it’s described, it may very well be the Haven described.”

“That golem that merchant described is in Honnleath, as well. Would be a valuable addition to the party.”

“If it exists,” Leliana pointed out. “We have no guarantee that control rod is not simply a very pretty ornament.”

“Even if it is, we’ve lost nothing,” Daylen replied. “Not like we paid for it.”

—ROTG—

“I think I see the village,” Leliana called the next day.

Alistair came to a sudden halt, followed moments later by Daylen. “Not good.”

“Darkspawn,” Daylen added at Wynne’s questioning look. “Time to earn our pay.”

“We get paid?”

“Get moving!” Leliana urged as a pair of screaming civilians ran past, shattering the midmorning quiet. A pair of genlocks chasing them met a quick end at Leliana’s arrows and a bolt from Daylen’s staff.

They entered the village proper at a run, almost immediately engaged by a group of darkspawn. Daylen ducked as a genlock archer narrowly missed, Leliana returning fire and putting an arrow through the darkspawn’s undefended head. Daylen himself dropped a genlock emissary with a mage-killer spell as Alistair, Sten, and Zevran charged into the fray, a quartet of hurlocks meeting sticky ends as the three went to work. Alistair’s shield picked up a deep notch across its surface as he blocked a blow from a darkspawn axe, only for the darkspawn to be cleaved messily in half by Sten’s blade as Zevran hamstrung another hurlock.

Morrigan and Wynne were taking turns freezing, igniting, or electrocuting a small group of genlocks to the north, the two mages snapping off bursts of magic with almost contemptuous ease.

“There’s an alpha around here somewhere,” Alistair growled, offhandedly clotheslining a genlock with his shield and finishing the downed darkspawn with a single downward stab. Parrying two strikes from a hurlock, Alistair twisted his wrist and flicked the blade out of the darkspawn’s grip, bashing it in the chest with his shield and sinking the edge of his sword into the hurlock’s neck, tainted blood spraying across the dirt. As the hurlock gurgled and collapsed, Alistair looked around, spotting several dead darkspawn but none on their feet. “A band this size usually has one.”

“More of them nearby,” Daylen said. “Can’t tell the direction, though.”

“That way,” Alistair said, pointing towards the center of the village with his sword. “Darkspawn don’t really understand the concept of locked doors. If they’re intact and not smashed in, the darkspawn didn’t get in there.”

Daylen nodded. “Let’s move!”

Several buildings in the village center were already on fire, but the darkspawn were clearly newcomers, as the village was still mostly intact and few corpses were scattered about. They quenched the flames licking at the wooden buildings with bursts of frost, which rather irritated the would-be arsonists – a motley mix of hurlocks, genlocks, and a single hurlock Alpha.

“Leliana, kill that archer up on the wall by that house,” Daylen ordered, lobbing a barrage of lightning at a cluster of genlocks. The darkspawn screeched as they were immolated, and he followed up with a bolt of arcane energy that critically injured a hurlock. “Morrigan, Wynne, make sure that nothing comes up behind us.” Sten and Zevran had left a pack of dead darkspawn in their wake and were busily hacking a particularly burly hurlock to pieces as Alistair finished off Daylen’s wounded hurlock.

“Daylen!” Morrigan shouted. “Ogre!”

“Wynne, glyphs! Slow it down! Morrigan-” Daylen broke off as Morrigan slung her staff across her back, breaking into a jog as the ogre charged towards them, mana sparking around her hands. The witch’s form blurred and melted as she slipped easily into her spider form. Meanwhile, Wynne dropped several paralyzing glyphs on the ogre, and Daylen charged up a hefty bolus of mana and waited. Morrigan pounced on the ogre, the impact knocking the overlarge darkspawn flat on its back. She began webbing up the creature’s limbs, and Daylen grinned as she left the ogre trussed up, the darkspawn roaring in impotent anger as she scuttled away. Slipping back into her human form, Morrigan rejoined the other mages as they flung blobs of grease at the bound ogre.

“That will not hold it forever,” she warned as Daylen returned her staff.

“It won’t need to,” Daylen replied, nodding to Alistair as the party regrouped.

“Another bonfire?” Alistair asked idly, patting down his pockets and finding a wax-paper bag of mixed nuts he had brought from Redcliffe. Daylen nodded as the warrior munched a handful. “Mind if I do the honors?”

“By all means,” Daylen said. Zevran grinned and held out an incendiary flask, and Alistair handed over the bag of nuts to Daylen. Winding up, Alistair lobbed the flask overhand, the glass shattering on the ogre and igniting the grease it had been liberally soaked in. The creature bellowed in pain as its flesh burned, and the webbing snapped under the heat, the ogre trying to clamber to its feet before collapsing.

Daylen eyed the smoke plume. “Hopefully the wind holds and it blows away from the village. There’s more of the bastards around.” Popping a handful of the nuts in his mouth, Daylen folded up the bag and handed it back.

“Want to activate the golem first? It can watch our rear,” Wynne suggested as Alistair tucked the bag away.

“Probably for the best.” Daylen approached the statue in the center of the town. A giant, humanoid figure, the statue stood with arms outstretched, seemingly waiting for some sort of answers from the sky. The feet were buried several inches into the soil, grass and a few flowers growing around the immobile sentry. Daylen stepped over a low fence and nudged aside a half-empty basket of birdseed with his boot. “This must be it.”

“It does look like a golem, doesn’t it?” Leliana mused. “I wonder how it ended up here, of all places?”

Daylen inspected the golem more closely, idly fishing around in his satchel for the control rod. “These crystals were added afterwards. Maybe dwarven make, I’ve never read about anything like them in the Circle.”

“Activate it, then,” Alistair urged.

Daylen shrugged, tugging the control rod out and holding it up. “Dulef gar.” After a long pause, Daylen repeated the phrase more insistently, with identical results. Pressing the rod against the golem, he tried again. Daylen growled angrily. “I’m going to find that merchant and shove this rod so far up his-”

“There may be survivors about,” Wynne suggested. “One of them may know what the issue is.”

“Check the doors,” Alistair added. “Like I said, darkspawn don’t really understand locks. If there’s a door that’s unlocked…”

“Right,” Daylen said. “Everyone spread out. Find a door that’s unlocked.”

It only took a few minutes before Leliana whistled sharply, slinging her bow and drawing her daggers as the others regrouped. “Alistair, Zevran, take the lead. Sten, Leliana, bring up the rear. Wynne, Morrigan, with me.”

It didn’t take long to find the entrance to the cellar – the darkspawn had ripped it clean off the hinges. “So who wants to drop down the creepy darkspawn-infested hole first?” Daylen asked.

“I’ll go,” Alistair said. “Shed a little light on the subject?” Daylen obliged, a ball of magelight flaring at the end of his staff. “Oh good, it’s not far.” Alistair dropped down with his weapons ready. “Seems clear. I’m going to scout on a little.”

“No, stay close,” Daylen hissed. “The darkspawn know we’re here.”

Alistair grinned up at him as Zevran dropped down. “You doubt me?”

“No, I don’t want you to kill them all by yourself.” Leliana dropped down, gesturing to Wynne. Daylen helped the elderly mage climb down, Leliana watching carefully at the bottom of the ladder. “Morrigan, you have anything we can use to scout ahead?”

“Yes,” she replied, sliding gracefully down the ladder. “Do you remember what I have taught you?”

“Time to find out,” Daylen muttered, dropping down and sliding past Alistair. “We’ll be back, but if you hear fighting, come running.” He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. Focusing and forming the magic, he felt his body shifting form and found his vision drastically changed when he opened his eyes. His voice came out as a high-pitched chitter when he tried to crow in triumph.

“That is an interesting piece of magic,” Wynne remarked, watching the two mice scurry down the hall. “How did he come by it?”

“Morrigan taught it to him,” Leliana murmured, easing her bow off her shoulder and scanning the hallway. “I do not know how much control he wields over it, but she has proven very adept at changing her form.”

“Careful, Leliana, that was dangerously close to approving,” Zevran warned. “How are those new leathers fitting?”

“Perfectly,” Leliana said absently. “They should, after all. They were mine. Marjolaine must have taken them as a trophy.” She reached back and ran a hand over the bow slung over her shoulder. “The bow was hers. I saw her use it many times over the years.”

“Are you all right?” Wynne asked.

“No, not really,” Leliana admitted. “But who of us is?”

“Erm…what about me?” Alistair offered. “And the dog?”

“You are a Grey Warden,” Leliana countered. “It takes a special kind of crazy for that. And the dog doesn’t count. He imprinted on another Warden.” Cupcake’s head snapped around, and he growled. “Was it something I said?” In response, the dog charged down the hallway, and the party followed closely, finding Morrigan and Daylen standing back-to-back, engaged with a pack of darkspawn.

“Down!” Daylen yelled, reaching back and grabbing Morrigan by the arm. Dragging her down with him, the two hit the floor as a fireball from a darkspawn emissary sailed past. Leliana drew first, an arrow slamming through the emissary’s temple before it could cast again. The rest of the group charged into the fray, blades biting into darkspawn flesh as they took some of the pressure off Daylen and Morrigan. Within a minute, the last darkspawn dropped dead as Alistair withdrew his sword from its chest, and Daylen scrubbed blood from a rapidly-closing scrape on his forehead.

“What was that about not killing them all myself?” Alistair asked, wiping tainted blood from his sword.  “You say that, and then try to hog them all?”

“There’s more, you know there are,” Daylen shot back with a grin. “Keep close, everyone.” It was only a few moments later that they ran into another clutch of darkspawn deeper into the cellar system. Daylen spied a glittering barrier separating the darkspawn from a group of panicked survivors. Then a charging hurlock smashed the edge of its shield into Daylen’s temple and the world went black.

Alistair saw his friend drop like a sack of dirty laundry with a beard on it, two genlocks approaching the unconscious man with axes as Morrigan’s bolt of lightning turned the hurlock that had knocked him out into a lump of charcoal. The warrior bellowed a challenge and barreled forward behind his shield, body-checking one of the genlocks halfway across the room and turning smoothly on his heel, blocking two strikes from the other genlock’s axe before kicking it in the chest and lopping its head off.

A single hurlock archer across the room managed to nick his cheek with an arrow, and Alistair crouched in front of Daylen, bringing his shield in front of both of them. “Leliana! Kill that archer! Morrigan, take the emissary! Sten, keep them off us! Wynne, come here!” Cupcake was circling around the two Wardens as the others went to work, and Alistair reached back, finding a bloody smear running down the side of Daylen’s face.

“He’s just unconscious,” Wynne declared, healing the injury with a burst of light. Daylen’s eyes snapped open, and he groaned in pain. “Stay down.”

“What happened?”

“A hurlock punched you.”

“So what?” Daylen asked, rolling onto his back and probing at his face. “That happens.”

“With a kite shield,” Alistair added.

Daylen blinked a few times in confusion. “I…I need a drink. And to reconsider my choice of career.”

“Saw some brewing vats back that way,” Alistair muttered, watching as Sten chopped the last darkspawn into easily movable pieces, kicking the head away. “On your feet. I think that was the last of them.”

“Daylen, are you all right?” Leliana asked, offering him and Wynne a hand.

He nodded as she helped him to his feet. “Thanks to Wynne, yes.”

“What would you do without me?”

Daylen shrugged. “Better question is ‘what would all the others do if you weren’t around to put me back together again?’ And that’s ‘bleed all over themselves, mostly,’ I think.” He clapped his hands together, stepping over the still-smoking body of the hurlock that had attempted to tenderize his skull and approaching the survivors. “Now then, on to business. Hello there! We’re here to help.”

“By the Maker, we’re saved!” one of the women beyond the barrier exclaimed.

“No, by the Wardens, but all right,” Daylen grumbled. “There don’t seem to be any more darkspawn around, but I would suggest being careful. More may come.”

“You…you weren’t sent here by the bann, then?” A blond man with a ponytail asked. “To save us?”

Daylen shook his head. “No, and it’s a long story why we are here, mostly because of how many of us there are, but isn’t there some proverb about not looking a gift horse in the ass or something?”

“In the mouth, Daylen, in the mouth,” Alistair said tiredly.

“Oh. Right.”

The blond had been watching them in a state of growing confusion. “Well, I’m not typically one to question help when it saves our village, you know, but I have to ask – if you weren’t sent by someone, why are you here?”

“Like I said, long story,” Daylen answered. “I have a couple questions, they’ll explain why I’m here. One, are you familiar with this village’s history?”

“Quite thoroughly,” the man replied. “My father conducted extensive research into the village’s origins.”

Daylen’s eyes lit up. “Excellent. Has this town ever been called Haven?”

“Afraid not,” he said. “It’s almost always been known as Honnleath.”

“Bugger. Well, that’s one of the two reasons we were here. Looking for a lost village named Haven. That’s a whole other issue.”

“And the other reason?”

“I’m looking for whoever owned that statue…er golem…or whatever it is, outside,” Daylen said, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder.

“Oh…I think I see,” the man replied, his lip curling. “You bought the control rod, didn’t you. You came here looking for Shale.” Reaching out a hand, he dragged it down the barrier, the magic dissipating quickly.

“Remarkable magic,” Wynne commented. “Superior to my own barrier spells. Precision use of mana. And almost no feedback when it dissipates. Impressive.”

“My name is Matthias,” the blond explained. “My father Wilhelm was a mage for King Maric, he fought with him during the rebellion. So did that damnable golem.”

“You seem…less than fond of it.”

“As well I should be,” Matthias said acidly. “One day my mother found it standing over my father outside the tower, with so many broken bones she could barely recognize him! My mother sold the rod years ago, and good riddance.”

Daylen looked queasy at the mental image. “Well then. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“My father deserved better than that,” Matthias sighed. “But if you really want to wake Shale up…well, it’s yours now.”

“Not quite it isn’t, the rod doesn’t work,” Daylen muttered, looking around. “This was quite the refuge you’ve got here. What is this place?”

“This is my father’s laboratory, beneath his tower…or it was, anyhow. The defensive spells still work well enough. He anchored them well. You said the rod doesn’t work?”

“Admittedly it’s my first time using one of these, but I didn’t see any sort of movement or signs of life.”

“Tricky, mother…” Matthias mumbled distractedly, glancing down the hall behind him that led deeper into the cellars. “She must have given the wrong phrase to the merchant. Probably hoped Shale would never be activated again.”

“Do you happen to know the correct phrase?”

“I do, but there are more pressing matters,” Matthias replied. “Look, I know you probably have more important things on your mind, but I really need your help. I know you already saved my life, and I’m grateful, but my daughter Amalia is inside the laboratory.” He gestured at the hallway in question. “She was afraid and ran too far in before I could stop her. I don’t know how she made it past my father’s defenses. One of the men tried to go after her, and he was killed. But…you could find her, couldn’t you?”

Daylen groaned. “Matthias, I…we…” He sighed. “Oh, bugger it, all right, we’ll see if we can find your daughter.”

“You will? Thank the Maker!”

“But if we find her!” Daylen went on, holding up a hand. “You give me the correct activation phrase for that golem.” He thought for a moment. “And put us up for the night. I’m tired of having my people sleep on the ground.” He extended the hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“We can do that,” Matthias replied, shaking Daylen’s hand. “This may seem a little harsh, but after the attack…there are quite a few empty houses. My father’s laboratory is just through this hallway, I think. She must be there!”

After a brief regrouping, the party pushed down the hallway, stepping over a badly burned corpse at the first room. Daylen blew a layer of dust off a bookshelf, noting a few titles on the Circle’s banned list and several other rare books he expected Irving would be willing to at least contemplate murder for. Lamenting the lack of time, he gestured to the others and the group moved on, but not before picking up a leather-bound journal.

“Where are these defenses Matthias talked about?” Daylen whispered. Several shades ripped from the shadows, darting towards the group. “I…he…” He trailed off with a sigh. “Oh, fine.” A moment later, the shades screeched, dissipating into the thick layer of dust on the ground as a Mana Clash took effect.

“What kind of court mage uses shades like that?” Alistair asked.

“One who served during a rebellion,” Leliana said quietly. “Rules tend to be…relaxed, during such times.”

Daylen was leafing through the journal he had picked up. “I think this is Wilhelm’s journal, at least one of the volumes. A handful of pages fell out from the book’s age, and Daylen found the most recent pages. “Oh, not good.”

“What?”

Daylen cleared his throat, reading aloud. “The interrogation of the demon is going well, and is rather fascinating – provided what it is saying is true.”

“Not good,” Alistair agreed. “He captured a demon and tried to interrogate it?”

“It gets worse,” Daylen replied. “I read on. ‘I have sent all my research so far to First Enchanter Arden, and while he is concerned about my safety, he does not think there is a reason to stop just yet. All I hope is that the Templars do not discover what I am doing. How will we ever find another way to deal with demonic possession if the Chantry does not let us research it?’” Daylen looked up. “At least he had some semblance of a good reason.”

“And the demon possessed him, I should guess?” Wynne asked.

“Certainly arrogant to think that he could safely contain it,” Morrigan commented.

“I don’t think he was possessed,” Daylen replied. “An abomination against a golem would almost certainly come out in favor of the golem, but from what Matthias said, Shale hasn’t been moved. No fight like that would leave a golem so undamaged. Besides, there are more entries.” He skimmed the rest of the journal. “The last entry says he was going to dismiss the demon, as it was becoming too dangerous, and he thought it or his experiments may have had some influence on Shale. He was going to deactivate Shale and then deal with the demon.” Daylen closed the journal. “I don’t think he ever got the chance.”

“So a live and very angry demon could still be down there, with Matthias’s daughter?” Alistair asked.

Daylen grimaced. “Oh, yes. Let’s say we get down there and finish this man’s work?”

Luckily, no further shades were encountered on the way down, and the party found themselves in a surprisingly large room with a domed ceiling. Daylen could feel the ambient magic in the room, straining inwards to contain something.

Daylen just hoped it wasn’t another Pride demon.

“Oh look! Someone’s come to play!” Daylen looked over for the source of the voice, hoping it wasn’t a possessed child. One of those in a lifetime was enough. Spotting a little blonde girl in pigtails, Daylen approached, noting the orange tabby cat that was sitting next to her. Behind them, a field of movable tiles with mana leaping from tile to tile occupied most of the room.

“You have come to play, haven’t you?” the girl asked. “We’re playing a guessing game. It’s better with more people.”

Daylen heard Cupcake pause next to him and growl angrily. “You are Amalia, right? There isn’t some other little lost girl around here?” The girl nodded. “So who is ‘we?’”

“Kitty and me, of course! You don’t see anyone else here, do you?” Daylen looked closer at the cat and felt a chill go down his spine as he realized where the room’s prisoner was. “Anyway, you should go if you’re not going to play,” Amalia went on. “Kitty finds you distracting.”

“The cat…finds me distracting?” Daylen asked carefully.

“Kitty is clever,” Amalia replied. “She says you’ll want to take me back to my father, but I’m not going. She would be lonely!”

Cupcake growled again, baring his teeth at the cat. “I would not suggest leaving in such hostile company anyhow, Amalia,” the cat said, a female voice with the echo typical to demons issuing from the cat’s muzzle. “Look how they act.”

“Oh, shit,” Alistair muttered.

“The cat…talks,” Zevran said flatly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I should never have left Antiva.”

“Amalia, please step away from that creature,” Daylen urged.

“Nothing you say will convince Amalia to go with you,” the cat chimed in, stretching. “She loves only me now. I am her friend, while you are just a stranger.”

“I’m not leaving without the girl,” Daylen said flatly. “I made a promise.”

“It seems we are at an impasse,” the cat replied. “So let me propose a compromise, of sorts.”

“Daylen,” Wynne said warningly.

Daylen shot her an irritated look. “I’m listening. No promises, but I’m listening.”

“Release me, mortal, and let me have the girl. Let us return to her father and leave this place forever.”

“Let you have the girl?” Daylen echoed. “You mean possess her?”

“That’s such a crude way of putting it,” the cat drawled. “I do not wish to harm Amalia. I merely want to see your world through her eyes. Is that so wrong?”

Daylen grunted noncommittally. “Very well.” Leliana gasped, and Alistair gave Daylen a hard look for several seconds before his lips twitched upwards briefly.

“What?” Wynne exploded. “You would seriously consider this?”

“Wynne, do you trust me?” Daylen asked pointedly.

“I…yes,” Wynne said.

“Then trust me. It’ll be fine.”

“Thank you,” the cat said. “You are very gracious. The mage’s wards hold me within this chamber, and only a mortal may approach them. There is a trick to disarming the wards, but I do not know it.”

“Oh, this is so exciting!” Amalia said. “Kitty is going to be free!”

“Wynne, Leliana, stay with Amalia,” Daylen ordered as he eyed the tiles. “Alistair, Zevran, let’s see if we can sort this out.”

“You are planning what I think you’re planning, aren’t you?” Alistair asked quietly as Daylen fiddled with a few of the tiles, watching how the mana flow changed direction.

“Of course,” Daylen replied. “I didn’t know if Wynne was going to try something, though. Glad she didn’t. I don’t want to risk Amalia’s life.”

It only took a few minutes for them to sort out the puzzle. “That’s got it,” Alistair commented as the mana jumped from one end of the puzzle to the other. “Interesting lock.”

“Yes, I can feel the magic fading,” the cat remarked gleefully. “I had forgotten how it feels to not be caged!”

“Kitty?” Amalia asked, concern creeping into her voice. “What’s happening?”

“A wonderful thing, my dear, for both of us!”

“Keep your hands off the girl, demon,” Daylen spat. “You have a choice. Go back to the Fade or die here and now. Either way, you don’t get Amalia.”

“Betrayal!” The cat hissed. “You will not take the girl! She is mine!”

“Kitty, you’re scaring me!” Amalia cried. “I won’t let you inside me, I won’t!” The child sprinted out of the room, and as the cat began to transform back into a demon, three separate Mana Clashes fell on the demon like hammer blows. The demon screeched, evaporating under the magical assault.

“You never intended to let her be possessed, did you?” Wynne said as Daylen dug around in the room, finding a helmet and hanging it off his belt.

“I’m offended you even have to ask,” he scoffed. “Give me a little credit, Wynne. I realize you have no trust in any mage, but you know I’d never do such a thing.” She flinched at his words, and Daylen give her a cloying smile as he strode past.

The group dug up some dusty lyrium potions and little else of immediate value before heading back up, finding another set of shades on the way back up. When they reached the basement level, they found Matthias and Amalia reunited. “You did it!” he cheered as they emerged. “You freed her! Thank you so much!”

“I’m sorry I ran away, Daddy,” Amalia chimed in, her face buried in Matthias’ neck. “I was so scared.”

“It’s all right, butterfly. You’re safe now,” Matthias said soothingly. “All the bad creatures are gone.” Turning to Daylen, the man nodded his thanks. “You’ll need the phrase to activate Shale. It’s ‘dulen harn.’ I wouldn’t want the thing, but it’s obvious you can handle yourself just fine.”

“Is the village going to be safe?” Daylen asked.

Matthias grimaced. “Some of my father’s spells laid rune lines around the village that could be reactivated. He used to say they would stop anything short of a giant. I’ll look into getting those turned back on.”

Daylen nodded. “Those would stop further darkspawn attacks quite nicely.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” Matthias said. “We’d be happy to put you up for the night, as you asked.”

The group moved back to the ground level, straightening out what they could as they went.

“We may have a problem,” Alistair announced, looking out the window of the house.

“Now what – oh, Maker’s balls,” Daylen groaned, seeing heavy snow falling.

Zevran came up behind the two and eyed the mage warily. “You have the worst luck.”

“Why,” Daylen implored, looking up at the ceiling. “Why is this necessary? What did I do to you? When did I piss in your porridge? Just tell me what the issue is and I’ll do my best to rectify it!”

“Looks like we’re staying for a few days,” Alistair sighed.

—ROTG—

Daylen dumped the load of firewood into the box and groaned, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Now I know why Jowan wanted to go back to the Circle. I’m not cut out for this farm-tending nonsense. Two days of this and I’m already sick of it.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “You slaughter darkspawn for a living.”

“Yes, but I don’t raise darkspawn for a living,” Daylen countered. “Plus when I want to burn the corpses I just snap my fingers and set them on fire. I don’t bother with firewood.”

Leliana came in, carrying a load of firewood and dropping it into the woodbox with ease. “That should be the last of it.”

“You’re making me look lazy,” Daylen grumbled. “You brought two loads for every one that I brought.”

“I did this a great deal in Lothering,” Leliana replied. “Did you not chop firewood at the Circle?”

He barked out a laugh. “What, you think they gave us anything sharper than a butterknife? This was my first time chopping wood.”

“No wonder you looked like you barely knew which end of an axe was up,” Leliana teased.

Alistair snickered, and Daylen gave her a sheepish grin. “We all have our skills. Alistair can find cheese from a mile away, after all. You’ve got plenty of your own skills, more experience under your belt than us and all.”

“He’s got a point,” Alistair said. “I will never get over how quietly you are able to move.”

Leliana looked uncomfortable. “It took me years and years to learn, and even then I am not the best at it.”

“So you didn’t sneak around when spying?” Alistair asked.

Leliana shrugged. “We all had different ways of doing things. Some preferred not to be seen at all, to cloak themselves in shadow and darkness. Zevran has those skills, although he knows like me that it is not such a bad thing to be seen, as long as you do not stand out and are quickly forgotten. I specialized in blending in, not drawing attention and looking like I had every right to be there. It is invisibility, but of another kind.”

Daylen nodded in understanding. “Being seen, but not noticed.”

“Exactly.”

“Ah, yes, but I heard you often seduced your targets,” Alistair challenged. “They’d remember you.”

Leliana smirked at him. “Not if they died.” He gulped, and Leliana winked at him, her lower lip between her teeth. “Dying while in the company of a lovely seductress…tell me that isn’t a good death.”

“I don’t know if I should take you seriously,” Alistair muttered, “but you scare me sometimes.”

Daylen shrugged. “I can think of worse ways to go.”

“You might just wind up going that way,” Leliana commented.

“Oh, would you come off it?” Daylen asked. “You all bicker with each other, but you both know that if any of us were really in danger, all the rest would come running. The closest Morrigan has ever come to harming me – or any of us – was when she got a little…overenthusiastic, a while back.”

“Too much information,” Alistair said. “Look, what’s going on between you two, anyway?”

“Nothing serious,” Daylen insisted.

“The screaming would lead me to believe otherwise,” Leliana said dryly.

“Erm…Leliana, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Alistair chimed in. “Do…all women, sound like that?”

“Hardly. Some women are loud, yes, but most are only so if their partner is…gifted…in one way or another.”

It was at that point that Daylen made a break for it.

—ROTG—

Daylen screeched in pain as his shoulder dislocated. “That’s not supposed to bend that way!”

“That’s the point,” Zevran replied calmly, keeping the limb hyperextended and pushing forward on Daylen’s shoulder, keeping him off balance and leaning forward. “It is difficult to hit someone with an arm that will not move, is it not?” He grunted in pain as Daylen kicked out blindly, slamming the heel of his boot into Zevran’s groin. “A useful tactic, but not effective every time. Most people will be thrown off by such a blow, but some are used to such pain.”

“Just my luck,” Daylen groaned, kicking out again and hitting Zevran in the side of the knee, knocking the elf off balance. Zevran yelped as Daylen turned on his heel, sweeping the elf’s legs out from under him and dropping hard, his knee slamming into the floorboards next to Zevran’s head. “How was that?”

“Better,” Zevran coughed. “Much better. You’re making progress.”

“Had to happen eventually,” Daylen grunted. Grabbing his injured arm, Daylen twisted the limb into position and worked it back and forth until the joint popped back into place. He gasped in pain as the joint reset, and he let loose a flare of healing magic, washing away the injuries the two had just given each other.

“The snow’s stopped,” Alistair commented from the door.

“Good,” Daylen groaned, standing up and helping Zevran to his feet. “Let’s go get that golem.”

—ROTG—

There are those who would tell you that the Chantry is the same everywhere as it is here, that the Divine in Val Royeaux reigns supreme in the eyes of the Maker and that this fact is unquestioned throughout Thedas.

Do not believe it.

The Maker's second commandment, “Magic must serve man, not rule over him,” never held the same meaning within the ancient Tevinter Imperium as it did elsewhere. The Chantry there interpreted the rule as meaning that mages should never control the minds of other men, and that otherwise their magic should benefit the rulers of men as much as possible. When the clerics of Tevinter altered the Chant of Light to reflect this interpretation of the commandment, the Divine in Val Royeaux ordered the clerics to revert to the original Chant. They refused, claiming corruption within Val Royeaux, an argument that grew until, in 4:87 [sic] Towers, the Chantry in Tevinter elected its own “legitimate and uncorrupted” Divine Valhail—who was not only male, but also happened to be one of the most prominent members of the Tevinter Circle of the Magi. This “Black Divine” was reviled outside Tevinter, his existence an offense to the Chantry in Val Royeaux.

After four Exalted Marches to dislodge these “rebels,” all that the Chantry in Val Royeaux accomplished was to cement the separation. While most aspects of the Imperial Chantry's teachings are the same, prohibitions against magic have been weakened, and male priests have become more prevalent. The Circle of the Magi today rules Tevinter directly, ever since the Archon Nomaran was elected in 7:34 Storm directly from the ranks of the enchanters, to great applause from the public. He dispensed with the old rules forbidding mages from taking part in politics, and within a century, the true rulers within the various imperial houses—the mages—took their places openly within the government. The Imperial Divine is now always drawn from the ranks of the first enchanters and operates as Divine and Grand Enchanter both.

This is utter heresy to any member of the Chantry outside of Tevinter, a return to the days of the magisters, which brought the Blights down upon us. But it exists, and even though we have left the Tevinter Imperium to the mercies of the dread Qunari, still they have endured. Further confrontation between the Black Divine and our so-called “White Divine” is inevitable.

—From Edicts of the Black Divine, by Father David of Qarinus, 8:11 Blessed

Chapter Text

“You sure you want to activate this golem?” Alistair asked when everyone was assembled in the village’s snowy square.

“Dulen harn,” Daylen said, enunciating clearly.

“Guess so.”

For a long moment, there was silence, and the others could hear Daylen’s teeth grinding. Then light began to emanate from the golem’s eyes and the symbol etched on its forehead, and the group took a step back as years of dust and dirt fell from the golem’s outstretched arms. The golem moved, jerking one arm forward with a crack, then the other, before stretching, the sound of stone scraping together issuing from the golem’s joints as it shook itself.

Then it spoke, in a voice raspy and deep with a note of world-weary indifference. “I knew that the day would come when someone would find the control rod. And of course, it is another mage. That is what it is, yes?” Daylen nodded. “Yes. Just my luck.”

“How do you know I’m a mage?” Daylen asked, idly toying with the control rod.

“It thinks these crystals are simply for show, I see,” the golem remarked, gesturing at the crystals dotted along its shoulders. “It thinks I cannot sense the energies it commands.” The golem gave a derisive snort.

“No, just curious. It’s too bad you weren’t mobile during the attack, you could have helped.”

“Perhaps. I stood here in this spot and watched the wretched little villagers scurry around me for, oh, I have no idea how long. Many, many years.”

“Oh, you poor dear!” Leliana exclaimed. “You’ve been stuck here for thirty years? And awake? That must have been…really, really boring.”

“Has it been that long?”

“Best as we can tell,” Daylen confirmed.

“I was just beginning to get used to the quiet, too,” the golem went on. “Tell me, are all the villagers dead?”

“Not all of them, no.”

“How unfortunate,” the golem grumbled.                                                                                                                            

Daylen raised an eyebrow. “Not a fan of the locals, I take it?”

“Does the saying ‘familiarity breeds contempt’ still go?” Daylen nodded. “After thirty years as a captive audience, I was as familiar with these villagers as one could possibly be. The attack did make for a delightful change of pace.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Well, go on then,” the golem prompted. “Out with it. What is its command?”

“Do you have a name?” Daylen asked. “I’d rather not just refer to you as ‘golem’ or ‘oi, you with the broad shoulders,’ or anything like that. One person referred to you as Shale.”

A shrug. “I may have forgotten after all the years of being called ‘golem.’ ‘Golem, fetch me that chair.’ ‘Do be a good golem and squash that insipid bandit.’ And let’s not forget ‘golem, pick me up. I tire of walking,’ that was my favorite.”

Daylen winced. “Oh, that would get on my nerves something fierce.”

The golem’s head tilted slightly. “It…does have the control rod, doesn’t it? I am awake, so it…must…”

“It certainly does, right in its hand,” Daylen said, before shaking himself. “Got me doing it.”

“I see the control rod, yet, I feel…” The golem paused. “Go on. Order me to do something.”

Daylen blinked, holding up the rod. “All right. Walk over there. Stretch your legs a bit.”

The golem remained stationary. “And…nothing? I feel nothing. I feel no compulsion to carry out its command. I suppose this means the rod is…broken?”

“I suppose that means you’re free,” Daylen commented. “If you can’t be commanded, yet you’re choosing to talk to me, you must have at least something nearing free will. I’d be happy about that.”

“It is simply…what should I do?” the golem asked rhetorically. “I have no memories, beyond watching this village for so long. I have no purpose. I find myself at a bit of a loss.”

“Well, I imagine you wouldn’t want to stay around here,” Daylen mused, glancing around the half-destroyed village.

“What about it? It must have awoken me for some reason, no? What did it intend to do with me?”

“Well, I could think of many uses for a personal golem,” Daylen said. “I’m a Grey Warden, you see, and I mostly woke you up because my companions and I are in need of aid against the Blight.”

“It refers to the darkspawn, the creatures that destroyed this village,” the golem surmised. Daylen nodded. “The darkspawn are an evil that must be destroyed, it’s true. Though not as evil as the birds. Damnable feathered fiends.” Nobody commented on that one. Most likely due to the creaking that came from the golem’s fists as it spoke. “I suppose I have two options, do I not? Go with it, or…go elsewhere? I do not even know what lies beyond this village.”

“Well, we could give you a map, should you choose to go your own way,” Daylen offered. “But what do you want to do?”

“I watched this village for so long, unable to move or act,” the golem said softly. “My memories of anything before are…vague, at best. So I have no idea what I want to do. I am glad to be mobile.”

“Are you going to keep calling me ‘it’ if you do come along?”

“Yes,” the golem said flatly. “Very likely.”

A brief pause as Daylen thought that one over. “Well, I’ve been called worse. You’re welcome to come me.”

“Are you certain you want to bring that thing with us?” Alistair asked. “It could be dangerous. And large.”

“This is what we came for,” Daylen pointed out. “Think of it as a portable battering ram.”

“Good point,” Alistair acquiesced. “Better it than me, anyhow.”

“I will follow it about then, for as long as it amuses me,” the golem said. “I am called Shale, by the way.”

“Shale,” Daylen repeated. “Is that supposed to be a joke?” The golem merely stared at him, and Daylen coughed. “I mean, is it your name, or what you’re made of?”

“It would rather I was called Flint? Pebbles? How about Rubble?” Shale gave a rasping laugh, and Daylen wondered when his life had gotten so strange.

“I mean…was that originally your name, or did Wilhelm just call you that.”

“It has always been my name, as least as far as I can remember. Shall we?”

“Before we go,” Daylen asked, looking more closely at the golem. “What are those crystals in your…skin?”

“I like to think of them as accessories,” Shale replied. “I suspect that it is an art that was practiced when golems were more commonplace. My former master collected whatever lore he could find on the subject. He searched far and wide to collect what crystals he could, and then added them. It is not an unpleasant sensation.”

“Well, there’s a load of other crystals in that tower,” Daylen pointed out. “But that doesn’t tell me what they do.”

“As I understand it,” Shale explained, “the crystals allow me to alter the flow of magic around me. Wilhelm had hoped to turn me into a battery of mana, something he could tap at will.”

Wynne raised an eyebrow. “That seems an odd purpose for them. Did he succeed?”

“Not really, although now that I think of it, these attempts may be what caused my…disruption,” Shale admitted. “Some of the crystals increase the presence of mana, some absorb or reflect spells. There are various kinds. All I can promise is that, should it ever find one of these crystals, I can likely tell it the function and what it would do if they were added to me.”

Daylen scratched at his beard. “I don’t want to take advantage, Shale, but would you be willing to have more added?”

“Why not? I don’t get to wear clothing and other adornments like the rest of you creatures, after all.”

“Well I’m certain we could find you a fashionable hat, if you really wanted,” Daylen mused. “Meantime, let’s go find some of them.”

—ROTG—

The group spread out several bundles on the snow, and Shale nodded. “We brought the highest-quality ones we could find,” Daylen explained. “Some of these I can guess at. They’re aligned with the elements, aren’t they?”

“It is correct,” Shale replied. “The effects differ from element to element.”

The crystals were easily swapped out, and between the stones jutting from its shoulders and wrists the golem was reflecting far more of the weak sunlight making its way through the clouds. Barely-perceptible arcs of lightning were jumping between the crystals that had been slotted into Shale’s body.

“So?” Shale asked. “What does it think?”

“They certainly make a statement,” Daylen commented.

“Yeah, I think it’s ‘don’t mess with me,’” Alistair added.

“They don’t make me look any wider, do they?” Shale asked. “I find I am already too wide as it is.”

“Actually, they’re quite slimming,” Daylen replied. “Very lovely.”

“It must be the vertical pattern it put them in. Did it know to do that? It must have.”

Daylen grinned. “Truth be told, I did. I remember one of the enchanters back at the Circle ranting about how you should always go with vertical patterns rather than horizontal, to make oneself appear taller and slimmer.” Glancing down at the crystals that were left, he picked up one of the smaller reddish ones, feeling it surprisingly warm to the touch. “We can keep these. If you’d ever like to change them out, it doesn’t seem to be very difficult.”

“I would like to keep them. I want to glitter from ear to ear,” Shale replied. “So to speak.”

“We’re already hauling around quite a bit,” Alistair pointed out.

“I don’t think it will be a problem,” Daylen countered, handing him the crystal. “They aren’t heavy, and if nothing else the fire-natured ones will help us warm up our tents. Be useful when we’re up in the mountains.”

“Well, the good news is the storm seems to have passed,” Zevran commented, glancing at the sky. “We can move on soon.”

“What of the snow that’s fallen?” Leliana asked. Daylen clicked his fingers, a ball of fire flaring to life in his palm. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

“All right then. Sten, Leliana, make sure we’ve got enough supplies to make it to the next village. Alistair, let Mathias know that we’ll be moving on. Zevran, Wynne, Morrigan, Shale, Cupcake, come with me, let’s check those defenses that Mathias set up. We’ll see if there’s any improvements we can make.”

As they were circling the village, Daylen heard a crash from behind him, turning to spot Shale standing next to a bloody smear, surrounded by a cloud of pigeon feathers. The golem shrugged at Daylen’s skeptical look, before following the others onward.

—ROTG—

“Well then,” Alistair mused, looking around. “I sure hope this wasn’t Haven.” It had taken them almost a week to reach the next village – what was left of it. The village had been destroyed. Buildings lay half-wrecked with holes ripped in the walls and roofs set alight. Corpses lay scattered around the wreckage, some in pieces. Beyond the occasional carrion bird and the flickering of the flames, there were no signs of movement.

“You and me both,” Daylen replied, turning over one of the corpses on the ground and trying not to retch. “It’s a Templar. Maker, he’s been…chewed on.”

“Did the darkspawn do this?” Wynne asked.

“No,” Alistair said softly. “The signs are all wrong. Sure, darkspawn destroy villages like this, kill people and burn buildings, but there’s the carrion birds, no Taint left behind, none of their defiling…”

Daylen sniffed the air, still crouched over the body. “A demon did this.”

Zevran glanced over, still watching the area for movement. “How can you tell?”

“Wind shifted, for one,” Daylen replied. “That stench of drakestone? That’s the remnant of a demon throwing around magic. A lot of magic.”

“How do you know?” Wynne asked. “Even Uldred did not use so much magic.”

Daylen paused. “Doesn’t matter,” he finally said. “The one thing the texts never mention about demons is how much they stink. Drakestone and burnt lyrium. This acrid tang, like the smell that hangs in the air after too many mages use lightning spells in a short period.” He stood, dusting off his hands.

“So where are the demons, then?” Leliana asked.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Daylen replied. “And it’s not our problem.”

That was the exact moment Daylen was struck by lightning.

Amid the various exclamations of surprise, Morrigan drew her staff, pointing. “Demon!” Sure enough, an arcane horror was sweeping towards them, lightning crackling around its hands. Twin cracks sounded almost simultaneously as Wynne and Morrigan dropped identical mage-killing spells on it. The demon dropped, its momentum carrying it forward into an undignified tumble. The two mages cast again, igniting the corpse and ensuring the demon was properly dead.

Daylen pulled himself off the steaming patch of snow with a groan, ignoring the smell of burning hair. Looking upwards, he blinked hard, wondering why he tasted iron. “What is this, sarcasm?”

“Daylen?” Alistair asked. “Are you all right?” The mage didn’t answer, and Alistair prodded him in the shoulder, the Warden looking over in surprise. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, real funny,” Daylen said, shaking Alistair’s hand off and standing up. “Now come on. Make some noise.”

“I am.”

“I’m serious,” Daylen insisted, his speech slurring. “Talk to me!”

“Has he been deafened?” Leliana asked Wynne. “Is that common?”

“Nothing that happens to him is common,” Wynne replied, weaving magic as Daylen tried to argue with Alistair.

The burst of blue magic hit Daylen in the back, and he shook his head, wiggling a finger in his ear. “What was that about?” He demanded, turning around.

“Your eardrums were injured,” Wynne said. “As you should have realized.”

“Well, everything was blue too, but thank you for that,” Daylen admitted, wiping at a trickle of blood coming from his nose. “What got me?”

“That demon you mentioned,” Alistair replied. “It’s dead now.”

“Oh.” Daylen nodded. “Good enough. Guess that explains what happened to the village. We’ll make camp here for the night. Find a building that isn’t completely wrecked and we’ll use it as shelter.”

—ROTG—

“So, Wynne,” Daylen said that evening as the elderly mage rested in a salvaged chair by the fireplace. “I feel like I could learn a few things from you.”

“I do have a few tricks I could teach you,” Wynne replied. “But I feel like you have something particular in mind.”

“Your healing skill.”

“You’ve demonstrated some ability there already, I recall,” Wynne said. “And I understand you exhibited some astounding healing magic at Redcliffe.”

“Yes, but it nearly knocked me out, and I don’t understand what I’m doing with it,” Daylen said, pulling up a chair of his own. “It’s effective, but it burns mana far too quickly. I’m not sure if my style of casting is what’s doing it, or if this is just how advanced healing magic is.”

Wynne considered the problem. “How did you come by it?”

“When we were trapped in the Fade at the Circle tower, I met a spirit of Compassion,” Daylen explained. “It gave me knowledge. Anatomy, mostly. Sort of a template of ‘this is how things are supposed to be,’ I guess, but it didn’t give me a manual on how to use it.”

Wynne nodded. “I see. That is…unusual, but I have come to expect the unusual with you. If you are unaware of how this works, then how do you shape it?”

“I don’t, really? The body knows where it’s supposed to go. I just clench my butt cheeks and sort of…” He gestured forward. “Let it go?”

Wynne’s eyes widened. “Ah, Daylen, the body may know where it’s supposed to go, but foreign bodies left in the wound don’t.” Daylen winced. “How many bits and pieces do you think are buried in your flesh right now?”

“I haven’t died of sepsis, so probably none?”

Wynne sighed. “All right. I’ll monitor your condition, but for the time being.” She spread her hands. “As you know, there are two primary methods of magical healing.” She lifted one hand. “There are the common healing spells taught to most Circle mages, which encourage the body’s natural healing processes to work in moments. Blood clots, tissue heals, bones mend, infections clear. It is simply the body healing itself with power and assistance from the magic itself.”

Daylen nodded in understanding. “This part, I know. But creation healing is limited. If a wound is too severe, a bone too shattered, the body just can’t recover from that, even with magical assistance. If the body couldn’t heal from that given enough time, creation healing won’t fix it.”

“Correct. But spirits have no such limitations. They can change and reshape physical bodies when they inhabit them or touch them. The possessed are often mutilated by the demon within them. Some believe it to be the body’s ability to heal simply reacting adversely to the demon’s own magic. But a spirit can reshape the body to heal, rather than harm. A spirit healing a body can purge foreign matter, knit flesh, fuse bone, as if it were never broken in the first place.”

“I figured it was mostly the power, not the ability to reshape flesh so easily,” Daylen admitted.

“The spirit does provide the power itself, in most cases,” Wynne agreed. “Most spirit healers enact their spells partially on their own initiative, but in greater cases do not perform the mending of flesh and bone themselves. They summon a benevolent spirit through the Veil – the spirit does not often manifest directly, but it does use its abilities on the mage’s behalf. However, I feel you may be able to split the difference, as it were. To perform healing on the level of a spirit healer, without involving a spirit of the Fade.”

“Which could be good news to many people,” Daylen remarked. “If I live long enough, if I master it, this knowledge and skill in healing could take some of the burden off spirit healers.”

“As well as some of the suspicion,” Wynne replied. “They are often frowned upon by Templars as possessions waiting to happen.”

Daylen raised an eyebrow. “More so than mages in general?”

Wynne let it pass. “It typically takes a spirit healer some time to even properly understand their abilities, let alone use them effectively, especially when they are gained in such stressful circumstances. The healing magic you have demonstrated thus far is already impressive, and your knowledge of the art has been greatly enhanced. You have already used a greater-scope healing spell and taken it a step beyond, to create a sustained effect. This can be very useful in combat, as you well know, but it can be a great strain on your mana.” Daylen nodded. “In time, you can take this technique and develop it to a field of magic, an aura that will heal all around you and cleanse your allies of debilitating magic. Now, focus. Feel your magic, the pulse of your mana.”

Daylen closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, feeling his magic surging inside him. “It feels almost restless, energetic. Like it’s aching to run free.”

Wynne nodded. “That is not unusual, having awakened this new magic within yourself, but in time it will return to normal. You will find yourself capable of healing what you previously thought permanent or even mortal injuries.”

“Is there any way I can acclimate myself to the magic more quickly?”